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Rise (War Witch Book 1)

Page 19

by Cain S. Latrani


  Annoyed by her sudden lustful urges for the Cat, she focused instead on talking with Imicot, who seemed to greatly enjoy the company of a young woman. While he was polite, and never crude, she could easily see how in his younger days, he would’ve been a rake.

  Ramora, naturally, was quiet throughout the meal. Chara would often glance over at her and smile, getting one in return, but she couldn't help but think how lonely it must be for her, sitting in the middle of people talking, and not able to participate.

  Now and then, she could see a wistful look cross her eyes, a hint of vulnerability, and she found her all the more beautiful for it. Though she smiled and laughed all through the meal, her heart was being torn in two by her desire to be with the Blessed, and her growing affection for Esteban.

  Sometimes, she really wished she could go back to being ten, thinking boys had cooties, and not have to deal with the messiness of being an adult. At the very least, someone could write a handbook so she knew what to do. It seemed wrong no one had gotten around to that.

  Lunch dealt with, Imicot returned to his rooms with the help of Esteban, while Ramora went to make her final preparations. Chara lingered in the dining hall, trying to sort out her emotions. She was half-tempted to say the hell with it, and look through the book for a vow of celibacy she could take, at least, until she remembered Ramor was wed to Altimar, the Goddess of sex.

  Somehow, she doubted there was any kind of helpful vow like that in this book.

  When Esteban returned to let her know Imicot was ready, she was grateful. Something to do besides sitting and pondering her mixed emotions was a gift. Though, she knew, she wanted to be with Ramora. That was one thing she was certain of. Whatever was going on with Esteban, it wouldn't work.

  She’d spent a full hour sitting alone in the dining hall, coming to that realization. No matter what, even if it ended badly, she wanted to be with the Blessed. That was enough. It was everything.

  As she and Esteban headed up the stairs, and she reached the landing, she saw Ramora come out of the room they shared and gasped. She was barefoot, hair left loose, carrying the yarn and dagger, and the red silk dress clung to her like a lover. Chara felt herself falling for her all over again.

  Behind her, Rakiss fumed, but knew better than to meddle at a time like this. This was a sacred thing, and as much as he wanted to twist the young woman's heart, he couldn’t ignore that. Shaking his head, he followed the trio up the stairs, trying to figure out his next move. Chara's heart was determined to belong to Ramora, and he simply could not allow that. It would upset everything.

  Perhaps it was time to adopt a more direct method.

  Reaching Imicot's rooms, they entered, finding him seated in his study, where he waited with a mixture of fear and anticipation clinging to him like old perfume. His watery eyes were both hopeful and frightened as Ramora approached, kneeling before him.

  Unsheathing the dagger, she laid it his lap before unwinding a length of yarn, wrapping her fingers with it and holding it up before him. Nodding to Chara, she indicated it was time to begin.

  "Imicot, Master of Sorcery, speak your sins into the thread of life the Priestess holds before you. Hold nothing back, and nothing will be held against you when you face judgment."

  Nodding, the old and weary man leaned forward, fingers clutching the dagger desperately. Hesitantly, he began to tell his sins.

  Seventy years ago, Imicot had been an eager young sorcerer, stepping foot out of the Training Halls as a newly appointed Adept. Eager to serve the nation of Qur, where sorcerers ruled supreme, he’d signed on to become a guardian of one of the outlying farming communities the city state controlled. The Masters of Sorcery at the Halls of Mystery had seen great promise in him, too, his appointment coming from the desk of the High Mage himself.

  It’d been everything Imicot had ever wanted. Everything he had devoted his life to since he’d been a child. As soon as he turned sixteen, he had petitioned the Masters of Sorcery to undergo the Baptism of Fire, the sorcery ritual that forces one’s Avatar to awaken, allowing them to work magic. Impressed with his performance during his early education, they had granted his request, bringing the slumbering Bat within him to life.

  The next ten years had been the hardest of his life as he sought to excel at everything he did. Many of his instructors at the Training Hall encouraged him to take it easier, but he hadn’t listened, packing as many classes as possible into each day, studying multiple types of magic.

  When he’d left there, it was with high marks, and a respectable grasp of the Elementalist Strata, as well as a wide range of spells from all ten elements, and high marks for his ritual magic skills. His assignment to a guardianship had been a sure thing.

  The township he’d been appointed to, Kivos, was on the outer reaches of Qur, nestled in the foothills of the Tall Mountains, with the Haunted Wood crowding in from the west. A dangerous place, for the nearest military post was a full two days away, making the village an easy target for Demon Seed and bandits alike.

  With his control of the elements, Imicot didn’t fear, however. He would be the one who stood tall against the forces that sought to bring sorrow, misery and death. He would be a rock, and they a wave, crashing against him. Dreams filled his head in those days of becoming a legend, ascending to the rank of Master, and maybe, someday, High Mage.

  The people of Kivos were overjoyed to see him arrive, for their previous guardian had died in battle against a motley group of bandits some months ago. Since then, the village had known great hardship. Many had been killed by thieves serving a local warlord who lurked within the Haunted Wood, others dragged away for who knows what.

  Imicot had assuaged their fears, swearing that the bandits would bother them no more. Naturally, the warlord felt the need to prove the young Adept a fool, and brought the full might of his small army down on the village within a few days, having heard the boosts of Imicot.

  He hadn’t even flinched as they drove at him. Summoning forth the mystic energies his Avatar gave him control over, he’d laid waste to the warlord's army as if it were nothing. By the time the day was done, the warlord himself was captured, and sent to Qur to stand trial for his crimes against the country.

  Ah, how the people had loved him. A great feast had been held in his honor, and he found he had his pick of the loveliest women the village had to offer. Being a noble soul, he did not take advantage, of course, but the recognition and accolades had certainly been nice.

  Months passed as he served as guardian of Kivos. He brought his magic to bear on anything and everything the villagers needed, making their lives infinitely easier. How they loved him for it, too.

  A few scattered remnants of the warlord’s army tried their hands at attacking the village in that time, but all of them were sent packing with ease. His control of the elements grew daily, and his rituals made night raids impossible, the wards he placed around the village alerting them all of any trespass by armed hooligans.

  Imicot walked with his head high, reveling in his glory and fame. His pride swelled as he looked upon the village, his own personal fiefdom, and cared for the people there, as if he were their king, beloved by one and all. It was everything he’d ever wanted.

  Then, the Demon Seed had come.

  Marching for Qur, they emerged from the Haunted Wood, the village nothing but a place that was in their way. His wards alerted him to them well in advance, and he made ready to defend the village. He knew what to expect, for he’d studied the fiends well during his days at the Training Hall.

  Nothing, however, could’ve prepared him for what he witnessed emerging from the shrouded and menacing forest. Zombies, by the hundreds, marched ahead of battalions of Orcs, falling upon any living thing that drew too near, and devouring them as they screamed. Those who escaped, faced the barb-laced whips of the Orcs, their skin flayed from the bone with a single strike.

  He steeled himself against this, but the true horror was yet to come. The Lords of the Hells h
ad a mind to take Qur, and had summoned forth things that could barely be named. Imicot had looked upon them as they cleared the woods, too horrified to even move.

  True Form Demons.

  Towering monstrosities, belched forth from the very pits of the Hells, he’d cowered before them, as they had trampled the village under their massive feet. Leviathans, Hydras, Wyverns, Death Golems and more came in droves, commanded by terrible Arch-Liches, the most fiendish of all Demon Seed. Kivos, and all her people, were fodder before them.

  Unable to stand against the evil that mowed over the village, his will breaking in the face of true monsters, Imicot had fled. He’d run to the house the villagers had built for him, crawled into the firewood box in the basement, and cried in terror, like a child afraid of the dark.

  As the villagers screamed, he covered his ears. Nothing, though, could block out those terrible sounds. There was no force in the Middle World, or any other, capable of stilling the cries to be saved.

  “Save us, Imicot,” they’d begged, pounding at his door. He lay in the dark and trembled, weeping at the horrors, wishing it would all just stop. More than living, he wanted it to stop.

  Finally, it did. There came no more screams to be saved. No more horrific sounds of people dying in ways not even their nightmares could conjure forth. There was, at last, only silence. Still, he lay in the dark, shaking like a newborn lamb, sobbing for it to be over.

  When he eventually emerged, Kivos was gone. His house, the one the people had built for him, lay in shambles, and was still the only thing that remotely resembled a building. The rest was a wasteland of destruction, and death. Everywhere he looked, he spotted savaged remains. People he’d known. People he had promised to protect.

  People who had died because of his cowardice.

  After passing through Kivos, the Demon Army had been stopped fifty miles from Qur by the Masters of Sorcery, commanding their vast armies, and a team of Blessed. They’d brought the unholy monsters to their end, at such a massive price. Hundreds more had died on the fields, including all but one of the Blessed, an Elven woman marked by Rajan, and Mistress of Sorcery in her own right, known as Rumilla Descartes.

  Not only had the villagers he’d vowed to protect died, but many Blessed as well, the will of the Gods upon the Middle World. It’d been more than he could bear; the shame and guilt rending his soul and heart.

  Imicot had fled Qur entirely, traveling the world, a broken man. Haggard and pursued by the ghosts of those he had let die, as well as the horrors he’d seen, he wandered aimlessly for some years, until he found himself far from home, on the northeastern continent, trudging through the foothills of the Ice Mountains, looking for death to claim him.

  There he had found it, the convergence of mystic energy. Such a beautiful thing, the flowing magic, spinning up from the ground in waves of green and gold, and down from the sky, in ribbons of blue and yellow. It came from all directions, in every color imaginable, and more he had no name for. A veritable well of purity.

  Only his training allowed him to see it. The locals, and even the Frost Giants, could not. No one even knew of it, save him. Pure, unfettered magic energy, in infinite supply. He knew in that moment, he must protect it, no matter what.

  He’d raised his keep from the very earth itself, fashioning it to his needs as rock flowed like water, becoming stone and mortar. This would be his home, where he would unlock all the secrets of magic. One day, he had vowed, he would find a way to make right what he done wrong. Somehow, he would give the world the means to drive the Demon Seed back, once and for all.

  It stilled the haunting cries of the souls he’d failed to save, but only barely. In the night, as he slept, he could still hear them. The horrific beings of the Hells still marched through his mind. In the wee hours, he knew, he was still a coward.

  His shame would be with him, until his dying day, and beyond.

  As he finished his confession, Imicot was weeping openly, his weak voice hitching with sobs as he poured his heart into the red yarn Ramora held before him. His old body shook and trembled as he choked out the final words, even now, after all these years, the memories fresh in his mind.

  Saddened beyond words at what he had endured, and carried, for all these years, Ramora looked to Chara, nodding slightly. His confession was complete. It was time.

  Shaken to her very core by Imicot's tale, Chara had to catch herself, fumbling for a moment. She’d never imagined, even once in her life, that anything so terrible could happen. By her side, Esteban trembled in sorrow, hearing the full tale for the very first time as well. Patient, Ramora gave them a moment.

  "Imicot, Master of Sorcery," Chara said at last, regaining her composure. "You have made a full accounting of your sins. The thread of life now carries them. Take up the dagger, and cut them away from you."

  Slowly, his hand shaking violently, the old sorcerer lifted the ceremonial blade, still sobbing as he looked to Ramora and found only kindness in her eyes. He had to use both hands as he sawed through the yarn, his weak grip unable to make it in a single pass.

  As the yarn fell, Chara spoke. "The sins you have confessed are yours no more. They will not be stricken from the Book of Names that only Garrius is privy to, but neither shall they be held against you when you stand before him. They count for nothing. Know now, and from this day forward, your soul is clean."

  The dagger falling from his trembling fingers, Imicot wailed, tears running down as his face as he collapsed into Ramora's waiting arms. Clutching at her as she held him gently, the old man could say only two words, again and again.

  "Thank you."

  Ramora stroked his head, rocked him, letting him pour out his grief, sorrow, joy, and gratitude. By Chara's side, Esteban fell to his knees, sobbing as well. His father was made whole. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from him, one the Cat only now knew the full burden of.

  Clutching the book to her chest, Chara watched as Ramora cradled the sorcerer to her, crying with him. His relief was palpable, after so many years carrying this, the regret and shame, to have it lifted was something words alone could not define.

  This is what she does, Chara thought, seeing her in a new light. This is who she is.

  Rakiss bowed his head, then looked to Chara, watching as all he had woven into her aura was repulsed by the love she felt for the Blessed. He wanted, in that moment, to reach out, and spin her heart towards resentment of the warrior, but in the end, he could not. Looking to Imicot, he knew, it would be a sacrilege.

  What Ramora had done here should remain pure. Even if it cost him all his hard work. Some things should never be tarnished.

  With a sigh, he turned back to the young woman before him, watching her aura spin out admiration and love, setting him back days in his efforts to drive a wedge between them, and place her in the arms of the Werecat.

  "What a beautiful creature you are," he whispered, watching in awe as her will rejected the manipulations of a demigod. "How I adore you, Chara."

  Smiling, Rakiss ran a hand over her aura, feeling all that she felt.

  "You will save us all."

  Chapter Sixteen

  AFTER THE RITUAL WAS COMPLETE, Imicot had been too exhausted to deal with anything else, as had Ramora. Both had retired for the day, and slept through the night, he from the weight lifted from his soul, she from removing it. Esteban had stayed by his father’s side, while Chara had helped Ramora to their room, lying with her until morning came. As she’d held the Blessed in her arms, Rakiss had found her impossible to manipulate, a detail he noted with both pride and frustration.

  With sunrise, Esteban came knocking to check up on the Blessed, saying that Imicot was awake, and that he was going to prepare some breakfast. Chara had thanked him, choosing to stay by Ramora's side. She roused herself soon after, ravenous, and the two had bathed, dressed, and headed to the dining hall, where they were surprised to find the sorcerer awaiting them.

  The air seemed somehow livelier to Chara,
the old man chatting away as the Werecat served them a bountiful meal. Even Ramora seemed brighter, her lack of a voice not stopping her from being part of the morning conversation. She and Imicot shared a bond that transcended words now, and watching the warrior smile and laugh with the sorcerer made the young woman happy.

  With their meal finished, they settled back, just enjoying their conversation as Esteban cleared the table. The relaxed atmosphere begged them not to rush, and they were all happy to abide in that feeling. The new day had brought with it a new appreciation for the simple, small things.

  "Now then," Imicot said as the morning waned. "I've spent a lot of time thinking on the dragon banner you seek to learn about, my friends, and I recall that it was first seen some time during the Second Age. I can't recall just when, or what it was connected to, but I'm certain that's where it originates from. One of the books in the library has more on it."

  "You mean the giant, three-story room downstairs?" Chara asked with a note of doubt. "The one with a million books?"

  The old sorcerer nodded, chuckling to himself. "Yes, that one. It's a daunting task, I agree, and fool that I am, I never indexed it like I always meant to. However, narrowing the search to books dealing with the Second Age will help a great deal. Most of what is there is on magic, so the number of history volumes are limited somewhat."

  Esteban hovered over the old man’s shoulder. "Most of those are on the first floor, though not all. I will assist in locating the books you need."

  "Yes, very good, my boy." Imicot nodded, reaching up to pat him on the hand. "I must warn you, some are coded, but not to worry, Esteban here can read them. The image of the banner appears in the text, as I recall, so that's what we will be looking for."

  "We?" Chara asked, seeing the same question on Ramora's face.

  "I intend to help, of course," the sorcerer assured them. "For as long as I’m able. We must find this, and while my eyes aren’t what they once were, they're still good enough to be of use in this."

 

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