Magician Reborn (Book 2)

by Paul Sobol

  “Please, sit down,” the man spoke with a heavy Russian accent, “You are here to discuss business, may I offer you a drink first?” He motioned towards a side table that held several bottles of alcohol.

  “No, thank you. I assume you are connected with the Brotherhood, if not a ranking member of the organisation, of which I require a favour. A dozen magicians, preferably more, enough to handle a demon Lord.”

  The Russian magician stared back impassively, giving away nothing. Had this been a poker game Forx knew he would have lost. After several moments of consideration the dark made spoke. “A demon Lord is no small matter. The Brotherhood has quite a few experts in the field of elimination; however, this job may be too expensive.”

  “Certainly there are risks involved, and death is almost likely for some, but your people will be overly compensated for the effort. My Master is travelling from here to Chicago via private railway. I shall supply all of his travelling arrangements, so that along the way he may be disposed of. It would also be necessary to destroy everything with him.”

  “The whole train?” said the Russian mage a little incredulous, but seeing the lesser demon was serious he decided against further inquiry. “Very well, I shall send several of my people to deal with your problem. If you have the information ready I shall make the call.”

  Forx reached into his jacket and pulled out a small thumb-sized USB drive which he placed on the table. “As for payment, I offer you a soul stone, but only once the job has been completed.”

  “Are you able to produce this for me now?”

  “Of course.” Forx reached back into his jacket and pulled out a small black bag. Untying the binding he gently placed the bundle on the table.

  Hesitatingly, the Russian mage reached over and picked up the bag, and between his beefy fingers allowed the content to slip into his palm. The violet gem was multifaceted like a diamond, and as the light reflected off its surfaces it seemed to glow from within. Like an appraiser, the magician studied the gem for flaws. Forx knew none would be found, and he watched the mage get increasingly excited the more he investigated the gems depths.

  “Absolutely perfect, and very powerful indeed.” The lesser demon said, motioning for the magician to relinquish the jewel.

  With some trepidation, and a little sadness, the Russian returned the gem to its owner. “It is certainly a worthy prize, but incomplete.”

  “The stone should be payment enough,” said Forx, trying not to show annoyance at having to haggle over price. “It can contain several souls, and depending on the victims will determine how much power can be drawn from it. Someone in your position would definitely benefit from what I offer. Do we have a deal?”

  The magician leaned back in his chair and paused before answering, weighing up his options. The job was difficult, but the reward was equally enticing. It wasn’t long before he gave a single nod, and reaching across the desk shook hands with the lesser demon. “Done.”

  Forx rose silently, and with a slight bow of his head took his leave of the magician. Before exiting the office he heard the phone being picked up, but was too far away to hear the conversation. The behemoth guard at the door glowered at the imp, but ultimately was glad it was leaving. Demons always meant trouble, and he hoped his boss understood the risks involved.

  “Yes, I understand. Certainly. With what I have on hand it should not be a problem. I’ll expect the file shortly, and then we’ll move out immediately.” Viper hung up the phone and cursed. “That was Boris. We’ve got a job, and it’s big.”

  “Is it better than the last job we did?” One of the men at the round table playing cards asked without taking attention away from the current game. Viper, the unofficial leader, sat down and picked up his cards. His companions, all high-level dark mages, were notorious for cheating, and he half expected his cards to have changed multiple times since taking the call. Satisfied the cards were unchanged he said, “We’re to ambush a train before it reaches Chicago and destroy everyone and everything on board.”

  “Chicago is almost two thousand miles away,” another of the card players spoke up, “why don’t we just kill them here?”

  “We’re paid not to ask questions remember. Besides, it’s a job from the Hammer himself and you all owe him. Now quit your whining and get ready. We leave at nightfall.”

  “Travelling at night? Are we babysitting vampires again?” The mage who spoke up didn’t bother hiding his contempt for the lesser race, but a few others around the table nodded silent agreement.

  “We need the extra numbers,” replied Viper. “Plus, they do make excellent cannon-fodder just in case things get out of hand.”

  “What do you mean by that exactly? Is there something specific you haven’t thus far mentioned?”

  “All I know,” said Viper, picking up a shot of whiskey and downed the contents, “is that our biggest challenge will be a demon Lord.”

  Those at the table dropped their cards. Expressions of surprise were mirrored by everyone, swiftly replaced by mounting anger. “Are you crazy?!” “Forget about that!” and “We can’t take on a demon lord!” echoed simultaneously around the table as each magician voiced their objections.

  “Quiet!” Viper slammed down his shot glass making a loud noise. Surprised it didn’t shatter upon impact he continued once he had everyone’s undivided attention, “We may not have dealt with a demon lord before, but we’ve also killed our fair share of nasties, not to mention scores of light mages too. I’m not saying this will be the easiest job; however we should always prepare for the worst, which is why we’re going to rendezvous with another group of magicians out of Chicago to act as backup.”

  “You’re going to ask the Montgomery brothers?”

  Those sitting at the table looked at each other, trying to gauge reactions. Most were silently calculating odds of survival, even with the aforementioned group of magicians as backup. Each person in the room had heard of the mercenary group, possibly knew someone who had dealings with them, but they could not ignore the stigma surrounding the near-mythical brotherhood.

  “Yes,” said Viper quietly, “Joining forces with them should even the odds in our favour. The vampires will not be able to harm a demon lord but hopefully they can dispose of anyone else, or at least provide a distraction while we take care of business.”

  Rising from the table, Viper looked down at the spilled cards ignored by his companions. Casually he placed his own hand down, revealing four Queens. “I believe, gentlemen, I won.”

  Curses and blasphemy followed Viper out of the room as those still sitting at the table vented their displeasure. Shortly after, each magician had disappeared to prepare for what could only be described as the most insane job about to be undertaken.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For the past few hours drum beats filled the night.

  The bonfire had been stacked high and flames licked the stars while dozens of half-naked men danced around in a rough circle, chanting and singing in their native tongue. The celebrations had been going on for a while, and it seemed only to increase in fervour as the day passed into night. It was almost time for the ceremony of Passage to begin, and both Aiyana and Xander felt underprepared for what was to occur.

  According to tradition, the two had spent the last few days fasting and meditating in a ceremonial tent especially prepared and consecrated by the chief’s wife. As part of the ritual two large dream-catchers had been fashioned using a small token donated by every member of the tribe. These tokens were usually small stones, gems or feathers that were interwoven into the dream-catcher’s complex webbing. Those with closer ties may give something more personal, such as a strand of hair or a hunting trophy like as a tooth or claw of some vicious animal. It was believed the magically enchanted catcher’s would guide and eventually return wandering souls through the world of dreams. As each one was unique they had a special bond to whoever attempted the Dream Quest.

  At the height of the celebration, when it see
med the dancers could no longer remain on their feet, or the drummers no longer beat their hide-bound instruments, the host of revellers got louder and more rambunctious. The young tribesmen would try and outdo each other in displays of acrobatics or juggling knives while the elders sat around the fire drinking, eating and smoking. Eventually Aiyana and Xander were brought out before the assembled elders, and the chanting changed tone becoming more rhythmic, almost hypnotic.

  Seated in the place of honour the two were given wooden bowls to drink from. At first Xander thought it was more fire-water, but was surprised to find the syrupy liquid quite bitter and aromatic. Sitting nearby, Honon explained the drink would help bridge the world of the living to the land of dreams. As far as Xander was concerned it was most likely hallucinogenic, but at least he would have incredible dreams.

  Aiyana’s mother came forward and dabbed white paint onto her daughters face. She then proceeded to paint Xander, and once completed the old mystic spoke ancient incantations passed down for generations. “You are ready, children,” she said. “Go, and follow your spirit guides into the desert and return when you have found yourself.”

  Xander wanted to question the old woman on her choice of words, but suddenly the concoction took swift effect. Feeling light headed and slightly dizzy, he forgot what he was about to ask. The dancers whirled in and out of his vision, limbs elongating and shrinking in grotesque parodies of the human form. Looking around, the elders nearby appeared to distort, with large disproportionate heads smiling and laughing. But no matter where he turned to, the ever-present fire seemed to follow and spread.

  The hallucination was so realistic he thought he could reach out and tenderly caress the orange and red flames. Someone stood next to him, taking hold of his outstretched hand away from the imaginary fire, and pulled him to his feet. The world tilted alarmingly and Xander thought he was about to fall, but steady hands grabbed his shoulders and guided his wavering footsteps away from the camp. Looking over his shoulder he saw a familiar face, undistorted by hallucination, and even more beautiful than when they had first met.

  Aiyana directed him past rows of tents and out onto the rolling plains beyond. With a full moon high above lighting the landscape it was as if they were already walking within the world of dreams. In their hazy state they wandered aimlessly through the grassland, talking without understanding what was being said, holding on to each other without realising their touch was becoming more intimate, and at some point they began to run.

  The simple joy of absolute freedom overcame their senses, and all worries and inhibitions faded away completely as they raced across the moon-lit landscape. It was here that everything became possible; life without limitation, a world without borders, absolute freedom. Losing grip on the last lingering shreds of reality, the young man and woman crossed over into the Dream world. Under the pale moonlight two dire wolves, one silvery white, the other obsidian black, loped across open grasslands. With no other thought than to run, if the opportunity presented itself they would hunt, but detecting no promising scent they continued on. Like the predators they imitated they had no goal, no objective, and no thoughts beyond animalistic needs.

  The black wolf suddenly caught a nearby scent which set a burning ache within its loins, and in his aroused state chased after the female white wolf in an ages-old game that he would eventually be allowed to win.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Steady the oars, we don’t want to make too much noise.”

  Commander Varras sat at the longboats tiller, guiding the vessel towards the jagged shoreline that had not existed until earlier that day. The destruction wrought by the explosives had been considerable, and now the castle lay some hundred or so meters from the newly created beach, and the only way to cross was by boat.

  At first they were just going to row from the harbour entrance on the south side of the newly formed island, but the blockade was still in effect. However, with the recent dumping of so many bodies into the harbour mouth there was a huge increase in the number of sharks and rays, churning the waters blood red as they feasted.

  A silent signal was given, and the oars lifted out of the water. The longboat gently sailed the remaining few meters to the shore and several of the hand-picked soldiers jumped over the side, pulling it further up onto the dirt and rocks. The dozen men had been carefully selected for this mission, and the Commander trusted each with his life. They had fought many battles together over the years and each man present had proven themselves beyond measure.

  But now they were no longer soldiers, but assassins. Plate and chainmail armour discarded in favour for light and manoeuvrable black leathers, relying primarily on stealth to accomplish their latest goal: capturing a dark magician. The soldiers silently followed their Lord and Commander, hidden in the pockets of darkness shrouding the entrenched enemy camp several hundred feet from the water. Tonight the enemy did not celebrate, for their losses had been too severe and nothing had been gained, so the survivors and wounded huddled close together around camp fires trying desperately to ward off an unseasonal chill that had sprang out of nowhere. Even the sentries were seen to hasten quickly between the blessed oases of warmth, lingering overlong within the illumination rather than spend more time in the outlying darkness.

  With less than a quarter of the army still intact the soldiers could not help but think their cause was doomed. For decades this war of magicians had raged across the lands and the army had witnessed both wonders and horrors. However, with no end in sight they felt the years of battle weigh heavily upon their shoulders. Tens of thousands had been killed, on both sides, and of all races; elves, dwarves, goblins and orcs. Even the dead had risen to fight alongside their living allies, but this had caused quite a commotion among the ranks and many had been repulsed to fight alongside such abominations.

  In sight of the first few campfires the silent group of soldiers in black advanced stealthily, moving in-between the small pools of light. Without regular sentries posted it was relatively easy to get past the enemy lines, and like ghosts the dozen men made their way towards the central command area towards their intended target; a large mottled grey tent that housed several Dark magicians. The soldiers didn’t have to be mages to know exactly which one it was they could tell from the sigils painted in blood around the tent and a general foreboding surrounding the area like a blanket of fog. Knowing the tent to be spelled they had to act quickly. Lord Marduk nodded to Commander Varras, and upon his signal hell was unleashed.

  Darias Shaw woke up with the worst headache imaginable. About to relieve the annoying pain he reached out to his source of mana, but something was preventing him from touching it. Unable to feel the ever-present energy he tried to remember where he was and how he had come to be without his power. Judging from his surroundings he was certainly no longer in his tent, and the last thing he remembered clearly was going to bed after many hours of arguing with his fellow colleagues.

  Early into the morning they had discussed how they would handle the latest crisis. With the enemy effectively cut off by water they didn’t have time to make enough boats, and even if they had it would be suicide to try and storm a castle with their currently decimated number of troops.

  Darias had been thankful just to end the debating and crawl into his warm bed, but for some unknown reason his sleep had seemed fitful and disturbed. At some point he thought he had been awoken by one of the magical wards being triggered, but he couldn’t be sure. Everything seemed so blurry. There had been fire and smoke, and people screaming all around, then darkness.

  Taking stock of his present condition, Darias felt something cold and hard binding his wrists and several things fell into place. He was shackled, but not only were the cuffs anti-magical but the entire room had also been enchanted. Whoever was keeping him prisoner didn’t leave anything to chance, with the wards preventing anyone within the room from touching mana.

  Fighting stiffened muscles, the dark magician slowly got up from the cold stone
floor he had been unceremoniously dumped on. It was bad enough they had him trussed up like an animal, but not even the dignity of putting down straw to sleep on seemed more barbaric he thought the enemy capable of. For many years he had fought against the magicians of Light, stemming the tide of their tyranny from spreading around the world, and on a personal level had grown to respect their determination and resolve. Having proven worthy adversaries it would be a bitter-sweet moment when the war finally ended. Now he was their prisoner, undoubtedly captured for the sole purpose of being tortured for information, but that will never happen. They have yet to see true resolve from a loyal dark magician.

  Hearing approaching footsteps Darius moved away from the door before it opened. Mentally he prepared himself for the impending ordeal of torture; the best he could hope to achieve was a quick painless death once they discovered he would not willingly divulge information. No doubt they would try breaking him psychically, but he had years of special training to prevent such magic from working effectively on his fortified mind. Nonetheless the light magicians would ultimately resort to brutal psychic techniques designed to inflict maximum pain while still keeping the subject alive and coherent.

  Two men entered the room, tall and solidly built like soldiers, but from their bearing he knew they were more than what they seemed. The eldest, a man in his late forties perhaps, was dressed mostly in armour, and judging from its well-worn appearance the owner had seen his fair share of combat. But his attire lent him the air of a nobleman or someone in command, not that of a common fighter.

  The second man, taller and slightly younger in appearance, was the real danger. Power radiated from the man, and Darias knew this to be the legendary Lord of the Keep; the single-most feared and hated light magician.