by David Combs
Nestor said softly, “Tyrell, he’s a dead man if you don’t at least try. If the worst thing that you could do is kill him accidentally, then he has nothing to lose.” The warrior looked at Tyrell, surprised to see tears streaming down the mage’s cheeks.
“My master once told me that I had the potential to be one of the most powerful wizards the world had ever seen. Despite his teaching, despite his belief in me, I could never control the kind of power that was at those higher levels. The first time I tried was such a disaster that I….” The mage looked down at his gloved hands and clenched his fists tightly. “I still wake up screaming from nightmares to this day. I convinced myself that I couldn’t reach that power without someone else getting hurt, so I abandoned such efforts altogether.”
“You handled that power pretty well in the sewer,” replied the barbarian. “Drayton doesn’t have any other chance for survival, Tyrell.”
“But if the magic runs loose, this entire glade could become a smoking crater with no trace at all that we ever even existed.”
Galen grinned. “Then we’ll just stand back a bit once you start casting.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder, and Tyrell smiled sadly. Finally, he nodded, bolstered by his friends’ encouragement.
“Alright, then. Let’s see what I can do.”
***
Tyrell finished drawing the last rune on Drayton’s forehead. The unconscious man shivered beneath a blanket, totally oblivious to the risk Tyrell was about to undertake on his behalf. The wizard again read over the focusing exercises that he had discovered in the Book of Torax’alamien. With one final deep breath, he closed the tome. His every nerve was on edge, and he already felt the grip of fear closing on him. He pulled off his leather gloves, studying the webs of scars that crisscrossed his hands. He shook his fingers vigorously, trying to drive away the memories of the damage that he had inadvertently caused so many years ago.
Galen leaned against a stump nearby, absently poking at their campfire, when Nestor marched out of the forest. The barbarian was covered from head to toe in paint and feathers. The thief stifled a laugh though as the solemn warrior’s gaze fell over him. The cutpurse knew that if he dared to make a joke at Nestor’s expense now, he would likely end up in far worse shape than Drayton was in.
Nestor sat down with his legs crossed in front of the fire. He pulled out stones, strange pungent herbs, and a jagged knife. With an air of ceremony, he arranged the items out before him. “I don’t suppose you’d mind telling me what you’re doing,” asked the thief.
“Hosai del Tre’al,” replied Nestor.
“Thanks, that cleared it all up.”
“The Ritual of Strength. I will call to my gods, and beg them to aid Tyrell and Drayton.” The warrior shrugged. “I’m not a shaman, but I figured that they can use all the help that they can get.”
Tyrell focused himself and began a slow rhythmic chant. Magic of this kind required a gradual stair stepping climb through the tiers of magic into the highest realms of power. He would have to make absolutely certain he was in control of each plane before he could ascend to the next. The mage immediately felt the alluring tingle from the power around him that beckoned him to rush into its turbulent embrace. His words nearly faltered, but Tyrell forced his mind to ignore the call, focusing on bending the magic to his will.
Nestor began a chant of his own, as his hands unconsciously swirled the stones before him into patterns of summoning that would draw the attention of the gods. Galen watched as each man performed their individual rituals, and noticed that their chants did not sound entirely different.
Tyrell opened himself to the next realm of power. In combat, a wizard had to hurl himself to those higher planes so quickly that it seemed instantaneous, but Tyrell had to be absolutely certain that he made no missteps. He could now feel the sickness in Drayton’s body, and could actually see the dark infection draining away the knight’s life force to some other shadowy dimension. If he had any doubts before that Drayton would die without his help, the spectacle before him dispelled them. With an even greater sense of urgency, Tyrell drew still more of the power surrounding his consciousness into himself and pressed on.
Nestor started to feed herbs into the fire that caused a sweet smelling bluish smoke to rise into the sky. The barbarian raised his hands to the heavens, his chant increasing with vigor. Each growling word was a primal snarl building to a crescendo of awe-inspiring power. The warrior swayed to the rhythm of a music that only he could hear, and the thief wondered briefly if his friend had actually entered the mead hall of some patron deity.
Tyrell reached now for the greatest pinnacle of magic and could feel raw untapped energy flood his being. The very workings of the universe were bare before him, and he sensed himself surrounded by a force that could create or level entire continents. The energy had a peaceful and soothing feeling, yet it remained ferocious and deadly in its might. The mage drew the magic to him, reveling in it as it flowed through him. It was as if he had been promised unimaginable bliss in exchange for excruciating agony. He burned without pain and seethed without anguish.
Nestor picked up the knife by his side. Galen watched carefully, wondering what his friend meant to do with the cruel instrument. The barbarian’s chant had slowed in tempo. His face was sweating, and his skin was flushed. As the thief glanced back at the mage, he saw that Tyrell had the exact same look. Galen’s eyes opened wide and his jaw slackened as the mage’s hands began to glow with an intense white light. Slowly, Tyrell placed his hands on Drayton’s chest.
The mage could see the knight’s fever as if it were a living entity pulsing and throbbing as it drew away the man’s strength. As the blinding power of magic coursed through him, Tyrell directed the energies gathered within him into a bolt of white-hot cleansing flame. The magic poured into Drayton’s body, ripping into the supernatural infection that consumed him. The rush of such incredible power through his hands made it harder and harder for Tyrell to concentrate on his chant. He wanted to give himself to the flow and become one with the magic he now wielded. To do so now would be catastrophic, but the lure was so terribly powerful. His bolt of energy flickered momentarily as the forces that tore through him tried to convert his body into an open conduit for its own raw destructive force.
“Come on, Tyrell,” whispered Galen. The thief saw the internal struggle that the mage was fighting with. He swallowed hard as the glow around the mage’s hands faltered, then came back. “You can control this. Show yourself who is really the master.” Galen didn’t know if Tyrell could even hear his encouragement, but the blazing light of the wizard’s curative magic seemed to intensify, and Tyrell’s chant resumed although the syllables sounded more like the same growls that Nestor spoke nearby.
Nestor held his hand over the flames of the fire, and, with an easy flick of his blade, he cut a deep slash into the palm of his hand. Blood dripped into the coals and hissed with an angry sizzle. Galen jumped at his friend’s sudden self-mutilation. He started to reach out to grab Nestor’s arm but hesitated for fear of interrupting. Although Galen had no practice in either magic or religion, he could feel a very tangible force pervading the campsite, and surrounding them all. The air around them seemed alive and charged enough that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He decided that no matter whether the energy present was magical, divine, or both, he wasn’t about to interfere with either.
Tyrell felt the last of Drayton’s infection burn away under the healing blast from his hands. The wound in the knight’s shoulder began to knit together, and his revitalized natural defenses began to go back to work on their own as strength flowed back into the Shadow Lord. The mage faced a new problem though. The danger wizards faced when using such magic wasn’t finding one’s way into it, but rather in finding one’s way back down from the incredible power. Few of those trained in the arts had the necessary force of will to break away from the seductive pull that Tyrell now found himself battling. The wizard could see his way dow
n, but did he have the strength of will to walk that arcane path?
Tyrell focused all of his might on closing the magical conduit. He thought of Kellen Ambrose and his upcoming role in destroying the vampire lord. His friends needed him. Without him, they would have no chance of surviving the vampire’s own deadly magic. In the depths of his mind, the mage screamed in defiance as he fought to break free of the energy surrounding him.
Nestor had grown silent although his lips still moved in a now silent chant. His eyes remained tightly closed, and blood dripped freely down his forearm. The barbarian sensed Tyrell’s inner struggle, and he knew that their strength was somehow tied together now on some higher plane. The wizard had the ability to save himself, but he needed to be shown where such indomitable might dwelt within his own mind. With the echoes of Kellen’s own words of praise regarding his might in his head, Nestor thrust his blood-soaked hand into the fire, grabbing a handful of red-hot coals. With a snarl, he raised his hand high in the air for his gods to see the real measure of his strength. No cries of pain passed his lips, but only the low feral growling like a hunting cat stalking its prey as he continued his chant.
Galen whistled softly in appreciation for the barbarian’s display. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, but if Nestor was in pain, he made no sign of it. The thief saw the lines of strain on Tyrell’s face gradually begin to soften, and the light around the mage’s body dimmed.
Tyrell felt a surge of warmth flow into him, a reassurance that came from his nearby friend that such strength was his to command as well. With new resolve, he slammed shut the gateway that the magic poured through. In moments, he was back to the levels of power that he was familiar with, and in seconds after that, his eyes snapped open as he ended his magical trance. The mage fell backward on the ground. He was drained, and completely exhausted. As he struggled to look around the camp, Galen knelt beside him. Just before the blackness took him, Tyrell saw Nestor open his hand, and blow ashes from his palm into the fire pit.
***
Tyrell awoke to the sounds of low voices around the camp. Drayton was awake, and, although still weak, was obviously well on his way to recovery. His face was no longer pallid, and he was eating some broth with Galen’s help while the thief retold the events that had led to the knight’s healing. Nestor sat nearby with a grim smile on his face as he checked the dressing on his hand. The barbarian rose when he saw that the mage was awake, and came over to his side.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a flight of dragons just stampeded through my skull. I’ve heard though that it’s normal whenever a wizard tries to use that much power for the first time. It will pass.”
“Well, as you can see, you didn’t manage to blow us all away. That was quite an impressive bit of spell weaving for a self-proclaimed amateur.”
“I had help,” he said after a moment. He recalled the sight of the barbarian in his ceremonial outfit. “I know enough about the barbarian cultures to recognize that was a ceremonial outfit you were wearing.”
Nestor snorted. “It was improvised from what I could remember our tribal shaman wearing on such important occasions.” He paused thoughtfully. “I won’t deny, though, that you and I somehow worked together throughout the ordeal.”
“It’s called cooperative magic. One participant is the focus, and any others involved offer supportive boosts. It’s usually only mentioned in legends about the creation of great magical artifacts.”
“All I know is that you removed all of my doubts that you are capable of that caliber of magic. Powerful magic, I mean.” Nestor noticed the scowl that came quickly to Tyrell’s face. “You have faced some terrible trials in your past, my friend, and one day I hope that you may share your burden with me. Today, however, you threw aside your fears and performed like a master spell thrower. You know your craft, Tyrell.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to resist though if you hadn’t been able to assist me. It is incredibly dangerous. You can’t be there to help pull me back every time I try to use magic.”
“You fought, and resisted the pull of that power on your own. Yes, you came out of there with my help, but I only showed you the strength that was already within you. Now that you’ve fought your way back once, the next time will be easier. As will every time after that. Eventually, you’ll be able to walk those planes as you please, but only if you keep going to them. If you turn away from your talent now, then the next time that you again have no other choice but to go there, you will face the same struggle all over again.”
Tyrell looked away from his friend. “You don’t understand what it was like. I could see visions of myself using that magic to destroy continents. I don‘t want to be drawn into something as dangerous as that. You didn’t get to feel the seduction of all of that power.”
“I know exactly what you felt, Tyrell,” said Nestor. Fury flashed in his eyes. “I too have felt the pull of something so strong that all you could do is revel in the feeling. My people have a rite of manhood that they call ‘Lar ka ofin’. Young warriors drink a liquor that instills a battle lust so intense that all they can think about is slaughtering the tribe’s enemies. It’s a bloody ritual performed as young men come of age, and participate in their first raid.” As the barbarian lowered his eyes, the edge in his voice softened. “It is a terrifying experience. You are only aware enough to separate enemies from allies, but all else feels as though you are a puppet on a string. When you come out of the haze, all around you is death. Death that you had helped bring about.
“It was the reason I left my people,” he said as he wiped tears from his eyes. “I came back from my own raid covered in so much blood. When no one was watching I stole away from the crowd and vomited. Worst of all was that my chieftain planned to bestow honors upon me for my glorious actions in battle. Too well do I remember the rush of adrenaline, and the grisly hiss of my sword slicing throw sinew and bone. I was powerless to resist the allure of that damnable brew, and I went from one victim after another.” He paused again, looking his friend in the eyes. “And even now, years later, I still can hear the screams of every man, woman, and child that I slaughtered that day.
“So, yes, Tyrell Amalcheal. I do indeed know the danger of such destructive power. You and I were each given gifts that impose difficult choices upon us. I am a born warrior, and you, my friend, whether you choose to believe it or not, are a talented spellcaster. I made the decision to walk away from my home and family, and become an outcast rather than be revered as a slayer of innocents. You have strength in your magic, but only you can decide how and when to use that power. The choice you make will determine how you live the rest of your days. Will you use your skills to learn what benefit they can bring to yourself and those who would look to you in time of need, or will you wonder forever if there might have been something you could have done to make a difference if you had only made a stand?”
Tyrell thought on the barbarian’s words but made no reply. Finally, the warrior clapped his friend on the shoulder, offering his silent support to the troubled man. Galen came over to the wizard and held forth a bowl.
“You should eat something. I have no idea what Redbeard here put in it, but he claims its safe enough to eat, and it doesn’t smell too strange.” The wizard smiled weakly and accepted the bowl from the young thief. He spooned some of the stew into his mouth, and then sucked in air to cool his burnt tongue.
“How’s Drayton,” he asked between bites.
“He’s a tough one. I expect he should be back in shape in no time at all. In fact, he’s already insisting that we get back to Del Torac as quickly as we can. He says that he fears we’ve already lost precious time against whatever Kellen is planning next. I have to agree with him. The longer we’re out here the more time that lying bastard has to work some other scheme against us all.”
“No argument here,” said Nestor. “Drayton, do you feel well enough to sit a horse?”
The knight waved a hand to the warrior.
“I feel well enough to get us moving again, although I fear I would be of little use in a battle. I’m ready to be on the move unless my doctor has other orders.” The blond warrior held his fist over his heart and nodded to Tyrell. “Master wizard, I am deeply in your debt, and humbly thank you for my life. From now until the end of my days, my sword is yours.”
Tyrell bowed his head graciously to the knight, knowing that to refuse Drayton’s pledge would be an insult to the proud man’s honor. “I am grateful to have you with us, my friend.” He cleared his throat. “Alright then. Everyone rest tonight. Tomorrow morning we’ll make up some lost time.” He looked back to Nestor and Galen. “The time to settle this account is long overdue.”
***
A day and a half of riding saw the group inside the walls of Del Torac. The ride still proved difficult though, and the riders were weary when they finally dismounted. Tyrell, in particular, was still exhausted from his use of so much magic. Drayton, even though he was now healing, remained pale, and leaned heavily on Nestor’s arm. Galen rushed inside the inn to secure a room for the giant warrior and ordered food for all of them to be brought to the chamber in short order. Payment was made for the accommodations by a slovenly drunk whose coin purse strayed too close to Galen’s nimble fingers.
Finally, all four men were settled into the room with plates of warm bread, fresh cheese, and roasted meat in hand. Drayton lay back on the bed, his back propped up with two thin pillows. He wiped crumbs from his mouth and looked gravely at his companions.
“Thank you for everything, my friends. We started off as the victims of a cruel and tragic misunderstanding, but that is behind us now. I owe each of you my life, but I am afraid that this is as far as our mutual roads shall travel for now. You have wasted too much time watching over me, and tending to my sickness when you should have by now arrived back in Tarnath facing down our devil.” His eyes met the gaze of each man. “I bid you go, and destroy Kellen Ambrose. His evil has carried on for too long. Too many have suffered by his hands, and his terror must come to an end. I only wish I could be at your side when you finally confront him.”
