Silverstone

by C E Johnson

  Lyall raced away to follow Wuldur’s decree. Commands were relayed to Milo who had entered the main house just behind the wolves. Exiting the building, he leapt into his saddle. He galloped back to the hilltop and directed the magicians in their incantations. “Fireball spell!” he ordered in a roar. Milo was standing taller and straighter than the other mages. The magicians formed up around him in their favorite casting positions. As one, they began their incantations, and fiery balls of flames leapt from their fingers. The spheres of scintillating sparks flew like a holocaust, erupting in a massive conflagration when they touched the home. An inferno flared into life, and the incandescence lit up the night as a score of fires caught in the wood of the mansion. Dark clouds of smoke billowed into the air. The trees around the building began to alight, and the rising wind stoked the flames creating a golden halo of light around the house of death.

  Wuldur’s half-dead warriors formed up around him. Although he was still angry, his fury was dissipating as the inferno flared into a massive blaze that was devouring everything. In a group, moving backwards one step at a time, they began retreating away from the fire. The conflagration was building now, and they had to continue to retreat further and further back toward the hill to get away from the blistering heat. “Did we take any casualties?” Wuldur asked Lyall who had returned to his side through the thick of his troops.

  “I’ve just taken the preliminary report from each squad leader,” the great wolf panted. “Several vampires, shades, and goblins were killed.” Lyall expressed his dismay in a sorrowful growl. The great were-wolf glanced hesitantly toward a clearing in the distance, just beyond their position where a large group of vampires were kneeling by a figure in black armor. “Kirbee took a bullet to her chest,” he rumbled in a low snarl.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Wuldur exploded, his momentary calm shattered. Did the magicians shield Milo instead of Kirbee? he wondered angrily. He signaled to his goblin stablehand to bring him his mare. Digging his heels into his warhorse, she leapt forward, gliding on the wind as if she could fly. A numbing pain spread through his body, making him clench his teeth together and wince against the anger and panic screeching through his mind. Dismounting in a rush, he pushed his way through the vampires who were leaning on their greatswords. His breathing felt swollen and a nearly deafening pulsation of rage was building in his temples. He kneeled at Kirbee’s side and cradled her head in his hands.

  “My prince,” Kirbee whispered. Her eyes were glazed. “I’m sorry. I fear I won’t be able to fight with you any longer.” She coughed delicately, and even that slight motion appeared to wrack her with pain. She attempted to sit up, but Wuldur pushed her back down.

  “Lyall, bring the dark rejuvenators!” Wuldur roared to his were-creature. He wanted the healers to do their work. As he stared at Kirbee, he could see her strength swiftly ebbing away. “Bring all the magicians!” Wuldur thundered. He would have even the non-healers help her. “Every last one of them!” he screamed. The wolf dashed away toward the magicians to comply with Wuldur’s order.

  “You know magic doesn’t work well on our kind,” Kirbee murmured. Her breath was becoming ragged. She reached out and interlocked her fingers with Wuldur pulling him to her so she could kiss the back of his hand. She looked like an innocent child with her golden hair framing her pale face.

  In moments, all of the magicians approached, shrinking from Wuldur’s gaze. They moved together under Milo’s command. “Heal her!” Staggering a step, nearly overcome by a helpless feeling building in his chest, Wuldur stood to give his orders to Milo.

  Milo stared at Wuldur; his expression solemn. There was something behind his eyes, a glimmering that suggested his own pain. His face was growing dark with either helplessness or fear. “We’re weak after the fire spells.”

  The smell of burning flesh reached Wuldur’s nose, and he wished he hadn’t ordered the destruction of the ranch house. “Enough magic pooled together can work wonders,” he said in a whisper, praying he was right.

  “We will try, but healing a half-dead is very difficult,” Milo warned. “Our energy will be severely depleted. You may have to carry us home.”

  Abbott, the blue mage magician who Wuldur had argued with earlier stepped forward. “General, if we do this, we won’t be able to assist you in a battle if Emily returns.” He stroked his chin, his expression apprehensive. “Our magus will be expended.”

  “Get on with it, Abbott!” Wuldur shouted at the squad leader of the mages louder than the roaring fire. He still wondered if the man had shielded Milo, a fellow magician, over Kirbee. I’ll get to the bottom of his actions later, he promised himself. For now, his mind was filled with pain and despair and he could barely concentrate. He hadn’t thought it possible that his half-dead heart could break in such a way.

  Abbott glanced to Milo, his magician liege. “Very well,” Milo answered for Abbott. Milo inclined his head before he went to his knees next to Kirbee amidst a scattered carpet of grass and limestone. Glancing at Wuldur warily, the magician brethren followed suit around Milo. They began their healing spells, and sweat swiftly began trickling down the sides of their faces as the heat mixed with their exertion.

  Wuldur began to pace as he watched the magicians taxing their bodies and minds to the highest degree. Thoughts were surging through his head. He found himself bargaining with his maker, saying prayers—not to Samil who brought him out of Ater, but to his true creator, whoever that might be. A halo of auras formed around Kirbee as the magic of a score of magicians flowed into the injured vampire. I’ll find my purpose if Kirbee is spared, he promised himself and anyone who might be listening to his pleas. She’s making me see life in a new way. She can help me sort through all of this. The wind continued to build, now shaking the trees around Wuldur wildly. All at once, an idea crystallized in his consciousness, perhaps arising from the multitude of fragments of magus collected in his soul. I’ll listen to my assimilations and I will learn, he swore, not knowing exactly what that meant. Without warning, a flock of ravens arose from the trees around Wuldur. They disgorged in a black cloud, breaking in several different directions before coalescing into one organized group. Flapping their wings madly, they screamed as they flew eastward.

  “Commander.” Lyall was at Wuldur’s side. The were-wolf sat uneasily on his haunches. “Should we retreat to our camp or wait here to see if Emily returns?” Lyall’s eyes glistened in the firelight. “Our troops are weary, and the magicians will be nearly incapacitated after this spell.”

  I’m so stupid, Wuldur thought. I’m an arrogant idiot for not preserving more magical energy. Wuldur tried to stifle his trembling. “I didn’t plan this very well,” he admitted to his lieutenant.

  Lyall shifted uncomfortably. “You’re our leader.” The wolf coughed to clear his throat and it came out as a half-growl. “You’re doing a fine job, General,” he grunted.

  I won’t sacrifice Kirbee and our forces for Iscar, Wuldur resolved, balling his mailed gauntlet into a fist. Attempting to swallow the bile rising in his throat, he stared at the magicians laboring over the injured vampire. “Emily will surely return for her family and friends, but if we remain here Kirbee and a large component of our troops may die without a strong protective shield.” Feeling a deep rage forming in the pit of his stomach, he contemplated their options before making a decision. “Leave two of your fastest wolves to see if Emily returns.” Lyall sat on his haunches, listening to Wuldur’s words. “I want the rest of our forces to head back to camp with Kirbee if she survives.” There are more green magicians back at the camp who can help her, he thought to himself hopefully.

  “Should they engage Emily if they observe her?” Lyall asked. His muzzle was still dripping with blood. The dark liquid formed in a puddle beneath him, slowly clotting until it was as thick as oil.

  “No,” Wuldur answered. He moved once again toward Milo and his exhausted squad of magicians to see if their spells were working. Waiting patiently for t
he rest of Wuldur’s orders, Lyall loped a hands-breadth from him. The two glanced to Kirbee. Although she was naturally pale, she appeared ghastly, almost white. It didn’t appear as if the magic was infusing her with any strength. A wave of sorrow swept through Wuldur’s heart, but it was swiftly replaced by anger and fury. “If Emily comes back, don’t allow them to challenge her. Have one wolf track her and the other return to our camp to alert us.” He gripped the hilt of his sword. “We’ll attack her with all of our forces once we’re recharged. She won’t escape again.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Malachi

  Malachi was in the bleak land of Ater sitting on a rocky expanse next to Drogor and Loff Retz in a gloomy cavern. Drogor was teaching Malachi the fine points of the ukcabala, bringing a soul back from Ater. A storm was arising in the dark purgatory land and thunder boomed in the bleak world shaking the walls of their cave. Pausing in his instruction, Drogor studied Malachi as he asked him a question. “What do you think of me?” Drogor asked.

  After his many interactions with the wraith spirits of both Drogor and Loff, Malachi had certainly formed his own opinion concerning the two creatures, but he wasn’t about to express his true thoughts. They bathed for a moment in an expectant silence as Malachi formed his words. “I think you’re the wisest mentor I’ve ever met,” Malachi answered honestly. He would never speak of Drogor’s essence or personality. Underlying everything, Drogor was dissolution and death. He was fatality and darkness. At the same time, he was powerful and all-knowing, and Malachi knew that for some reason the wraith had always been extremely benevolent to him. Besides, Drogor was extremely smart. He was someone to bet on in a pinch.

  “Good answer,” Loff chuckled darkly, glancing from Drogor to Malachi. “And what do you think of me, my young black magician?”

  “You are the greatest indigo magician I’ve ever met,” Malachi answered without hesitation.

  Loff snorted, “I’m the only indigo magician you’ve met.” Loff Retz did not have a dominant personality, but he was a worthy advisor to a king. He was not a leader, rather he was an expert consultant who preferred to be in the background. Shrewd, thoughtful, and calculating, he had an intelligence that was perpetually in high gear. Malachi was certain Loff Retz would always be on the side of a supreme conqueror.

  “Are you ready to give me your dragon-oath?” Drogor asked in a hushed voice, full of secrets. The electricity darting over Malachi’s soul became intensely charged and he knew this was a defining moment.

  “I’m close,” Malachi answered weakly. “I just need a little more time to assess everything.” Malachi’s heart thundered louder than the surrounding storm. “A dragon-oath is a bond for life. I know I’m probably being selfish, but I hate to give it away just yet.” Malachi wasn’t going to fully commit to Drogor because he needed more time to evaluate the wraith and he wanted to make more observations before he finally made his conclusive judgment. He felt embarrassed and his wispy form felt hot as fire.

  “You overthink everything.” Drogor sounded dismayed. “You need to decide soon because your choice will change your entire future.”

  “Once I wholly back you of my own free will, I won’t ever change my mind,” Malachi blurted out his promise.

  “I can only hope you don’t make your choice too late,” Drogor whispered so quietly the wind and the thunder nearly stole his words away. Turning his shadowy head away, Drogor appeared to study their cavern with his vague lifeless orbs. “I can tell you’re beginning to like it here.” His icy words seemed to mock Malachi, and there wasn’t any hint of warmth in his supernatural tone. He sounded bitter that Malachi wouldn’t give him his dragon oath.

  “I like it for a short time,” Malachi begrudgingly admitted, but again he wasn’t about to tell Drogor all his inner feelings. Although he was treated like a god in this purgatory world, and he supposed he should feel glorious at all he was learning from his mentors, there was always an underlying element of darkness and evil in this place. Eventually, the sinister environment overrode the pleasure and ultimately the result was the same on every trip. He would feel like he was in a bad dream from which he had to struggle to awaken.

  “Are you gathering troops to your banner?” Drogor asked in a booming voice that was suddenly loud, ten times stronger than his shadowy form.

  “People are coming to me in growing groups,” Malachi answered. Hoping for praise and approval, he stared at the two wraiths that guided so much of his life. Loff Retz appeared proud, nodding with a smug smile on his formless face, but he didn’t speak, continuing to listen in silence. Drogor meanwhile began to move restlessly, drifting around the cavern. His movements made Malachi nervous and he found himself blurting out more information, “Mainly newly minted magicians and their families are entering my camp.” He could tell Drogor was becoming even more impatient as he continued to pace around the room. Malachi wondered how large his army would have to become to satisfy Drogor. “They look to me as their leader, but I don’t really know what to do with them.”

  All at once, Drogor stilled his form next to Malachi. “First you must bind your ruling council to your side with dragon-oaths,” Drogor advised. “Loff will teach you how to form the oaths.” He shadowy form appeared thoughtful before speaking again, “They must follow your orders unconditionally. This is extremely important.”

  “When will I meet Iscar?” Malachi asked. He was becoming weary and his strength was slowly ebbing away, but he still had questions he wanted answered. “I want to meet the man who will be king.” I want to see if I trust him, Malachi thought to himself.

  “Soon,” Drogor promised in a hiss. He then made a scoffing snort that sounded like derision before continuing, “But I will be the true king. Iscar has much to learn.”

  “Iscar is following our directions,” Loff taught. Loff spoke in a harsh voice that made Malachi think of a crow rasping. “Drogor ordered Iscar to dispatch several Acacean magicians to your location. They will teach your council spells in exchange for their pledges of fealty to you.”

  “Dragon-oaths?” Malachi asked knowing how much weight the two men put in this type of bond.

  “Dragon oaths,” Drogor confirmed while waving a misty hand toward Loff Retz. “Loff will also teach you a basic spell for finding bondsmates. The more bondsmates you localize for your troops, the greater your power will become.” Drogor was becoming extremely antsy. Malachi hadn’t seen him act like this before. “Only grant a bondsmate in exchange for a dragon-oath.”

  Drogor seemed almost breathless with a feverish desire for something. The ground seemed to shudder beneath Malachi’s feet and his insides rolled as he waited for Drogor to continue. What is burning in his dark heart? Malachi wondered.

  “The final battle is approaching,” Drogor interrupted Malachi’s thoughts. “Your troops will sway the balance of the upcoming war.”

  Malachi felt a cold chill wash through him. That was it. The final battle was approaching. He looked down at his hazy form. Only a shadowy substance of his being passed into Ater–something akin to his soul. Could Drogor be wrong about me? he wondered. He really didn’t want to lead warriors, and he certainly didn’t want to fight in a war. “Are you certain I’m the one you see leading these forces in your visions?”

  Drogor laughed darkly. “Your troops are the key, Malachi, but you must give me your oath soon if you want to guarantee my trust. Otherwise, I will have to find someone else to assume your leadership role.” Drogor began to pace again. “Long ago, I directed Iscar to send stone mages to the Luray Caves in Virginia. They’ve almost finished preparing a place for you. They have also formed the summoning alter … it can be used in a variety of ways.”

  “Summoning alter…are you sure you want me to bring you back to life?” Malachi asked with a heavy heart. “What about Iscar bringing you back instead? Or a great warrior-magician?” The whole process sounded like so much responsibility. Malachi would rather relax cuddled up with Amanda and a good book. He certainly di
dn’t want to be in charge of such an important obligation. What if I do something wrong? He wondered. Drogor will be so disappointed. This is all he thinks about.

  “You’re the one,” Drogor chuckled darkly in a chiding manner. “I’ve seen it in my visions. That choice is set in stone. What happens afterwards is a different story.” He moved his wraith-like gloom closer to Malachi and sat back down. “You just need more confidence.” He gestured a nebulous arm toward Loff. “Loff and I are going to give you one last gift in hopes that it will help you to make up your mind.” Loff drifted closer to Malachi. “Loff has found your bondsmate.”

  Drogor’s revelation stunned Malachi. “Are you serious?” Malachi’s heart leapt in his chest. “Thank you!” he crowed.

  “Perhaps your link will give you strength to do what must be done,” Drogor said in tone that wasn’t warm or soft.

  “When will I see my bondsmate?” Malachi asked. He couldn’t wait to tell Amanda. She’s going to be so excited for me, he thought. He tried to shake off the weariness that threatened to overtake him. He had been in this world much too long.

  “The magicians coming to you will bring your other half very soon,” Drogor promised. Malachi wished he was hearing a hint of kindness in the sinister creature’s words, but there was only a barely perceptible tinge of reproach coming to his ears. Malachi was certain the wraith was still upset about his dragon-oath. Drogor continued, “I won’t tell you what your animal-link will be. You should be surprised.”

  “The magicians will arrive before nightfall with your link,” Loff Retz added in a gruff croaking voice.

  Malachi felt his thoughts continue to lift and soar. “A bondsmate,” he whispered. His heart, close to bursting with joy, was thundering now. “Where will the final battle occur?” He was certain he could fight anyone with a bondsmate at his side.

  “Maaca will decide that,” Drogor answered in a low voice cloaked in steel. “She will be my queen and my warlord.”