A Wizard's Tears Page 4

  Corg motioned for Yvanna to crawl aside. “I’ll go,” he said, “Time to speak to our mage friend.”

  They watched as Corg opened the tent flap and forced himself out into the raging gales. Keldoran got a blanket and tried to wedge the ripped hole with it, holding it up with his hands. Despite getting soaked and feeling cold, he was enjoying this small adventure.

  Corg stumbled over to the mage’s tent. He was soaked in seconds, and he marvelled at the fury of the storm, and how suddenly it had appeared. Glancing upwards, he saw the lightning fork across the darkness of night in a blinding flash. The thunder that followed was deafening.

  As he approached the entrance to the vast tent, it suddenly opened and the mage walked out. The mage had his hood covering his face, which protected him slightly from the rain. He nodded at Corg, then turned his attention to the sky. Raising his arms, the mage began to chant, in a clear, powerful voice. Energies crackled at his fingertips, and light issued from his hands, spreading to surround the carriage and the two tents. Corg watched in awe as the rain splattered against the pale yellow light as if it were a physical barrier, before realising he wasn’t getting wet anymore. The mage chanted some more, and then lowered his arms. The light hovered around the carriage and tents, not moving, providing physical protection from the elements that raged outside of its area.

  “Cute trick,” said Corg.

  The mage turned to him, and nodded once more. “A simple barrier of protection; this will shelter us tonight.”

  The others emerged from the tent, dumbstruck. They looked at the shimmering yellow light that surrounded them. It was pale, faint even, but they could see the rain pattering harmlessly on it. Indeed, all was quiet, the storm’s fury and sounds lessened as if it were outside of a warm home, and they rested within, listening.

  “It would be great to learn how to do that,” breathed Relb in amazement.

  Keldoran nodded at him, staring at the barrier.

  “Rest, now,” spoke the mage to them. “We have a long journey tomorrow.”

  Corg made his way back to the others, then stopped in bewilderment. “What is that?” he asked to nobody in particular, pointing at the sky.

  All eyes turned to the sky. At first they wondered what Corg had seen, seeing nothing save for the rain hitting the mage’s barrier. Then a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and all of them felt a first tingle of fear.

  The sky was shimmering in a weird, unholy light. A myriad of colours: red, green, purple and orange. It flooded and seethed around the mage’s barrier, drawn to the magick of it. As they watched, the colours fused together until they became just one, a deep, blood red. Alive, organic, it lapped against the barrier, and the ground shuddered at the impact.

  The mage lowered his hood, and looked on in amazement. The others glanced at him as if he was going to say something, tell them all that he knew what this phenomenon was and not to be alarmed. He said nothing.

  Suddenly the blood red energy, if that was what it was, spiralled upwards, exploding into the sky in a cacophony of sound. A terrible ripping sound penetrated the storm and the barrier, and all eyes were on the sky as a tear appeared in it.

  “What in Untaba’s name…” breathed Corg in wonder.

  The tear grew in the sky, and the ground began to shake. The watchers tumbled to the ground as the soil beneath their feet rumbled and quaked. The barrier the mage had created to keep out the storm shattered, and the rain fell upon them once more. It was relentless, pounding into them, and the wind picked them up and sent them hurtling across the ground like they were made of paper.

  Staggering to his feet, Keldoran was determined to keep looking up. He noticed the others hauling themselves up to stand. Eyes heavenward, they all watched in awe as a black form descended from the rift in the sky. Lightning crackled and thunder boomed around it, what looked like the shape of a man, suspended in the air by what force they could not understand. For a few moments they watched as the blood red light encompassed the figure, bathing it in its energy. Then there was an explosion.

  The horse bolted, the carriage wheels spinning in the sodden earth as it sped away in fright. Even as the group turned to look at this, the storm died away. The rain stopped. The thunder faded. Incredibly, stars winked at them again from the night sky. The rip in the heavens had gone, as had the black figure and the blood red light.

  All was quiet.

  Not sure what it was they had witnessed, the mage took the task of retrieving the frightened horse, which had stopped around a hundred yards away down the road. The others exchanged uneasy glances.

  “ Black shadow, embodiment of darkness, go hither. In the land of the good you will mock and slither, Like an angry demon gloating from his lair, You will rule and let others beware.”

  Lorkayn opened his eyes where he lay, and looked up at the night. Instantly he was alert and alarmed. He knew not where he was. Indeed, he knew not even if he was alive or dead.

  Blinking, he sat up, glancing around him. He was in a glade in some woods. The place was unfamiliar to him, as was the smell. It was a clean, fresh air he breathed in, not the dark ash of his victories. The trees around him seemed almost to whisper at his presence, branches rustling, leaves murmuring. Flowers around his body withered and drew their colourful petals into themselves, as if his being disturbed them somehow.

  Standing, he could see the blackened earth where he had lain. The grass and the soil appeared cooked, as if a great fire had once burned ferociously. He noticed with each step he took that the plants and the grass shrivelled before him. The land was almost edging away from his touch; something about him was affecting its organic nature.

  “I was not born on this earth,” he whispered. Behind him, the ground sighed in relief as he moved away, and began to repair itself. The grass grew once more and the flowers unfurled their wondrous colours.

  Lorkayn looked imposing, despite his charred clothes. He wore nothing but a black robe, but this was charred and burned, with rips in the fabric, exposing rivulets of blood that flowed freely from multiple wounds. However, the sorcerer stood tall and proud, not hunching, and walked with a sense of purpose. His long black hair flowed down to his waist. His eyes looked around, black and opaque in colour, as if something in his travel to this world had disturbed his green irises.

  The dark stench of decay followed Lorkayn. Silently, he walked away from the clearing, heading into the woods. The forest was silent as he approached; each little creature held its breath in sudden fear.

  The sorcerer stood in the woods for a moment, noting the shudder of the trees with a certain satisfaction. “I affect all things in this world,” he said to himself. In fact, he could feel more power coursing through his veins than ever before, as the magick of the world drew into him, harmonising with his own dark sorcery.

  Reaching out, Lorkayn placed his hand on the bark of a nearby tree. Instantly the tree recoiled from his touch, the bark shrivelling in on itself. The tree shook violently; leaves turned yellow, then fell. The life force of the tree was sucked out, passing into the sorcerer’s blood. Within moments, the great tree withered, and the wood turned blackened and charred.

  The sorcerer left behind him a dead tree.

  Feeling the power rise within him, eyes burning red flame, the sorcerer grinned cruelly. Unbeknown to the sorcerer, two pale green eyes looked across the glade at him. A small, green skinned humanoid, camouflaged on the green grass where he lay, watched the newcomer with frightened interest. He gasped audibly when he saw Lorkayn touch the tree, and make it wither and die.

  It had been a strange few days, and now it seemed, a strange night. First, he had encountered that Slardinian scum on the borders of the forest, and had lain a trap for it. They smelled, and were barbaric. They seldom travelled this far, preferring the southern, hotter climes. Why he had been here was a worry, for the Slardinians always hated his own kind, and normally killed on sight. Shuddering, he hoped there would not be any more. Indeed, that was why he
was here, on the outskirts of the forest, to scout for impending trouble.

  Yet now, he found something far worse than any Slardinian. What manner of being was he watching, across the clearing? He must return to the village and warn the others.

  He was a Norfel, one of the tree dwellers, as the other races called them. Small in form, they had long arms, useful for grabbing onto bark and trunk. Their hands curved into fierce talons for holding and cutting. Green skinned, they were the colour of grass and leaf, blending in perfectly with their surroundings. Sharp, pincer like teeth gave them a scary appearance, and as such they were outcasts to the humans of the world, called monsters and wicked, evil demons by those who did not understand them. In reality, they were docile, peaceful people, seeking only to protect their young and live happily in the forests of Elrohen.

  Scurrying away hurriedly, but silently, crawling across the grass on his hands and feet, the Norfel decided that his time scouting was over; it was time to report back to his village, and quickly.

  5. Gathering of the Norfel

  She moaned, turning in her sleep. Her arms arched out in front of her, clutching the pillows of her bed intensely, as the dream gripped her mind. He was coming for her. Soft, careful footsteps measured his approach, his black robe swaying slightly as he walked. She could smell wild orchids. Her eyes opened wide in alarm at his presence in her antechamber, a place sacred and forbidden to any except her. Mind racing, not understanding how he came to be here, but feeling she should know, the thought passed from her mind like sand through an hourglass. It only mattered that he was here, and her excitement rose.

  A stranger, a beautiful dark stranger, with impenetrable black eyes, she felt her body quiver in a sudden surge of emotion. She sat upright on her bed where she had slumbered, gathering her sheets around her naked body so he could not see her, or indeed, her aroused nipples. Her breath became ragged, and she forced herself to take a deep intake of air, to try and assuage her body’s mounting urges.

  He said nothing, merely smiling as he came to the foot of her bed. She opened her mouth to utter something, but her words were instantly forgotten as his hands moved slowly down to his robe’s sash, and started to untie it. Her gasp when he shed his robe to the floor was audible. He wore nothing underneath, and she gazed in longing at his fit, muscular body. There were no blemishes or hair to his skin, save for one small mark on his left shoulder, what looked like a small tattoo of some kind. She could not make it out, but then, she did not pay much attention to the tattoo.

  She was about to shout for her guards to remove this man from her inner sanctum, but words hung on her throat. All she managed was an audible whimper, which she regretted instantly, as it showed her mounting fear blatantly to this stranger.

  Suddenly he leaned forward and grabbed her sheets, pulling them roughly aside. Her naked form appeared to his eyes, and, transfixed by his action, she made no move to conceal herself. Smiling, he sat down on the bed beside her, his face angling downward to kiss her own. Closing her eyes, she waited for the kiss. Although her heart fluttered wildly, her body ached and longed for his touch…

  Vergail, high priestess of Malana, the city of gold, awoke with a start. She let out a deep breath, and blinked in alarm. Now, that was a dream like she had never experienced before! It was forbidden within her religion to even think of such acts, let alone realise them in such graphic detail in her mind. She was glad she had managed to rouse herself before the dream continued on to even more lewdness. Or was she? Was this her subconscious mind telling her it was time to take a lover; that her body could no longer tolerate the celibacy? Snorting, she climbed out of bed and walked to her full length mirror, which was part of many items of opulence adorning her chamber. A silly dream was all it was, nothing more.

  She surveyed herself in her mirror. A tall, athletic build looked back at her. She had always looked after her body, made sure it was in excellent condition. As high priestess, her duties involved many public appearances, and it would not do at all to see an unfit body waddling around in her station. She flicked back her long black hair, which came down to her waist, and smiled to herself. If, indeed, her celibacy ended, and it would only end once the council appointed a high priest for her to wed, he would be a lucky man. Her breasts were a good size too, firm and smooth skinned. Quite a catch, she thought, without a hint of modesty.

  Gathering her red robe, Vergail dressed and left her sanctum, letting the dream slip from her memory and be replaced by the much more important issues of her duties.

  Nagoth, the Norfel scout that had been witness to Lorkayn earlier, burst into his village in a fast run that he had kept up for a good hour.

  The village had been named Rannos by the Norfel elder and founder of the place, Alteus. It was a small dwelling, carved out of the forest and trees with loving care. Wooden homes, richly decorated and painted in bronze and copper, stretched out into the forest, forming paths between them and avenues where the Norfel traded and moved. Lanterns shone from the open windows and porches, casting a dull but vibrant glow of life to the village.

  Smells of food and smoke tantalised Nagoth’s senses, and he realised briefly how hungry he was. His mind immediately turned to the more pressing matter of his report to Alteus, and he sprinted down the main road of the village, almost toppling over some of his friends talking in the street.

  He found Alteus outside, in the centre of the street, where a circular area had been constructed, with homes aligned in a perfect circle all the way round. In the centre, a tall wooden statue stood, polished and embossed in flecks of gold. It depicted an artist’s point of view of the God of survival, Untaba: a tall, muscular man, with gold hair cascading down in curls to his shoulder blades. At the foot of this statue, which was at least nine feet tall, was a golden chain that had been soldered on from the hand of the God to the ground. The chain ended in a large gold ring that wrapped around a prisoner’s neck. In this case, it was the turn of the captured Slardinian they had found earlier, roaming their forest without permission.

  Alteus wore a blue tunic, which showed him as village leader. He also wore grey, velvety leggings, made with fashionable material. His dark green hair grew long, down to his shoulders. A chiselled chin and slanting eyes gave him an intelligent, cunning look.

  “Welcome back, Nagoth,” greeted Alteus as his scout sped into the clearing. “You’re just in time for the feeding!”

  He gestured to two other Norfel, who were approaching the Slardinian carefully. In each of their hands were chunks of raw meat, the only fitting meal for their prisoner, it seemed. They also held long wooden spears. Obviously feeding a Slardinian required one to have weapons.

  Nagoth stopped his run, and was about to speak, when Alteus stopped him with another gesture from his hand. “Be careful, the two of you” he said to his fellows. “It’s his first meal, and I’m sure he’s ravenous. Don’t get too close. Slardinians are not known for their gratitude. At least we, in our honest, compassionate way, would feed a prisoner. If we were in Slardinian territory, they would kill us on the spot.”

  The Slardinian was an imposing sight. Reptilian, the Slardinians walked on their hind legs like humans, but they had a curved, wicked tail that could be used as a potent weapon. Incredibly strong, they had amazing speed and strength and were therefore feared throughout Elrohen as the fierce fighters they were. Moreover, they had no compassion and enjoyed killing, like true predators. This one wore nothing more than a tattered, brown loincloth. The Slardinian’s face ended in a lizard like snout, and this one’s green eyes narrowed with hidden cunning as the two Norfel came closer. His tongue slithered in and out between his lips, like a snake. Crouching down, the Slardinian waited.

  One of the Norfel crept ever closer, one hand outstretched with the piece of meat, that stank in the evening air. In his other hand, he pointed his spear in warning at the Slardinian. Nervously, he tossed the meat down in front of the reptilian, and started to creep backwards, all too slowly.


  With a leap, thrusting his powerful legs forward, the Slardinian jumped onto the Norfel. In a heartbeat he had sunk his salivating jaws into the Norfel’s neck. Blood sprayed out from the wound, and the Norfel dropped his spear with a wild cry of pain.

  Stunned, the other Norfel dropped the meat he was carrying and thrust his spear into the Slardinian’s back. With a roar, but more of fury then pain, the Slardinian whirled round and slammed his clawed, talon hand into the Norfel’s face. Skin was ripped off and the Norfel howled. With his other hand, the reptilian, in a flurry of motion, ripped back the spear that had impaled him. Spinning it dextrously around in his hand, he thrust it back into its owner’s chest. The sound of bone splintering filled the air.

  Both Norfel crumpled onto the ground, clutching their wounds, desperate to stop the flow of blood seeping forth. Within moments, the fatal wounds claimed their victims, and the two Norfel lay still.

  Alteus was horrified. Screaming, he yelled for more guards.

  A group of Norfel, spears in hand, rushed to the scene. Alteus stopped them from getting too close to the wretched Slardinian. Instead, Alteus, quite bravely, walked closer to the Slardinian, but making sure he was well out of reach of the length of the chain that captured the reptilian.

  ”We show you mercy and compassion.” He spat on the floor, “Yet you kill us for our trouble. Slardinian, you will die.”

  The reptilian hissed, but said nothing.

  Alteus paused for effect. The summoned Norfel looked at him, awaiting the order to attack. Nagoth, desperate to tell Alteus about another threat in their lands, kept silent. This was not the time to interrupt swift justice.

  Slowly, Alteus gestured for the Norfel to back away. He had alerted them for effect only, to try and inject some fear, some reaction from the reptilian. “Yet the means of your death,” he stated to the Slardinain, “will not be by our hands, but rather the long, painful days of hunger and starvation. Eventually, you will collapse, and we will leave you chained for the birds to swoop down and feed on your rotting carcass.”