Young Warlock Read online

Young

  Warlock

  Mathew Bridle

  DEDICATION

  To all my family, wherever you may be..

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Edge of darkness

  The lust of the flame

  An uninvited guest

  The goblin king

  The road ahead

  A heart seduced

  Demon seed

  Pariah

  In a time of need

  Witch hunt

  Back to the hunt

  An unlikely friend

  Into the thorn

  Gamran – thorn and mire

  Ancestors

  A leap of faith

  Unto us

  One more mouth to feed

  The brotherhood

  The dogs of war

  A new covenant

  Clouds on the horizon

  First strike

  Run

  Among the mire

  The fall of Meregith

  Driftwood

  Meregith

  The end of Mor

  To the victor…

  Into Grimlaw

  A troubled heart

  Southbound

  Mor

  Bethraim

  The house of Arrborn

  Dorn

  The bronze sea

  Glossary

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the people who have helped to shape this novel into what it has become. Some were polite commentators on Createspace who offered valued criticism and critique. To friends no longer with us who served as early version readers. But especially Stephanie Jane Dagg of edit-my-book.com for her valiant effort in kicking the text into its final shape. Also, a big thanks to Sarah Leach for the excellent cover art.

  This novel was first published under the title of The End of Mor, since when it has undergone a full edit with new content as such it has been given a new title to reflect the changes in the direction of the story.

  .

  Prologue

  The door to the archive swung open. The guard stood silently observing the figure as it flitted down the long, narrow aisles. Keeping her wings folded tightly against her back to avoid disturbing the stacked scrolls, the girl tiptoed along the racks searching for the prophecy. Her long white hair flowed like a mountain stream as she scoured the shelves searching for the elusive scroll. Her master had sent her on this errand as he could not access the archives himself and his absence from the throne room would have been noticed by more than just the palace guard.

  Moving with a subtle grace, Regina swept around the end of an aisle, rising to a higher shelf as though the scroll that she sought was drawing her to itself. There, glowing softly among the thousands like it, sat the one scroll which was known by all. There was not a soul in the heavenlies who did not whisper of The Prophecy.

  Standing like a guilty child before a disappointed father, Regina reached out a trembling hand and pulled the scroll from the stack. Her heart leapt to her throat as the stack suddenly tumbled inward filling the vacant space. There was no way she could sneak it back now. Regina tried parting the scrolls, but it was as though they had become fused together, the light fading from them as she watched. Panic gripped her heart; she could feel it pounding in her chest. She had never felt like this before, excitement and fear coursing through her system, shattering her peace. She ran.

  Clutching the scroll tightly in her hand, her bare feet pounding on the cold stone floor, Regina ran as quickly as possible, her wings dragging along the shelves sending scrolls cascading to the floor behind her. Scrolls danced and spun about the ground, those losing their seals springing open and turning to dust in an instant. She dared not look back; her only thoughts now were on flight.

  The guards watched impassively as Regina flashed by them. Their only response was a single blink to remove the dust from their eyes. Out into the open courtyard she fled. Thrusting her white feathered wings as wide as they would go, she lifted into the air soaring higher and higher, faster and faster, until the rushing of the wind finally drowned out the beating of her heart. Ahead lay the circle of towers whose spires were lost among the ethereal clouds and whose foundations were buried in the fathomless sea.

  Regina fixed her eyes on the distant towers, forcing herself on despite the growing fears in her mind. Was she doing the right thing? Was Nehushtan the one she should obey? Who was pulling Nehushtan's strings? She was not convinced it was the One as he so convincingly claimed.

  As the towers drew ever nearer, Regina veered to the left disappearing into the cool caress of the clouds, which were a soothing balm on her pale skin. Thrusting down hard with her wings she climbed above the clouds into the bright light shining from the towers. Regina took a short, sharp breath, swallowing hard. For a faltering moment she was drawn to the Tower of Truth, and its cleansing light. The scroll in her hand felt as heavy as the guilt of a thief caught in the act. Regina spun around and, turning her back on the Truth, she dived into the cloud layer headed toward the Servant Tower with its heavy stone-browed windows and broad spiraling staircases where Nehushtan waited in a recessed cloister.

  "You took your time," Nehushtan said holding out his hand for the scroll.

  Regina eyed him cautiously. Something about him was different; a subtle change, but what?

  "The archive is no small matter," she replied thrusting the scroll toward him.

  Nehushtan stepped forward, his feet protruding slightly from his beneath his long, flowing robe. Then she saw it. The change was not noticeable to a human eye but to a celestial being it was obvious.

  "What has become of your robe?"

  "Nothing," Nehushtan said tightly. "It is the same as it ever was."

  He snatched the scroll from her hand. It was then she felt the air swirling about her own feet. Nehushtan's mouth curled into a smile.

  "Welcome to the fold, Regina."

  "What do you mean?" Regina made a futile swipe at the scroll.

  "Oh no, this is for someone else." Nehushtan touched the scroll to his lips. "He'll be so pleased."

  "Who will?" Regina stepped back, looking around the room for the true recipient of the prophecy.

  "He's not here." Nehushtan's smile broadened. "He's over there," he said pointing the scroll at the Tower of Truth.

  "You cannot possibly mean..." Regina's eyes widened, her mouth opened and closed involuntary.

  "No, not him," Nehushtan sniggered. "Silly girl."

  "Come." A single, disembodied word was spoken into the room. Both Nehushtan and Regina froze.

  "Oh, no," they both whispered as a white mist enveloped them.

  When the mist lifted from them they were standing with their arms at their sides facing a large circular bronze table supported on the back of a six-legged, white marble dragon. The north rim of the table was supported on the broad head of the dragon, the south upon its twin tails. The east and west rested upon the dragon's spread wings. The surface of the table shimmered, forming into a loose collection of islands which shifted slowly around in a turbulent bronze sea.

  To Regina's right an archway opened in the wall. An angel much taller and broader than either Nehushtan or Regina entered through the arch. The angel looked at the two of them, first at their faces and then at the floor and the golden bonds swirling about their feet holding them fast.

  "Why are we here?" Regina whispered.

  "Why are you whispering?" snapped Nehushtan tersely.

  "I have no doubt that we shall soon find out." The third angel walked over to the bronze table and began stirring the sea with a finger. "Oh look, the little boats are all trapped in my whirlpool," he said gleefully.

  "Will they perish, Accuson?" The voice spoke calmly, emanating from within
a serene white light which shone from a throne of ordinary stone. All three angels fell to their knees, the gold bonds on their feet flexing to accommodate them.

  "My Lord, I had no idea..." the third angel began.

  "Why do you try to deceive me, Accuson?" the voice said. "What am I?"

  "You are many things, my Lord," Accuson smiled to himself.

  "Rise and look at me, all of you, and I will tell what will be."

  The light solidified into the form of a man. Long robes flowed behind him, fluttering as though caught in a gentle breeze. The three angels stood. Regina and Nehushtan looked upon the man in fleeting glances, but Accuson stared blankly as though he looked upon nothing.

  "Tell me again what I am, Accuson." The man stretched out his hand restoring calm to the bronze sea.

  "You are..." Accuson swallowed hard, he could feel the penetrating gaze of the man looking deep within him. Compelled to look directly ahead Accuson, stumbling over his words, continued, "You are the One. You are all truth."

  The gaze of the One shifted to Regina. She watched, amazed, as a parchment materialized before her. She read the words as they appeared upon the scroll, trembling as her eyes scanned the text.

  "My Lord, I did not take the scroll, The Prophecy, for myself but for another." Regina took deep breaths of the cooling air.

  "Nonetheless, you did take it." The One cast a glance at Accuson, silencing him before he could speak.

  "My Lord, if I may?" Nehushtan injected. "I was not party to the taking of the scroll. I was merely the contact between two agents," he added, tilting his head lightly to one side as though implicating Accuson.

  "What has become of you all? What makes you think that you can deceive me with such unsophisticated lies?" The One's eyes fell upon the girl. "Regina, you have been played like a fool. Nehushtan has you under his command. You have surrendered your will to his whim. You had your doubts when taking The Prophecy from the archive, and yet you persisted in your crime. You are, therefore, guilty of theft. It matters not how you choose to see it. A theft is a theft, no matter its size."

  Regina's hair and robes turned as black as night. The soft, downy feathers of her wings fell to the floor as ash, exposing a thick leathery skin covered with pulsing veins. Regina screamed and collapsed in a sobbing heap with her wings wrapped about her.

  Nehushtan, upon seeing Regina's fate, fell to his knees, his hands pressed together in supplication.

  "My Lord," he cried, his chest heaving as he fought his emotions, "I did nothing wrong! I merely received the scroll. It was Accuson who pressed me to obtain it as he cannot enter the archive."

  "Lord!" Accuson began. Attempting to approach Nehushtan he pointed an accusing finger at the tearful angel, and felt the fetters tighten around his feet.

  "Silence Accuson. From this day forth you will only speak the truth in my presence. You have surrendered your will to your own selfish desire. You have become proud and arrogant, thinking yourself superior to all others," the One paused, "including me."

  Accuson lowered his arm, turning slowly to face the One.

  "I..." He thought carefully, His tongue desperate to lash out at his accuser. "I have spoken of my desire to read the scroll for myself but I never once demanded that he go and steal it." He spoke slowly, cautiously constructing a truth which would not incriminate him directly. A parchment materialized in front of him. "What... is... this?"

  "A prophecy," Nehushtan said in a pitiful whimper. "Ah!" He too screamed as another parchment appeared next to him, smoke softly rising from the burned-in scripture. Nehushtan howled like a wolf in torment as his robes turned black as night. His long white hair shriveled to ragged black curls as his flesh hanging loosely about his bones turned ash grey.

  "I'll not read it," Accuson spat, sweeping his hand through the parchment as though it were naught but air.

  "It will change nothing." The One stretched out his hand, in which he held four scrolls. "You cannot alter that which will be. Why did you want The Prophecy?"

  "To see where I stood in your final plans," Accuson sneered, hugging himself. "You care nothing for us; all your thoughts are filled with the whims of mortals. You set paths before them and encourage them to go beyond what they would normally do."

  "And this troubles you? Why so?" The One opened his hand, allowing the four scrolls to fall toward the surface of the table.

  Accuson let out a desperate cry. Snatching up the scrolls he held onto them with clenched fists. "Now I hold them. The fate of these two and all that is written in my own prophecy lies within my control. We'll see how great this is." Tearing the seal from The Great Prophecy, Accuson cast the others behind him where they floated slowly toward the open window. Light exploded from the open parchment, dazzling Accuson with its brilliance. Screaming with childish frustration, he tore The Prophecy into shreds, then scattered the tiny pieces of parchment over the bronze sea, laughing maniacally. "I doubt even you could fix that!"

  The One stroked his beard thoughtfully and said, "Do you happen to know what this table is?" His eyes sparkled with mischief.

  "One of your toys, no doubt." Accuson leaned over the table, wafting his hand to clear a tiny cloud which he presumed to be snow. "What is that?" he asked, annoyed at being unable to disperse the cloud.

  "To disperse that would take a word of command," mused the One.

  "Scatter," Accuson said stiffly. The tiny cloud burst and scattered its contents across the entire map.

  "Oh well done, my child."

  "You have not called me that for..." Accuson stopped, drawing himself upright. "I'll not fall for your games.”

  The three remaining scrolls floated gently out the window.

  "Accuson, the scrolls!" Nehushtan gave a loud, wailing cry. Regina jumping to her feet took one last regretful look at the One before leaping out of the window after the scrolls, the golden bonds holding her in heaven's grasp bursting into a glittering cloud.

  “Has your compassion run aground, Accuson?” The One swept his hand over the table. A speck of light appeared, rapidly falling from the sky toward the land. “Nehushtan, wheresoever she falls will be your home. You became her master, now she is your mistress. Do you not feel her tug on your heart?”

  Nehushtan wailed a guttural cry. Leaping out of the window after the one remaining love in his heart, he plummeted toward the world below.

  “Well, Accuson,” the One said, as the first speck of light smashed into the earth.

  “Well what?” Accuson asked, holding his hands behind his back, twiddling his fingers as he tried to stare beyond the One and his throne.

  “Perhaps you would care to sit upon my throne?” The One rising to his feet gestured toward the vacant seat. “It will not make you any more or any less than you already are.”

  “It would be difficult to make me any lower than a snake,” Accuson hissed.

  “For you perhaps, but if that is what you want?” The One raised his hand, pointing toward the table. “The world is turning. Tides come and go, but you shall always remain. The prophecy concerning your life has been written. In fact, it is in your hand.”

  Accuson squeezed his hand and felt the crisp parchment in his palm. “How kind. I shall take this and write my own.” His lip curled into a wicked smile. “I shall be king of the entire world,” he mocked.

  “Indeed you shall be. You will have a loyal following which will gladly bow before you. They will worship you and call you a god. You will have the beasts of greed and power to your right and to your left. You will scourge the earth of my image. But,” the One sat back in his throne, “you will rule only for a time, times and half a time. Then the end of all things shall come. You will be defeated by a child and sent to your final destination where you will howl in torment, gnashing your teeth in anger at the injustice of it all. You will feel the pain and anguish of every soul that you beguile with your silver tongue.”

  Accuson swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his tongue for the first time.
“I…”

  “I have spoken. It cannot be undone.” The One held out his hand over the table. The world upon it stopped. The clouds hung motionless, the seas became still. Time was no more. The One rose from his throne, grasping Accuson by his robes. “You were one of my chosen,” the One said softly, without malice or hate. “I gave you high office. I trusted you, and you abused that trust for your own gain. But what have you gained?” Accuson wanted to look away, to not gaze into the face of the One, but he could not resist the countenance of his lord. Accuson trembled, his knees buckling beneath him, his wings hanging limp at his sides. “You and all those that have been beguiled by your tongue will now join you. They will learn to eat dust and crawl on their bellies. You have had your time in my courts; now you can hold court of your own.”

  The floor opened beneath Accuson, revealing a maw filled with down-turned teeth preventing any re-entry into the heavenlies.

  “Farewell my child.” The One released Accuson, dropping him through the maw to the unsuspecting world below. Then, turning to the east the One called out, “Come beast of bones. Come feast upon the outcasts of heaven. Go unto the world below and there slumber until your time is come.”

  The maw closed silently.

  The One turned his attention to the table where a speck of light, much brighter than the last, fell toward a vast continent, chased by a shadow the breadth of a nation and the depth of a sea. The shadow caught up with the speck of light, batting it like a ball. The light hurled toward the land below, burning with the fury of a comet fleeing across the night sky. It struck the face of the earth with a deafening blow, sending up a cloud of debris high into the static clouds. Specks of light began to rain down all over the map as Accuson's rebellion was expelled from heaven.

  edge of darkness

  "Fire is seductive, Dekor, beware of the lust for the flame." Magnus, the Archmage of Belgor, held the ball of glowing fire in his right palm as he spoke. "Fire has a beauty that beguiles the beholder. It dances like a maiden, full of virtues, but bites like an adulterous harlot. To be caught in her embrace will end in death, for though she is both beautiful to look at and inviting to touch, she cannot be truly tamed and will surely burn the beholder."

  Dekor watched the tiny flames within the glowing orb. They were beautiful, enchanting and they danced enticingly, writhing with exotic rhythms.

  "How is it held so neatly, my lord? I see the beauty of the flame and sense its pull, but how do you control the fire?"

  "Many years of patience and a good few burns," Magnus chuckled. "Do you still remember the time when you first held the frost within your grasp?"

  Magnus closed his hands together extinguishing the orb of fire in a soft blue poof.

  "Yes, I do my lord. I also remember the time I first summoned water and lightning; I can still smell my hair burning every time I think about it."

  For his teenage years, Dekor was a highly accomplished mage. He had shown exceptional promise from an early age, discovering his gift while on a hunting trip for forest wolves, whose pelts were particularly plush.

  Trenor, his father, had cornered a young wolf. As he was knocking an arrow Dekor spotted an adult wolf to his father's flank. Had he not reached out, tapping his mana, his inner magic essence, his father and most likely himself too would have been the wolf's next meal. In his mind, Dekor saw the wolf bound in ice and, sure enough, thrusting out his hand the air around the creature crystallized and spat a blast of ice shards, freezing the hapless animal's limbs into an icy block. Without thinking, Dekor sprang forward, drew his short sword from its sheath and slew the animal before it could even cry out. By the time his father had strung his second arrow, Dekor had made his first kill.

  Dekor was held in high esteem by his father and those in Stedd, his village. As the months passed, his powers grew. Of course, there were setbacks. But the excitement that the powers gave Dekor drew him deeper into the ways of the mage. As rumors of his prowess spread, it came as no surprise when he received his invitation into the Mage Guild in Belgor, and from none other than Magnus himself, one of the most respected battlemages in all of Mor. Magnus was well known for the many battles he had fought against the horde in the north and across the Churning Seas to Narelzbad. Many sought his counsel. And so Dekor became the youngest acolyte ever to enter the University of Elements.

  Dekor learned the ways of the mage with exceptional speed, gaining a deep understanding of the workings of mana. He discovered early on that the secret to knowledge was in listening to his peers and mentors: he learned how to analyze their teachings to reveal the deeper powers within each elemental class. He spent three years learning to master the disciplines of frost and water, and a further two years to bridle the edge of lightning. Now, at only eighteen years of age, Dekor had at last been shown fire, and for the first time Magnus cautioned him regarding its use.

  "With fire come many disciplines, the key one being lust," Magnus warned.

  "Lust? I do not understand." Dekor looked deep into his master's eyes for any hidden clues.

  "The discipline of fire is the most dangerous. When you first conjured frost you felt nothing but excitement as the portion of your brain that holds your mana was unleashed. It is always an environmental ability that comes first. All disciplines must be learned with respect to each power that they unleash. But fire brings pleasure. It enraptures and seduces. Think of the moth. No moth can resist the pull of the flame. It loses all self regard when caught in its allure and will fly unto its death, consumed by its desire. You must learn to control your emotions when using fire, that is why we strongly discourage it and even wrote it into our law." Magnus paused, searching for the right words. "Lust can master even the strongest mage. It can take you right into the heart of the demonic and ultimately on to the path of the warlock. As a mage, its use must be constrained as it is all consuming. No mage or warlock can control every discipline of fire. There is a hidden fire, not found through learning, coming at a great cost; it is the inner fire found on the pathway to holiness. It is not for mages or for the evil deceit of warlocks, neither can it be called upon by the druids. Inner fire is for the holy, and there it remains."

  "Why?" Dekor enquired. "Have I not proven myself enough for this holy way? Must I come so far only to be cheated of my full potential?"

  "Young Dekor." Magnus reached out to Dekor, grasping his shoulders firmly. "You are not being cheated out of your potential. Even I cannot tap the inner fire. All of my life I have sought to serve the Divine Order of the Six, but the inner fire is still not mine. I have trusted and prayed and bled for my masters, but still the fire that I crave the most is not mine. Perhaps it is a myth or only attained upon ascension or in the crossing over. I have never sought to teach you the ways of the Divines as it is not for me to be your guide among the spirits. After all, the gods are there for our choosing. Perhaps you can reach out to whatever gods you worship and beseech them for the inner fire. But I cannot teach you. I would never withhold such a thing from you, especially not today. Not on your promotion to battlemage." Magnus smiled at Dekor, watching his countenance change from disappointment to wonder.

  "Battlemage!"

  Magnus continued to smile at Dekor.

  "You mean I am ready?"

  "Indeed you are. Your father taught you well about the ways of the wild and how to wield a weapon with competence. In class, you have clearly demonstrated time and again your understanding of how to support warriors and protect the healers. You have learnt how to counter the stealth of a thief and how to enhance your skills with alchemy and potions. I consider you to be more capable than any acolyte currently in the University. You are more than ready to face the horde, Dekor."

  Magnus led Dekor from the training room into a larger hall where his peers waited in silence under the watchful eye of War Master Garrant, who signaled for them all to rise. Garrant bowed to Magnus, lifting the small lectern aside as he took up his place to the right of his master.

  Magnu
s turned Dekor to face him. "Dekor of Stedd, do you accept the promotion to the rank of battlemage and all of the responsibilities that accompany it?"

  Garrant took the sword from inside the lectern and presenting it to Magnus he said, "My lord. The arms of the house of Stedd." Garrant stepped back turning to face the gathered mages.

  Dekor swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

  "I accept the honor my lord."

  Dekor placed his hand upon the hilt of the sword Magnus held before him, noting the coat of arms his village would bear. Dekor straightened his shoulders and declared, "May the Divine Order be my guiding light and may my life be given to the greater good of Alzear. May I spill the blood of my enemies as I serve and protect the lives of the good citizens of this great and glorious land of Alzear."

  Standing proudly at attention, with his right hand over his heart and his left hand holding high the blade of the battlemage, Dekor took his place amongst the elite of Alzear. Cries of adoration and joy resounded around the dense stone walls as Dekor turned to receive the congratulations from his brothers in arms. Soon his skills would be tested for real in the heat of battle against the Horde in the north.

  The lust of the flame

  At nightfall, Dekor was not to be found in the company of his fellow officers but in the hands of the temptress. He had to master fire. He wished to enter battle with every possible power at his disposal.

  The University of Elements, the home of the Mage Guild, was situated in the central lowlands of Mor. The High Tower stood in the central courtyard. From its top it was possible to see across the entire region as far as Drakeshire in the south, across the river Tibus and over westward to the coast. To the east, where the dwarves lived, the Dark Iron Hills broke up the soft horizon, while to the north were the teetering peaks of the Dragon's Teeth, the mountains bordering Meregith.

  Dekor left the University and headed out through the towering stone gates of the city toward the north, where the Eerie Mines beckoned him. The interior of the mines glowed with hazy phosphorescence, tinged with the blue glow of the algae and lichens lining the dripping walls. It was once a rich source of copper until an unfortunate incident with an apprentice alchemist left the mine useless for further exploitation. It had become impossible for humans to work in the mine for prolonged periods of time as the lichens would permanently stain the skin with their glowing light. The mines were, however, an extremely convenient place to practice the arts of the mage, as no one cared how many hatchlings and rats were killed.

  Dekor had brought along plenty of spring water to drink to keep his mana refreshed. Training new skills in this way could rapidly deplete mana, leaving a mage weary and vulnerable. Most mages wore dense woven fabrics, enchanted to increase their defense and effectiveness in battle. Melee was not the realm of a mage – warriors were the strength in battle. Dense armor blocked the flow of mana; only the most powerful of battle-hardened mages wore heavier armor and even then they would specialize in a single discipline of magic and have their armor attuned to their abilities. Dekor wore his old robes, ones which he had enchanted with a reflective spell capable of repelling some of the damage from both melee and magical attacks.

  Drawing his new blade from its sheath he stepped into the mine. Dekor closed his eyes, drawing his focus inwards, searching with his mind for whatever lay ahead. He could sense the scratching claws of a hatchling, but not a large one; these were merely children compared to those roaming the Dark Iron Hills or lurking in the forests of Learmont. These hatchlings were knee high to an adult human, but they could still deliver a painful bite and they were often found in large numbers. This one was alone.

  He walked silently across the soft lichen floor of the mine, rounding the corners as wide as possible. Switching the blade into his left hand he began visualizing a layer of frost around the hatchling. The spider hatchling tried to run, as if sensing a coming danger, but was slowed by the numbing cold. Now Dekor thought about fire – nothing much, just a tiny glowing ball in the palm of his hand. With his attention diverted, the frost blanket began to warm and fade freeing the hatchling from its grasp. The picture of fire was working; Dekor marveled at the fist-sized ball of blue flames sitting in the palm of his hand. Entranced by the flame, he had forgotten why he was there.

  Dekor caught the reflection of the hatchling in the iridescent surface of the fireball and instinctively cast it at the hatchling. The sphere struck the hatchling's head; it squealed as the fire erupted over its body reducing it to a whirl of sizzling flesh. Dekor prepared a second fireball. Casting it at the creature, the hatchling erupted into a cloud of charred viscera. Elated with his victory and the success of conjuring fire, Dekor whooped with joy, punching the air in a gesture of triumph. A triumph short lived.

  From deep in the mine came the sound of a thousand clawing feet.

  "Oh no," Dekor cried, "fire! It attracts the creatures that dwell in the darkness. How could I have forgotten?"

  Eyes, thousands of tiny red eyes, glowered in the darkness as the hatchlings came swarming over the walls, floor, and ceiling. Dekor's eyes flicked around the mine, from the hatchlings on the floor to those on the ceiling and walls; an image of a wall of flame painted itself across his mind. Without warning, fire erupted from his chest tearing into the advancing mass of hatchlings. The fire consumed everything in its path – lichens, algae, fungal spores, hatchlings and rats – absolutely everything until all of its energy had been dissipated. Dekor turned and fled, his mana all spent in a single blast. Tugging the water skin from around his waist, he poured the refreshing liquid down his eager throat, quenching his thirst and restoring his mana. He stumbled from the mine.

  By the time he reached the city gate, the night had given way to dawn. He passed by the bemused guards who watched his passing with a smile. Upon reaching his quarters, he sat heavily on the edge of his bed, laughing as he caught sight of his blackened face and singed hair in his dressing mirror. He would only have time for a short sleep before he would have to rise again to begin his first day as a battlemage.

  It only took a second for him to fall into a deep sleep. His dreams were filled with images of his new love and the beauty of her form. The soft allure of the fire drew him in, enclosing him in her flickering fingers, until he was caught. Lust filled his heart, a desire he would have to overcome or forfeit his soul.

  For Dekor, the morning came all too soon. This was the first time he was ever late for class and this, his first day as an officer.

  "Out celebrating, were we?" Garrant, the War Master, gripped Dekor by the shoulder shaking him affectionately. Garrant was immense, an old-school warrior who had found his mage powers in the heat of battle. They had saved his life countless times since. Towering over Dekor by almost two feet he was intimidating, to say the least, "Don't be embarrassed, son, we all go overboard now and again. I was missing for two whole days when I first got promoted." Dekor managed a smile. "That's the spirit lad. Never be downhearted, it will rob you of your confidence. Once your enemy sees that, you'll be overrun in a moment."

  Garrant turned to face the others, his armor clanking heavily.

  "Men," he began, eying the ranks of the assembled battlemages, "in a few moments we will be opening a portal to Meregith where we will be joining a small group of warriors in the northern territory. Stay close together as we do not wish to lose anyone. Dekor here," he dragged the boy forward to his side, "will be with me. I'm sure most of you will have heard of him, who hasn't, eh?"

  There was a round of greetings and hearty welcomes for Dekor as it was not often someone of his caliber would become a battlemage. Most of the gifted mages would normally be taken into the training rooms in Castle Thraw, where they would work on advanced field tactics and the arcane arts. Magnus had chosen to send Dekor into battle where he would learn to put his academic training to use, something Dekor himself had long desired.

  "Each of you is to pair up with a warrior." Garrant had no time for the support classe
s like priests and druids. As much as he respected their abilities to keep his men alive and cause chaos on the battlefield, he would rather have a sword at his side. "The School of Light, bless them, will be sending their people to keep us all shielded from the dark arts. Prepare yourselves for battle. Erastus, open the portal to Garnet Ford."

  "Sire." Erastus turned and, taking an iron ring from his backpack, he placed it on the ground before stepping into its center. "Garnet Ford." There was a moment's pause, then, "Behold!"

  Dekor stood speechless, unaware Garrant was watching him. Erastus spread out his arms; it was scarcely possible to make out his form in the shimmering haze emanating from his body. All around him a gently rippling window opened. It was now possible to see the land of Meregith on the other side. Those at the front of the line began to advance through the portal, casting an aura of protection over themselves as they went.

  "Now is the time, Dekor. Stay with me and watch all that I do. I will be too busy to explain as I go, but I will answer all your questions later. Come, let us fight for Alzear."

  Garrant placed his hand on Dekor's back and eased him through the portal.

  On the other side lay Meregith. Dekor was suddenly far from home.

  "Protect yourselves at all times," commanded Garrant. "Though we will have healers with us, you must always be on your guard. The enemy may look stupid, but they are not. If you are faced with an anghoos, troll or, Divines forbid, an ogre, hit them with something to slow them down and get out of there fast. They are brutes and will tear you apart. Leave the big stuff to the warriors. I want you to be on the lookout for shamans. Take down their totems and drain their strength. Stick close and may the Divines be with us."

  Garrant gave out his orders, breaking the battlemages into squads with warriors, druids, and priests.

  "I want your group to cut through that small wood over there and flush out whatever is in there. I can detect only a few beings hidden in the center, but be careful. This group, I want you to go through the village and make sure it is clear. I want your group to flank to the east and clear the ridge. The rest of us will cut through the center, all of you are to drive the horde back through the cutting, then we can seal it off and keep the horde in their own lands."

  "For Alzear!" A loud shout reached into the heavens as the groups spread out across the battlefield uttering their war cry. Dekor watched the units disappearing then reappearing about fifty yards further on.

  "How is that possible?" Dekor asked, pointing toward the group nearing the woodlands. "They keep disappearing."

  "It's a druid trick, saves a lot of time and energy for the group; it can also get us behind the enemy unnoticed if a high druid is with you," Garrant replied. "Now focus on the battle."

  The village of Garnet Ford was devoid of life, the inhabitants, simple farmers, had fled at the first sighting of the horde invaders and raised the alarm. The same went for the rolling farmland where Dekor ran with Garrant and the main body of troops. A few pocrinds were dotted here and there, but nothing of any real challenge, and most were dispatched as they ran past. When they all regrouped at the cutting, Garrant gathered the reports of each squad as it arrived, quickly realizing this had only been an exploratory party.

  "You were right War Master," the captain began, "there were only a few life forms present. We found a band of eight pocrinds, encamped at its center. Well equipped as they were, the pocrinds were no match for the trained men of Mor. The mages began the assault by blanketing the entire campsite with a numbing frost, whilst the druids brought up the roots of the surrounding trees to bind the pocrinds where they sat. Then the warriors charged in, swords drawn, and the eight pocrinds were soon dispatched to oblivion. We ran on through the woodland, but there was no further resistance." The captain saluted and stepped aside.

  "And what of your group?" Garrant addressed the northern group leader from among his men.

  "Sire, it was much the same for my men. We swept along the foothills of the ridge. There were only a few groups of pocrinds spotted around. We were surprised, however, to find a troll among the pocrinds, seeing as the two have such a love for each other. I suppose it saved the troll having to find anything to eat.” He smirked “It must have sensed our approach and roused the pocrinds, but it was no real bother. We cut through the pocrinds with ease, leaving the troll to fend for itself. I did notice that it had some immunity to the mages' frost, possibly it came from the edge of the icy tundra. Definitely not from the Thorn. The men surrounded it, getting in close enough to cut through the back of its heels and bring it down to our level. After that there was nothing more."

  Garrant's eyes narrowed as he looked down the valley to the cutting. The sun had slipped beyond the top of the ravine shrouding it in dark shadows.

  "They must be planning something big. Trolls running with pocrinds are a concern. It is not like them to be in the same vicinity as each other. They hate each other as much as I hate them. Is the cutting clear?"

  "Sire," Domina the lead scout approached Garrant, "all is clear, though there are signs of other hordes. There is evidence of trolls and… something else, but I'm not sure what it is." She handed a small object to Garrant.

  Garrant turned the item over in his palm, poking it with his finger.

  "A bone? Perhaps it is something. I'll get this to Arrborn as soon as we return. Thank you, Domina."

  "Warlock!" came a warning cry from a smoldering mage staggering from the gloom of the cutting, closely followed by a terror sprite floating above the ground behind him. Another fireball engulfed the young mage throwing him forwards. The priests gathered around the stricken mage and began praying for him.

  "Take positions." Garrant swung into action, casting an aura of protection over the assembled forces. "Dekor, hold your position, you are to observe only."

  Garrant pointed to a fallen boulder. Dekor darted behind the boulder, one hand upon the hilt of sword, the other held close to his chest.

  "He lives, my lord," the priest rose from his prayer. "He will be back in action in a short while."

  Garrant waved the priest aside. "Druids, if the warlock tries to run bind it. Mages, keep any fire dowsed. Warriors, to battle. Spread out and wait for it to come out into the open. It won't be expecting us. Wait for my call before you attack."

  The warlock came out of the cutting, his hands crackling with fire. A terror sprite, floating on a broiling black mist hung malevolently at its master's side; its red eyes, two burning coals, glowered as it scanned the way ahead.

  Dekor watched closely to see how Garrant would manage the warlock. Dekor only knew of warlocks from what he had learned in his arcane history lessons. As he expected, the warlock had a pet demon by its side. The demonic pets would attack their enemies while their masters bombarded them with fire and bolts of dark shadow to cast fear upon weak minds. He knew not to underestimate a warlock and never to pity one. Warlocks were an evil demanding destruction.

  "So the little mage has a friend, does he?" the warlock cackled, powering up his fire until its hands were engulfed in raging red fire. "I will burn you as well, fool. I have no time for weak-minded mages."

  The warlock loosed a volley of fireballs toward Garrant, who deftly stepped through them as if he were fording a river on stones.

  Garrant had succeeded in keeping the warlock's attention upon him. It had not sensed the others. He had relied on the arrogance of the horde; they were always sure of themselves, confident they could not be defeated. Warlocks were especially so as they had control over demons and their souls were consumed by the flames.

  "Bring it on warlock, so I can rid this place of your foul stench." Garrant continued advancing on the warlock.

  "I'll drain your soul in an instant and devour your flesh for my supper." The warlock launched a fireball at Garrant who instinctively blocked it with an ice wall. "Go my pet." Pointing at Garrant, it commanded the demon to fight while he conjured more fire.

  Garrant drew his blade, then,
taking a small pouch from his belt, he wiped it along the sword's edge. He ran at the demon, calling down a freezing shower over the warlock, dowsing his flames. Whoever this warlock was, it was obvious to Garrant it lacked any fighting experience.

  The demon drew close, charging up its own powers, dark fire spitting from its fingers. A terror sprite could feed upon its enemy's fears, gaining strength as it did so. If a warrior engaged such a sprite then its master would be free to unleash a barrage of hate-fuelled wrath. Garrant was no stranger to demons, especially not these filthy sprites. With a swipe of his blade the demon fell screaming to the ground, trying desperately to close the gaping wound in its chest. Garrant stood over the sprite striking it again, but not fatally.

  He turned his attention back to the warlock.

  "What now, warlock? Your pet is stricken and you cannot summon another. By the time you can dispatch this one and get the next to come, you'll be tasting my blade."

  The warlock, stepping back, looked up at the overhanging rock, cackling as it drew its hands to its chest. Closing its eyes, it began to visualize a wall of fire in its mind.

  Garrant slipped a dagger out from his sleeve and threw it, hidden within a lightning ball. The warlock's mouth fell open. It could feel the heat in its chest, but it dare not look down and lose its concentration. The pain was burning deeper. Trapped, its pet stricken, mana draining fast, the warlock opened its mouth to curse Garrant, but it could think of nothing, pain consuming its every thought. Flames erupted all over the warlock's body turning it into a blazing torch.

  Dekor was the first to break cover, amazed at how easily Garrant had taken down the warlock by himself. He knew none of the others had helped him as the protection aura was still on them, though faint. Dekor stood in awe of the War Master, but the illusion was broken for him when Garrant doused the flames on the warlock. Dekor was expecting him to dispatch the creature to the dark void where it belonged.

  In the temporal stillness, Garrant's growling tone could be heard.

  "Who are you, warlock, and from where do you hail?" he demanded, tracing his blade in a line along a deep scar down the side of the goblin's face, until the end of his sword was pressing against the warlock's throat.

  "I am Gestorn of Gnell. Do what you must, human, or die like the filth that you are," the goblin spat, turning its head toward its dying pet.

  "What are you doing here together with pocrinds and trolls?" Garrant pressed the blade a little harder.

  "You will find out soon enough," Gestorn rasped through his burned out larynx. His black tongue flicked out over his blistered lips.

  "You bore me," declared Garrant, thrusting the blade forward and ending the warlock's agony.

  The next thing he did surprised Dekor; Garrant proceeded to search the warlock for loot. Dekor had never taken anything in his life and did not expect others to do so from the dead.

  "What do we do now?" Dekor asked Garrant, looking down at the dead terror sprite.

  "We close the cutting and head for home." Garrant knelt down beside the terror sprite and cut out its teeth. "These will come in useful," he said, tucking them into his pocket. "Bring down the walls and close this place up. And make sure that this time it is done properly." Garrant glared at the druids.

  Dekor noted the change in Garrant's character since the fight with the warlock. He would not mention this now since it was neither the right time nor his place to question his commanding officer.

  Together the mages and druids combined their powers to collapse the walls of cutting, thus closing off the only direct path for the horde into Meregith. There was yet another way for them to get into the lands of men, but it would take more than a lone warlock and a handful of horde to breach the defenses of Castle Thraw. For now Meregith was safe and the people of Garnet Ford could return to their homes.

  an uninvited guest

  The walls of the Great Hall of the University of Elements were draped with many pendants, flags, and ornate tapestries depicting the famous battles of Alzear. There was much pride in the Mage Guild as they considered themselves the elite of society and they were not afraid to let it be known. Among the displayed finery were the paintings of the great heroes of the Guild, those long departed and now part of the lore of Alzear. Dekor rested closely behind Garrant who sat in the inner circle of high-backed chairs facing the crystal throne of the Archmage. Behind each of the War Masters sat their respective officers, decked out in their battle dress. Dekor sat quietly stewing at his lack of involvement in combat, and also at Garrant's looting of the fallen. The last to enter the room and take his place amongst the hierarchy was a dwarf priest whose age was uncertain, but he was certainly no apprentice. The priest, dressed in muted blue robes, carrying nothing more than a gnarled wooden staff, took up his place on a wooden stool to one side of the elders.

  Magnus rose to address those present. "Greetings Guild members and elders of Alzear. I have called you all here to report on our recent encounters with the horde in Meregith. The most recent skirmishes all have one thing in common: there seems to be an alliance forming between the various horde factions. We have found trolls with pocrinds and goblins with banes, notably blood banes. This is indeed a worrying discovery. I have searched through the annals of the Mage Guild and cannot find any records of such a thing happening before. Yes Dekor, what is your question?"

  Magnus signaled Dekor to rise and address the whole assembly.

  "My lord," he began, sensing all eyes were upon him. He felt his spirit rise, drawing upon this moment of glory. "As you well know, this was my first time in battle. I know little of horde history. Could you please explain to me why this is significant and what the presence of a 'warlock' would mean in these circumstances?"

  The temptation to ask about Garrant's looting was almost too strong to resist, but for now, he held his tongue.

  "A good question Dekor, but one that should really be asked of your War Master. But I will answer you." Magnus thought for a moment. With his left hand gripping the collar of his cape he continued, "Throughout history each faction of the horde has always fought alongside its own kind. Ogres would never walk with pocrinds as they would have a tendency to eat them, as indeed would goblins. The anghoos or, as some would call them, minotaurs, would not fight alongside anyone as they are somewhat elitist. However, the presence of a goblin warlock that is the projection of its master is of the greatest concern. They can only be the result of much deeper, darker magic. There is no telling what manner of evil is afoot beyond the borders of our lands if goblins have become versant in the magic of warlocks. As for the warlock's appearance at the cutting," Magnus half-laughed, "well, it is unusual to see one without an army before it. They have a similar role to our commanders. But this recent goblin is something entirely different. As I have said, halflings are the result of dark magic, beyond even the wretchedness of a warlock. Whatever made these things is something we have never encountered before. To be capable of creating warlocks from beings that do not usually possess mana is unheard of. Few of the horde have the depth of spirit required to generate sufficient mana. To be a threat, a high level of intelligence is required. They are usually found on the fringes of battles throwing loose bolts of energy into the affray, frequently striking their own kind. In the encounter, with the warlock in the cutting, further evidence of dark magic has been discovered. Arrborn," Magnus gestured toward the priest, "will soon be given the artifact in the hope that he can cast some light on the matter. I am quite sure, with his extensive experience, he will soon have an answer for us. I hope that answers your question, Dekor?"

  Magnus returned to his seat. "The floor is open to discussion. Has anyone anything further?" There was a general shuffling of feet, but no questions were tabled. "Good, then return to your duties and prepare yourselves for whatever may lie ahead." Magnus closed the meeting.

  Dekor shifted uneasily in his chair. Perhaps he should just ask Garrant straight out about his actions in looting the warlock, afte
r all it was the right thing to do. All questions of the battlefield are to be asked of the War Master, not of the Archmage. His father had always told him, "If something is troubling you, spit it out. Stewing over things will always lead to a troubled heart which will only lead to darker things."

  Dekor sighed inwardly and his head drooped, contemplating Garrant's wrath for his impudence. He rose quietly from his chair, slipping among those already leaving the Great Hall. Dekor dragged his feet while keeping his head low, allowing his brothers in arms to pass him by, many of them eager to return to their training. Just through the doorway, out of sight behind the heavy oak door, Dekor paused, waiting. He could hear Magnus talking to Garrant.

  "War Master Garrant," Magnus called, "do you have a moment?"

  Dekor seized his opportunity to slip quietly away.

  "You look somewhat downcast, is there anything the matter?" Arrborn circled around behind Garrant who was muttering quietly under his breath.

  "My lord?" Garrant stood before Magnus unable to hold his gaze, his shoulders sagging. "I… I," he stuttered, unable to form his words. His teeth clenched tightly together, he snarled, lunging toward Magnus.

  Arrborn thrust his arms upward calling out, "In the name of the One, I command you to release this man and show yourself!"

  Garrant froze mid-step, his head turning around to face Arrborn.

  "I said leave." Arrborn locked eyes with Garrant who growled, gnashing his teeth at him. "Now!"

  Garrant shrieked, thrown to the floor as a dark shape left his body.

  "Priest," the shape hissed with disgust, "what do you want of me?"

  "Who are you, demon?" Arrborn demanded swinging his staff into the demon's throat, trapping it with its holy charge.

  "I am Wreckor, creator of havoc. I know you, priest." The creature grabbed at the staff, instantly becoming ensnared by its holy power. It began to scream in agony as the holy light began dissolving its limbs. "What manner of evil is this?" the demon cried, struggling all the more to be free of its torment.

  "To hell with you," commanded Arrborn, and with a flick of his staff the demon was engulfed with a pure white light. "You are now free, War Master Garrant. Rise before another more vile spirit takes its place."

  Arrborn offered the end of his staff to Garrant to help him to his feet. The instant he took hold of it, the same white light smothered Garrant.

  "Be clean," Arrborn commanded, cleansing Garrant from the demon's power.

  "I cannot thank you enough," Garrant gasped. Clambering up he turned to Magnus. "I am sorry, I had no idea I had become possessed."

  "It does not matter, you could not have known. It was Arrborn who spotted the problem. It is he you have to thank."

  "Thank you Arrborn, I am in your debt." Garrant gave the sign of heart-felt thanks by placing his right hand over his heart, then showing an open hand to Arrborn as though he were presenting with him his heart.

  "Did you bring something back with you from Garnet Ford?" the priest asked. Garrant put his hand into his pocket and gave the small bone piece to Arrborn.

  "As I thought,” observed Arrborn, examining it, “the warlock was not a true goblin. It was merely a projection."

  "How do you mean?" Magnus looked at Arrborn as he held the tiny bone fragment up between his thumb and forefinger.

  "This bone ..." he hesitated then, without looking up, added, "this is a private conversation, young officer. You would do well to leave."

  There was the sound of hurried footsteps outside the door as the mystery listener fled from the room.

  "This bone is a fingertip of a halfling. What it looks like is a goblin-wraith but I cannot be sure. There is something unnatural about it. Was there a foul odor with the warlock, more than is normal with such a being?"

  "Yes there was, everyone smelt it."

  "They must have placed this in the cutting at some other time so the warlock could use it like a portal to draw himself across to it. Dark magic indeed! Normally it would take the power of four warlocks to open a temporal portal. But in this way a single warlock can travel between two places just by leaving a piece of its own bone near where it wishes to be. At least that's how I believe it to be. Dark magic is not something that I ever wish to be involved with."

  "Could it now come here?" Magnus was horrified. "Right into the Great Hall?"

  "Not anymore. The demon needed to create the channel has been cast out. Garrant here had unwittingly become host to it. But otherwise, yes it could come to wherever the bone piece lies."

  Arrborn handed the bone to Magnus.

  "Is there anything we can do to stop the spell from working? We cannot allow for any such things to get into this place or any other cities in the Alzear; the consequences of such things do not bear thinking about." Magnus turned the bone over in his hand. "It looks so harmless, it could quite easily be picked up whilst gathering spoils. Hmm." He raised his eyebrows at Garrant.

  "Indeed, my lord," laughed Garrant.

  "A quick bath in holy water will soon cleanse the item. Properly sanctified the owner will soon learn that his little secret has been discovered." Arrborn took a goblet of water from the table and Magnus dropped the bone fragment into it. Arrborn put his finger into the water proclaiming, "Be sanctified."

  He offered the goblet back to Magnus who screwed his face up in disgust. Lying in the bottom of the goblet was a grizzled finger.

  "As I suspected, a goblin. Was the warlock, by any chance, missing a finger?" Arrborn asked Garrant then turned to Magnus. "I think perhaps you should think again about what the horde might be capable of." He raised an eyebrow at him.

  "Dolomire," said Magnus, gesturing toward a tall man waiting patiently toward the rear of the chamber.

  "Sire." The mage appeared before Magnus, his hawkish features testament to many years of service. "What is it that you that you wish, my lord?" He nodded politely to Arrborn.

  "Take this to the castle and see you what you can divine from it." Shuddering, he dropped the grizzled finger into Dolomire's palm, waving him away. Dolomire bowed politely then vanished.

  "There is much to be done," Arrborn mused, grumbling into his thick beard.

  the goblin king

  "It burns, it burns! What evil is this?" Gestorn squealed, holding his smoldering hand out for all to see.

  His long green ears poked out beneath the brim of the filthy felt hat flopping about on top of his head as he jumped from one foot to the other, screaming all manner of curses.

  "The warlock said it was safe! No one could get hurt. Liar! It burns."

  He fled screaming from the cave clutching his left hand to his chest, his large bare feet slapping on the cold stone floor as he ran with a loping gait. The remaining apprentice goblins cackled with laughter as they returned to their business.

  The mountain goblins of Gnell were taller than their lowland cousins, possessing a higher level of intellect that gave them the advantage over many of their horde counterparts when it came to the arcane arts. Mana was directly linked to intelligence: the higher the mental capacity, the greater the mana. Most members of the horde were brutish thugs with limited magical powers. Those of a higher intelligence among the horde were more often physically weaker and considered worthless. The cave goblins were all weak so they became the brains of the horde; cunning, devious, loathsome, and thoroughly untrustworthy, all attributes respected among horde leadership. Unlike other races the goblins never spoke of their plans in their entirety; trust was something they just did not have.

  Gestorn was considered a genius among the apprentice goblins as he could read. However, as with all goblins, pain was something he could not bear. Their pain threshold was low, so goblin children were best avoided as the slightest knock would have them howling. Gestorn had little tolerance for anyone, not even himself. Goblins in general had no time for failure as it cost precious money. Gestorn had been a successful trader, and still was if truth be told. He was also well respected among th
e horde in many lands having being traveled extensively. Not blessed with good looks (he was a goblin after all), his long downward-twisting nose hung in front of his mouth, itself a spike-rimmed cavern of the foulest breath. And he was always scratching, scratching at his constantly flaking skin.

  Gestorn stopped squealing and poked at the stub of his finger with the tip of his wand. He sighed, looking down at his long filth-stained robes. Shaking his head, he wandered out of the cave into the afternoon sun. Gestorn smiled ruefully surveying his world where, out across the silver pine forest toward the marshes of Lumn, the skitterlings snapped at each other over mates and food. The large reptiles were the favored mounts of the goblins as they were the nearest creature they could get to dragons.

  Gestorn looked down the mountainside to the valley where the more common vale goblins were practicing their magic and melee skills. An entire forest of giba trees appeared in Gnell, growing a healthy crop of goblins. Long slender branches sprouted from a bulbous base, each culminating in a single seedpod. It was in these pods Vargor had succeeded in growing the goblins. The harvested goblins however, were not independently sentient. When their masters were not controlling their minds, they would stand in a huddle facing each other, muttering incomprehensible gibberish.

  Vargor had discovered that when giba sap was injected into a goblin and its blood then injected back into the bulbous root of the same tree, the giba tree would produce clones of the goblin. Though they were far from perfect, they were more than adequately functional for war. This meant Vargor could train his warlocks faster and clone them, thus providing him with many more adept warlocks. Goblins were hatching all over Gnell; soon their numbers would be as great as the stars in the heavens and the specks of dust of the earth. They would be a plague of locusts across the land. The vale goblins ran in vast numbers across the open fields slashing away with their swords for all they were worth. What they lacked in skill they made up for in numbers. In all the battles the goblins had ever fought they had fallen in considerable numbers, but they always bounced back.

  Gestorn examined his hands, once more running his fingertips over the hardened gray skin. Picking off large, loose flakes he revealed the baby-soft green skin beneath. He turned his hands over, examining the deep lines crisscrossing his palms in filth-encrusted tracks. He dug a long grimy fingernail along one of the lines, scooped out the sticky ooze and scraped it off on one of his rotten peg teeth. He turned and went once more back into the dark embrace of the cave.

  Peering at Gestorn through narrowed eyes, Belfor sneeringly said, "You didn't die then?" Grinding the stone pestle hard into the mortar, wishing it was Gestorn's face, he cackled, "Thought we had lost you for a while there."

  "Silence, Belfor." Gestorn hurled a small fireball at Belfor, setting his hat and what precious little hair he had left on fire. The other goblins erupted into laughter, pointing at the suffering Belfor who dropped his mortar and pestle on the floor and ran screaming from the cave.

  "Back to work, all of you," Gestorn scorned, "or you'll be next."

  There was a sudden flurry of activity as the class returned to their studies. Satisfied his authority was restored, Gestorn returned to reading his book.

  In the king's chamber, Vargor paced uneasily along the length of the crystal walls. Cut deep into the heart of the mountain, the goblin caves closely resembled an ant colony with the king's chamber at its deepest point. The walls of the chamber were encrusted with diamonds, emeralds and many other precious stones; the cave goblins loved stones. Everything was made from stone; the tables were nothing more than rough-carved stone blocks with boulders draped with animal hides for seats. The floor was marked by pathways, worn smooth by the soft padding of goblin feet. There were no battle trophies, no bright silver or gold, no decorative carvings. Other than oil-burning torches ensconced in the rock walls, there were no aDornments anywhere.

  Vargor, the warlock troll, waited impatiently for the king to come. He hated waiting for these stinking creatures. It was bad enough having to deal with them as much as he did. He hated their smell and their ever-dripping noses. He hated their dark caves and their nasal voices. He hated goblins. Vargor only bothered with them because they possessed a modicum of magical ability. Had this not been so, he would simply have burned them all for his own amusement. He was still quite partial to feeding the odd one to Tharon, his pet, on the odd occasion; he saw it as an occupational hazard for the goblins.

  "The king approaches," announced the guard with complete indifference.

  Vargor ceased his pacing and took up a seat at the table nearest to the throne. The guard eyed Vargor with deep suspicion, a goblin's way of showing his respect. All of the goblins feared Vargor and not without reason. When they first met him, Gestorn had not told them of his powers. Goblins hated humans, and Vargor, being half-human, was human enough for them to hate him. In a typical moment of blood lust, the instant he stepped into the valley, the vale goblins rushed to greet him, swords drawn. A mistake they had never repeated. Vargor cast a rain of molten fire upon their ranks while Tharon flew among them, shredding their soft bodies with his long, cruel talons. Even Gestorn, who saved Vargor from death at the claws of the blood banes, was in awe of him. Never had he seen such a display of power anywhere. It was then Gestorn had decided to take the path of the warlock.

  "Vargor, my associate, how are things in the vale progressing?" The goblin king waved his escort away; no one was permitted to hear what transpired between the king and Vargor: no one. "I have heard that the army is now large enough to be tested against our enemies." The king took up his place on his throne, straightening his jewel-encrusted crown upon his knobbly head.

  "The numbers are sufficient, but their weapon skills are a long way from ready." Vargor stretched out his arms and yawning he said, "We need to find experienced warriors to train them, else they will be slaughtered."

  "Are goblins not worthy enough warriors to fight the human kind? Can we not conjure ice and fire like the mages of Mor? Must we always be seen as inferior to humans?" The king rose from his throne and walked over to Vargor, who cast a wary eye over the sentries guarding the only exit from the royal chamber. "Vargor, this is not good enough. You have been with us for more than a year, and still we have not fought a single battle. Yet you have taken pocrinds, trolls, and who knows what else against the humans. I mean POCRINDS! For the sake of the Divines, you favor those pigs over us!"

  "Saltorn," Vargor slipped from the table, standing to his full seven feet, "it is not a matter of favor. The pocrinds are better in battle than are your goblins."

  "It's 'majesty', Vargor, or 'highness' when we have company," the King scolded under his breath. "I will not be treated as common filth by such as you."

  Instantly the King backed away, aware he was overstepping the mark with Vargor.

  "Run!" Vargor shouted, pointing toward the guards, who ran screaming in terror, a blue vapor chasing after their heels. Turning to the king, he resumed. "I have tolerated your stench long enough. Saltorn, I will no longer take your impudence. You might wear a crown," he knocked it from the king's head with a flick of his wrist, "but you are no king. You lack courage and leadership. You are a spineless mass of filth that I will now scrape from my boot. If I say the army is not ready, then it is not ready. Do you understand?" He poked the king's head with his finger. "Has – that – sunk – in?" he asked, emphasizing the words with sharp jabs.

  "I ... I ... It was a moment of madness, Vargor. I'm sorry, forgive me." The king cowered before Vargor. "I meant nothing by it, just..."

  "I will be leaving a pet to watch over you while I'm gone. See to it that it does not get hungry. I will not stay in this filthy hole another second."

  Saltorn levitated from the floor, his feet dangling uselessly. He lifted his head slowly until he was eye to eye with Vargor. How he hated this. He could see his own terrified reflection staring back at him in Vargor's eyes, his face twitching uncontrollably. Vargor's eyes burned with
fire. His face looked as though it were carved from stone. Saltorn tried to look away, at anything, even Vargor's black hair or his dark blue backward-curving ears pinned tightly against the side of his head.

  "I have grown weary of you, Saltorn, too weary for words." Vargor looked deep into Saltorn's soul and began to drain it.

  "No. Please," Saltorn gasped. He could feel his skin drawing tight across his chest, his breath coming in wheezy gasps. "Vargor, I'll be good, I'll be good."

  Vargor dropped the king to the floor at the sound of approaching footsteps. Vargor held the king close to his side, and imitating Saltorn’s voice he called out into the room.

  "Ah, my goblins, my loyal goblins. Vargor is to be given full access to my throne for his enduring service to our people. He is to be honored as Monarch Elect. Go now and see that it is done."

  Saltorn could hardly stand. Still clutching at his chest he slumped into his throne. He wanted to say something to Vargor, but found speech was beyond him.

  "Why, thank you, your majesty. I accept this honor with the greatest humility. I trust I may serve your kingdom well."

  Vargor held out his arm, and curling his fingers into a nest, he began to call forth a creature of darkness. Saltorn could only look blankly on; his strength would not return this time. This was the furthest Vargor had delved into his soul, and Saltorn no longer knew who he was. Vargor had robbed him of his own being.

  "Farewell my king. I shall enjoy your throne."

  Vargor stepped out of the room leaving Saltorn with the newly summoned devourer.

  If it had been at all possible, Saltorn would have screamed, but by the time the royal guards had come to their senses, the devourer had returned to the darkness from where it had spawned. Vargor came in on cue, finding the shredded remains of the old king spread across the throne room.

  The royal scribe stood beside the throne holding the royal scepter. "It would appear the Divines have come for the king. Let it be known throughout the land that Vargor has become the king at his request. It is a sad day indeed in Gnell. Let this day be a day of mourning. Tomorrow we celebrate the new king."

  The next day the vale resounded to the cries of thousands upon thousands of goblins all crying out. "Long live the king. Long live the king. Vargor, Vargor."

  the road ahead

  Arrborn sat at the table silently running his fingers along the deep scratches in its surface, wondering what history was recorded by every wound. The waitress came over and placed his meal carefully down in front of him.

  "Will there be anything else, my lord?" she asked.

  Arrborn looked up at her with a warm smile spreading softly across his weatherworn face. He gently patted the girl's hand. "No thank you, my dear, I have all I require right here."

  He continued watching the young girl sashaying her way through the tables, tucking in the chairs as she went.

  Arrborn returned his attention to the matters at hand. "Are you not going to eat that, Garrant, my good fellow?" he asked, jabbing at Garrant's meal with his fork.

  "Aye, that I am, priest, and before you do!" Garrant raised his flagon to Arrborn's goblet. "To the Divines and victory."

  "To the One and his great mercy," echoed Arrborn, watching Garrant for a while as he began to shovel sizeable chunks of meat and vegetables into his mouth, before asking, "What do you make of the boy, Dekor?"

  Garrant quickly cleared his mouth with a gulp of mead. "He's a fine boy, bright, talented, and highly skilled in the magic arts. Why?"

  "No, I mean what do you make of him as a man? How would you say he was in regard to his peers? What do you think he will become?" Arrborn sipped his water thoughtfully. Clearly, he had something on his mind.

  "What are you digging at, Arrborn? This is not like you." Garrant straightened himself up in his chair, puffed out his cheeks, then continued. "Dekor is something of a loner. He never spends any time among his brothers in arms. He's usually got his nose in a book; I found him buried in old maps just a few days ago. Or he'll be out practicing his arts somewhere. It's what makes the boy different. I can see Dekor going on to great things. Certainly on to the higher ranks, most likely among the Council of Twelve. Though he is somewhat lacking in spirit, in a Divine sense of course."

  "I see something quite different. The other day, after the debriefing when we were dealing with your demon, Dekor was hiding behind the door. I also see a dark side to him. I have noticed the odor of fire upon him on several occasions. Have you been instructing him?"

  Arrborn put his cutlery on his plate and pushed it carefully to one side. He watched the little waitress as she weaved her way through the tables clearing the debris of another busy lunchtime. As she approached, she caught his gaze and bowed her head.

  "Tell me priest, what do you see in Dekor that I do not?" Garrant stifled a belch as he shoved his empty plate towards the waitress.

  Without removing his eyes from the young girl, Arrborn answered, "I see much difficulty. The boy has been playing with fire. He is also troubled by the looting of the fallen and seeks to prove his worth in battle. Watch yourself in the fields Garrant, the boy is unstable."

  "You're going crazy, old man. Too many hours spent on those famous calloused knees of yours. Perhaps you need to get drunk and see things differently!" Garrant reached across the table and gently punched Arrborn's shoulder.

  Arrborn, still looking directly at the waitress, queried, "And what about you princess, what are you going to be?" The young girl flushed but said nothing; nobody had ever spoken to her in such a generous way, no one except her mother. "I think you'll be just fine. You are going to have a wonderful son who'll grow up and protect this land from the horrors of the horde. What do you say?"

  "Leave the child alone, Arrborn," Garrant smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Next you'll be telling her she'll be living on the mountains in the company of dragons." Garrant roared, a raucous belly laugh shaking his whole body. Wiping the tears from his dark hazel eyes he leaned forward towards the girl. "It's Dorn, is it not?"

  "Yes sire, I am Dorn. My father is the keeper of this inn." She answered without looking at Garrant. Her eyes were still fixed on Arrborn and his enigmatic smile. "Do you always smile so much? I don't think I've ever seen such a smile before."

  "Indeed, my child." Arrborn rose from his chair and placed his right hand on Dorn's head.

  "Here we go," Garrant sighed, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise as he smoothed down his thick beard, picking out the crumbs from his meal.

  "My dear child, ahead of you lays a hard road. For your path in life has been predestined. Unto you a child will be given; to you a son is to be born and he will be called Emun. I cannot be with you through this time, but we will meet again. Hold these words close to your heart: the One is with you always, so call on him and he will answer you."

  Dorn looked up at Arrborn as the tears rolled down her soft skin. "I do not know the One. Why would he choose me?"

  Arrborn tenderly wiped the tears from her young face. "Though you may not know him, he has always known you. Why he chooses who he does only he knows. But soon you will come to know him." Already this young girl had a special place in Arrborn's heart, though it would be a long time until they would meet again.

  "Thank you. But to have a child when I am but still one myself," Dorn whispered, "such a thing is forbidden in Bethraim." Dorn looked down at her feet. "I need to get back to the kitchen now with these dishes."

  "Go my child. I'll be praying for you every day."

  "Can we go now?" interrupted Garrant. "All this soppy stuff is spoiling my dinner."

  "We are done." Arrborn gathered up his staff and his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder before pulling on his cloak and heading out into the evening light.

  "Why do you ride that thing? Can't you ride a horse like everyone else?" Garrant looked on Arrborn's mount with disgust. "Goats are for milking and eating."

  "Yakkob is no goat; he is a Talloran ram," answered Arrborn
patting the animal's neck with a firm hand. "Have you ever seen a goat the size of a horse? He is certainly as fast as your nag and able to carry more I'd wager. I'd also like to see you cross the Dragon's Teeth with a flea bitten ass like that." Arrborn laughed at Garrant, knowing the big man's arrogance was easily wounded. He shook his head. "Mages and their pride."

  "Hah!" Garrant pulled the reins tight in his hands. "Yah!" Spurring his destrier into life, it raced ahead. "I'll see you in Belgor, priest," he shouted over his shoulder. Garrant leaned forward closer to his horse's neck, spurring it harder, driving the horse down the cracked dirt track back to Belgor.

  Arrborn continued to plod along at a sedate pace. He looked back and seeing Dorn at the window he waved her goodbye. "How can you ever take in the wonder of life at such a speed?" he mused.

  In the twinkling of an eye Arrborn and his mount disappeared.

  a heart seduced

  Magnus stood on the balcony of the University tower watching out over the fields where he could see flashes of fire in the distance. He watched for some time as the flashes grew steadily closer to Belgor. Magnus left the tower and made his way out toward the city wall by means of the University's sewer. He was suspicious of Dekor dabbling in the dark arts, and this was his chance to prove his fears false or true.

  The labyrinthine sewer system was almost a city beneath the city. A world of its own complete with its own justice system, frequented by crooks and creatures alike. Belgor's thieves and the Brotherhood of Death were known to haunt its deeper reaches. Oil filled runnels, fed from vats above ground, provided light in the sewers for the city workers who, in truth, were nothing more than criminals sentenced to do their civic duty. The sewers themselves were generally clean. The whole system was driven by a fast-flowing underground river. At varying times, the waters would be rerouted down different channels ensuring all of the sewers were kept clean. Part of any guild training, be it mage, warrior, druid or priest, was to serve on the city's civil force helping to maintain law, order and cleanliness throughout the city. Walking the sewers and serving the community also taught many students a degree of humility. For most, however, the sewer duty was another opportunity to practice their arts, be it magic or melee.

  Magnus knew the sewers well, having spent many days mapping them as a youth during his early days in the guild. He had no qualms about being in the thick of it. Tonight he had no desire to be delayed so he strode through the sewers with haste along the raised walkways and over black iron sluices. With his blade in his right hand ready to strike, he moved swiftly to the outskirts of the city.

  Magnus slipped a ring onto his middle finger; it pulsed with a soft blue glow accentuating the ancient runes inscribed upon it. Magnus rotated the ring around his finger aligning the inscribed runes. Speaking in a low voice he recited ancient elven script to awaken the enchantment within it. He remembered with fondness the days he had spent studying the ancient elven tongue until he had mastered the eye of night enchantment. There were none, however, who understood the broader language of the elves. They were a people long since disappeared from the lands of Alzear. The elves were a secretive race, only taking up a seat on the Council of Twelve in order to watch over the lands of men.

  There was little Magnus did not know about the arcane rights and the riches of herbology. For those possessing the gift, potions were a powerful means of enhancing magic. Magnus often wore numerous rings with different properties, and this one enabled him to see in total darkness. There would be no surprises down here for him; his powers of life force detection were among the highest in the land.

  Turning one last corner into a breather pipe where fresh air was being drawn into the sewers, his journey through the under-city was almost complete. The end of the pipe was sealed with heavy iron bars mounted on a circular door locked from the outside with multiple locks. Reaching through the bars Magnus placed his hands over the locks. "Efafta," he whispered and the locks obeyed. He pushed the heavy door open just far enough to pass through and sealed it shut behind him. From where he had emerged, he could still see flashes of blue and yellow flames chasing through the woods. Moving quickly, he hoped to catch the perpetrator before he came within sight of the city guards. At least out here there were no patrols to worry about.

  With the eye of night still active on his finger, Magnus ran for the cover of the nearby trees where the shadows would hide him all the more effectively. From the shelter of a great oak, Magnus watched as the battling mage drew nearer. It was as he suspected: Dekor. Magnus sighing deeply, his chin upon his chest, ran a hand through his hair and wiped the tears from his eyes.

  "Oh, Dekor," he whispered to the night.

  Had none of warnings about fire sunk in? Magnus watched as Dekor cast bolt after bolt of blue and yellow fireballs into the dark woods behind him. When he saw what the boy was running from he laughed until he noticed Dekor fumbling with his belt, desperately trying to find a water skin, anything, to restore his mana. So many hatchlings were chasing him it would not be long before he was overwhelmed. Magnus raced across the forest floor with the agility of a deer, leaping old gnarled roots and fallen trees. Sheathing his sword he began drawing on his mana. There were hundreds of glowing hatchlings scuttling and bounding after Dekor, with more of them jumping through the trees leaving silken trails behind them.

  Launching himself from the trunk of a fallen tree Magnus raised his arms above his head. Electricity danced between his fingers, crackling around his forearms. Thrusting his hands out he discharged the pent-up energy. The lightning surged forward, killing the first hatchlings instantaneously. The lightening forked, divided, forked again then split over and over as it leapt from hatchling to hatchling, stealing their breath as easily as a thief slitting throats.

  Dekor stumbled. Tripping over an exposed root, he tumbled awkwardly to the ground. It was over; only a smoldering pyre of hatchlings remained. Magnus turned toward Dekor whose face was lost in shadow. Dekor clambered to his feet, tugging the water bottle from his belt, and then drank heavily from it. He trembled as Magnus approached, stepping purposefully over the exposed roots on which Dekor had tripped. Dekor quickly summoned a ball of bright yellow fire and hung it in the air as a light between them.

  "I warned you about the flames, Dekor," Magnus said through gritted teeth. "This," he waved a frosted hand at the floating ball of fire to bat it aside, "is not the way of the mage. This will not be tolerated from any member of the Mage Guild and especially not an officer. You will face disciplinary charges in the morning. You will spend the night in the cells pending your hearing."

  The light from the fireball reflected in Magnus's, eyes intensifying his gaze. Magnus stared at the boy through narrowing eyes. "Do you remember nothing of your history lessons? Warlocks are outlaws, their arts are evil. No one has ever returned from the warlock's path."

  "Archmage, I'm sorry, it's just..." Dekor stammered but could see there would be no bargaining with Magnus. This was serious. No one was allowed to summon fire without an adept, the risks were too high. Dekor had taken too many chances and risked causing public disgrace to the Mage Guild.

  Despondently, Dekor turned to leave. "I will see myself to the cells," he muttered, lowering his head while he moved his hand toward his sword.

  "You must believe me a fool, Dekor. I can no longer trust you to do as you say. Your heart has become blackened by the flames. It is like a devouring plague; every fireball you throw burns another callous on your heart. You care less and less about anything else. Your mistress waits by your door, a lioness ready to pounce. She already has her teeth in your hand and is leading you deeper down the pathway to oblivion."

  Dekor's nerves jangled at the tone of Magnus' voice. He stepped slowly backward. He wanted to run, but the taste of hatred upon his tongue fizzed enticingly. His fingers tightened upon the hilt of his blade. It was the moment when hatred stole the keys to his young heart, locking away all wisdom and compassion. He would not forgive the Archmage for t
his reprimand. In fact, Magnus was doing him a favor.

  A smile curled one corner of Dekor's mouth as he spun around and blasted Magnus with a wall of fire. Now he would have to run but first he would ensure the Archmage could not immediately follow after him. Quickly pulling his blade from its sheath, he thrust it through Magnus's midriff. Dekor watched his master drop to his knees, a hand clasping around the blade as he fell aside to the ground. Dekor stood frozen to the spot, his breath an irregular series of gasps. He had assaulted the Archmage! Now there was no way he would ever be accepted back. The Guild will string him up for sure. The penalty for taking another Guild member's life was death, but this was the Archmage. Death would not be enough: damnation would be his. His new mistress was calling to him from within his heart, “Finish him, and make sure he is dead!”

  Rolling the body over, Dekor fell to his knees and searched the body, taking the water bottle and enchanted cloak. Since he had not objected to Garrant's looting of the dead, then he could not object to this. He tugged at the rings on Magnus's fingers but could not overcome the soul binding. Dekor pulled his own cloak off and threw it aside. As he slipped on the Archmage’s cloak he could feel the power of the enchantments surging through him. He ran, euphoric on the rush of mana surging through his soul. Wrong as it might have been, he felt capable, powerful even. He had beaten Magnus, Archmage and leader of the Council. Now they were equal. He could have whatever he wanted; with this power he could rule Mor.

  "I'm sorry it had to end like this," Dekor sniffed.

  A light rain began to fall, quickly building into a heavy downpour. Dekor pulled the hood over his head and ran deep into the night. He skirted around the city keeping within the shadow of its walls until the main road cut across his path. He ran and ran, infused by the power of the Archmage's cloak and the lust for his mistress, on toward Bethraim. The rain continued to increase, falling harder until it became a grey blanket veiling the world. The road became too slippery underfoot, thick mud sapping his strength with every stride. Dekor slowed his pace to catch his breath, a wicked smile scarring his young face.

  Out of the gloom appeared a lone rider, galloping fast through the miry night toward Belgor. It splashed past him unaware of his presence. The destrier's nostrils billowed steam as it thundered by. The horse, spurred by its rider, pounded along, spattering mud all around. Dekor wiped the thick mud from his face, his mouth drawn tight, and his eyes narrowing to slits he turned around.

  There was no hope of the rider avoiding the trailing fireball as it roared up the road behind him. The first thing the rider was aware of was the sudden bright, glaring light. A heartbeat later he was lying on the ground engulfed in flames. Mercifully the heavy rain doused the fire before it could penetrate through his armor, but his horse had not fared so well. The poor beast now lay in a twisted heap of smoking flesh.

  Arrborn rose from the altar in the chapel where he had been praying and sat listening intently for the voice of the One. Outside Yakkob tugged hay from the rack above his empty food trough. Nothing could outrun a Talloran ram; once attuned to its master, the animal could portal to anywhere the rider knew.

  "Your friend, Magnus, is injured and in need of you," the still small voice of the One whispered to Arrborn's soul.

  "Magnus!" Arrborn leapt to his feet snatching up his bag and staff. The chapel door burst open as Arrborn came running through it into the courtyard. He whistled for Yakkob and the animal appeared in front of him with an excited bleat. Arrborn jumped onto Yakkob's back, and they both disappeared.

  Magnus lay on his side with his hand wrapped loosely around the blade of Dekor's sword. He cried aloud, "Where are you, worthless Divines, when we want you most? Away on a journey perhaps?"

  Bloodied spittle dripping from his mouth, Magnus looked down at himself. Only charred remnants remained of his vestments after receiving such an intense blast. His face was blistered and sore, his beard burned to stubble. He was grateful Dekor was nothing more than a novice or else he would now be dead. Groaning deeply he pulled the sword from his gut. With one hand clasped over his wound, he tried tearing a piece from his bloodied doublet, hoping he could use it to plug the wound. The sound of bleating brought a smile to his face. Yakkob looked down at Magnus with a snort.

  "If I knew you were coming I'd have tidied myself up a bit."

  "Dekor?" Arrborn propped his staff against the tree.

  "Yes, I don't think he meant to burn me, but the wound was meant to kill. It is fortunate that I carry life charms. He has taken my robe and cast his over there."

  "Hold still," said Arrborn carefully examining the wound beneath Magnus's hand. Placing his hands over the injury he proclaimed, "By the power of the One, be healed. There, that's fixed."

  Magnus watched the wound quickly seal itself.

  "I never cease to marvel at how He does that. How is it so that I spend all my life worshipping the Divines and, when I want them, they are nowhere to be seen?" Magnus pulled himself fully upright, turning his face toward the rain where it poured through the branches.

  He caught the look in Arrborn's eye. "What?"

  "Divines," Arrborn muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Why do you bother with those demons? Idols of wood and stone. For pity's sake!"

  "That is your opinion, Arrborn. The Divines are our guides, you must know that? Without their knowledge we would be nothing more than the animals."

  "Guides! I find you burned and bleeding to death. They guide you to this!" Arrborn took his staff and jabbed Magnus in the belly with it. "Be made anew!" Arrborn held out his hand to Magnus. "Now rise, be healed as you go forth."

  Magnus took hold of Arrborn's hand to pull himself to his feet. As he stood, the burned flesh fell from his body as ashes, revealing the new skin beneath. "I have to admit, the Divines have never done anything like this for me before." He marveled at his restored body. "Incredible."

  "The One heals because he cares. It matters not to him that you blaspheme or worship those demons and demigods. He loves you just the same."

  "Well, I thank him for his care." Magnus picked up Dekor's old cloak and pulled it around him, hoping to cover his exposed flesh. "Come let us return to my quarters. I will tell you what happened along the way."

  "Yakkob, come, we go home."

  Yakkob trotted obediently alongside the two men as they walked slowly from the scene discussing Dekor's fall from grace.

  Demon seed

  Dekor opened the door of the inn. After stepping inside, he turned and closed it with a soft click. He walked over to a table in a corner by the window and watched the growing storm. He slipped his hood from his head, letting out a long, tired breath. The water ran from his robe forming tiny pools around his feet. Slowly removing the cloak from his shoulders he hung it over the back of a chair. Looking over toward the bar he bid the innkeeper to come to him. Rain lashed at the window next to where he sat whilst lightning drew its blazing claws across the blackened sky.

  "Greetings on this wet night to you, sire. What can I get you?" the innkeeper asked draping a damp cloth over his shoulder.

  "Some water and a meal if there is one, thank you." Dekor looked the man straight in the eyes. "And is there a room available?"

  "The only food at this time is bread and cold meat I'm afraid, but we do have a room, three copper pieces for the night."

  "That will be fine, thank you. I'll take it."

  “Miserable night out there, “the innkeeper shuddered as he walked away. Dekor could hear the man clattering about in the kitchen. It was not long before he returned with his meal.

  "There you are sire," he said placing the tray in front Dekor. On it was a large chunk of bread, a sizeable portion of beef together with some pickles, a cup and a pitcher of water.

  "Take what you need sire, it's all included in the cost. Your room is to the left at the top of the stairs over there." The innkeeper pointed to a dark opening in the rear corner of the inn where the light from the ceiling lamp cast di
m shadows. "There are no locks on the guest rooms. If you need anything else just let me know. We close the bar for the night when the candle burns down." He pointed to the hanging lamp.

  "Thank you." Dekor tore into the bread and meat as though he had not eaten for days.

  A tall, gangly young man who had been sitting at the far end of the bar with a comely young woman turned around to look at Dekor. He nudged the arm of the girl, pointing toward Dekor.

  "Go make yourself known," he ordered.

  The girl rose from her stool and took a step toward Dekor.

  "You needn't bother," Dekor said without looking up. "I've nothing of interest to either of you."

  The youth leered at the innkeeper. "Go do the dishes and close the door as you go."

  Scraping his stool back as he rose to his feet he turned and approached Dekor, pushing the girl ahead of him.

  The innkeeper strode along behind the bar. Thrusting his hand wrapped in a towel into a tankard, he twisted it sharply. "We'll have no trouble in here, if you don't mind." He stared wide-eyed at the youth as he slid a silver dagger from his sleeve just far enough for the innkeeper to see.

  "Go do your dishes like a good boy," the youth glowered, tucking the dagger carefully back inside his sleeve, "this has nothing to do with you.”

  Stepping away from the bar the innkeeper cast a quick glance over at Dekor then shut himself in the kitchen where he clattered around with the dishes.

  "Mind if we join you?" the gangly youth asked, glancing toward the kitchen to make sure the innkeeper was keeping himself busy. "Joely and I are just looking for a bit of fun, that's all, mister. No harm in a bit of fun, is there now?"

  He sidled around the table getting as close to Dekor as he could while his accomplice ran her hand over Dekor's robe on the chair.

  "This will look nice on me, Lorrin, don't you think?" the girl said with a pout.

  "Leave it. Now!" Dekor warned, grabbing the youth by the wrist "Or the stick insect here will die."

  Dekor's hand began to glow an angry red. The sound of sizzling flesh filled the air.

  "You leave him alone," Joely blurted, staring at the wisps of smoke rising from Lorrin's wrist.

  Dekor yanked Lorrin's arm from the table. Thrusting it toward the floor he brought the boy’s face crashing into the table. The noise from the kitchen increased, pans clattering needlessly together. Dekor slipped his free hand into Lorrin's sleeve and drew out the dagger, weighing it in his hand.

  Joely looked at the robe, shimmering in the candlelight, then at Lorrin with his face pressed to the table, a dagger at his throat, his face flushed and sweat beading on his brow.

  Dekor pushed the tip of the dagger into Lorrin's flesh, staring across the table at Joely. "Trust me, I'll do it." He drew a line of blood across Lorrin's throat. "Any moment now and he'll be gasping for breath." He smiled ominously at the girl.

  "Just do as he says Joely," Lorrin spat.

  "No problem, we're leaving right now," stammered the girl sliding her chair back from the table, all the while keeping her hands in front of her where they could be seen.

  "Leave me in peace," growled Dekor returning to his meal.

  Once finished he tidied up his table returning tankard and plates to the bar together with a fistful of coins.

  "Don't even think about taking it," he warned, looking over at the young couple who were now reaching for their coats as they ran for the door. "Take care now, won't you?" Dekor watched them leave then went up to his room.

  The raging storm would not let Dekor sleep. No matter what he tried, the rumbling thunder and lashing rain kept calling him to come. He could feel the power of the storm; the enticing energy of the lightning beckoned him as a sailor to a siren. Trees erupted into flame as the lightning tore them asunder, sending gnarly old branches crashing ablaze to the muddy earth. Fiery light flickered through the bedroom window, fingers of lust beckoning to him. Dekor could no longer resist the call of the temptress. He slid from his bed and stood by the window watching the lightning thrash the sky with its ragged claws. Dekor saw the fire and felt its warmth. He could sense the hidden passion burning deep within his soul, rising, urging him on. Involuntarily reaching out with his mind he scoured the rooms of the inn.

  "Stop!" he cried, falling to his knees, but the fire was all consuming. The temptress of the flames had been roused, but her lust had not been bridled; now she was calling to him in the night. Not satisfied with burning timbers, the temptress wanted a soul to devour and add to her ever-increasing collection. Dekor grabbed his robe and fled from his room.

  The whole inn was shrouded in darkness. Stumbling along the corridor he cried inside as the flames of lust burned ever deeper. He bumped a door, and clumsily knocking the catch with his arm, the door swung open. Dekor stepped inside. He could sense a body, sleeping peacefully in the darkened room. A flash of lightning lit the room for a split second, long enough for Dekor to see the young girl lying covered with only a sheet. Gasping with horror at his own thoughts, he tried to look away, to reach for the door. But with every step the darkness hardened his heart and the only light he could see by was the lust of the flame. The lightning flashed again, and this time Dekor could see his own hand snatching away the bed sheet. In a single breath he had smothered the girl's mouth with his hand.

  The girl awoke, startled. She tried to scream, but no sound came as her world fell under the spell of the Dark Mistress. Dekor knelt over the girl, his hand pressing harder over her mouth as he lowered himself until his mouth was against his own hand. Reaching down, fumbling, he yanked her nightdress up and forced himself upon her. He could feel her body rigid beneath him, unyielding, her fists beating upon his back.

  "Open your eyes," he ordered through gritted teeth. He stared into her terror-filled eyes, tears running down her temples in rivulets.

  It only took a fleeting moment as Dekor stole the innocent virtue of the young girl to step across the threshold from light into darkness. The light of his world guttered as it was mastered by the lust of the flame. All Magnus' warnings were forgotten.

  He looked down at the sobbing girl, curled up in a ball and attempting to drag the bed covers over her defiled body. The blood of her innocence glared accusingly upon white linen as it clung to her shivering skin. Dekor felt nothing for her: his heart no longer felt anything but lust. Alerted by a sound in the corridor, he turned, threw the window open and leapt out into the maelstrom of the night. He ran and ran, unaware of where his feet were taking him.

  Dekor followed the river north from Bethraim always keeping the road to his right. He knew riders would be sent out along every main road to warn nearby villages and farmsteads. Bethraim held only a handful of men and they would not come after him right away. He laughed to himself, the irony of the moment amusing him. He was on the run from the people who had trained him in all he knew. He would use this to his advantage to slow them down.

  He ran across the road taking long strides through the thick mud. Rain beat heavily upon him as he turned toward the northeast, toward a place he knew well. It was unlikely that any soldiers had passed this way as it was well off the market routes.

  On he sped through woodland, over the hills, vaulting fences and splashing through streams. He had to get away. Running, running, his heart screaming at him to stop but his mistress would not let him. Dekor fell over a log. He looked up, laughing to himself at the sight of a familiar door. Yes, he would be safe here.

  Dekor beat on the door, three sharp wraps then second pair of heavier knocks. He could sense no one moving inside the house. Dekor knocked again repeating the pattern.

  "Aye, aye," came a sharp response followed by some muffled cursing.

  The door was opened by a hunched figure clasping at a blanket draped around its shoulders, its face lit on one side by the candle its carrying.

  "Dekor?" The figure stepped aside ushering him in.

  "I need shelter." Dekor pulled the sodden hood from his head and
hugged the old woman.

  "What have you done?" the old woman croaked as Dekor collapsed into a chair holding his face in hands. "Is it the flame?"

  Dekor looked up at her, nodding his head. The old woman pointed a gnarled finger at the fireplace, deep red flames leapt from the wood with writhing purple smoke.

  "I lost control. Attacked the Archmage." He tugged at his cloak. "Then a rider heading for Belgor." He drew a long breath and made himself as comfortable as possible in the rickety old chair. The old woman sat in the chair opposite him. "I... the innkeeper's daughter."

  "They'll send hell on your heels, my boy." The old woman reached forward, patting his knee. "I promised your father that if you needed help I would give it, no matter the cost."

  "Aunt..." He put his hand upon hers, staring at it as it transformed, becoming younger, stronger. He looked into her smiling face no longer weathered by the years. "You can't." Tears filled Dekor's young eyes.

  "Head to the forest. I will go to the north and leave a trail that a fool could follow." As the old woman spoke the croak left her voice. "No one will be able to tell." She rose from the chair and walked toward the door. "Nofuma." She made a grabbing gesture at the fire. The flames leapt across the room from the hearth to her hand where she held them in a ball. "Here," she pointed to her feet.

  Dekor, standing suddenly to his feet, walked over to her.

  "This will give you energy and it will also contain your lust for the flame. You must let your heart decide what path you will walk. Do not let anyone tell you that fire is evil. Evil is in the heart, not the hand."

  She took Dekor by the arm and squeezed the ball of fire into his hand. He closed his eyes, shuddering as the fire spread through his body restoring his strength, re-energizing his soul. He gasped, eyes wide open, staring into his aunt's eyes, watching as they became copies of his own.

  "You will have the strength that you need to run, for run you must. Hunters will come after you. You must tarry no more."

  His aunt pulled him close and hugged him tightly, her transformation complete. She tugged the hood of her cloak around her head and smiled at him. Dekor looked into his own likeness and watched himself run out into the storm across the fields toward the main road. He pulled the hood back over his head then he too re-entered the storm and headed in the opposite direction, toward the forest of Learmont.