The Warlock's Curse (The Syrane Chronicles Book 4), page 9
“The archmage,” he uttered, the very word laden with foreboding. “She came here to escape him.”
“Archmage?” Gamnus and Carg both said aloud. Carg’s blood ran cold.
“Which archmage?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid of what the answer may be. Orevus’ response hung in the air like a sinister omen, casting a pall of dread over the room.
“Xiphos,” the spectral mage said.
###
“Duncan.”
Duncan shook his head to clear it. He could have sworn someone said his name. He’d undressed to shower, but hadn’t got far. Duncan wrapped his bathrobe around himself and moved to the ensuite door. He looked over at the clock. The bright LED said 5:31. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he did not want to wake Jen. It was still too early to wake her. He was sure she’d not slept very well.
“Duncan!”
Duncan released the door handle with a start. He nearly jumped out of his skin that time! He’s not imagined it. Someone said his name, a masculine voice, and one he recognised.
But how could it be? Surely he hallucinated.
“Duncan. Can you hear me?”
Duncan couldn’t decide whether to answer. He must be going mad, surely. He’d not been prone to any kind of auditory hallucination before now. However, he’d just had his first time being transported to an alien world. Would this be the new normal? The voice sounded like it was in his mind, rather than someone talking over his shoulder. Was that a bad sign? It wasn’t like an intrusive thought; instead, it was a voice in his head repeatedly calling his name.
“Duncan!”
“Derek?” Duncan whispered.
“Duncan.” Duncan felt he could sense the relief in his friend’s voice. But how was this possible? Ezekiel had slain Derek; the wraithknight had used the same sword that rested against the bedroom wall. Duncan beheld the weapon now. It sat where he’d left it, in the bedroom’s corner, still sheathed inside its brown leather scabbard. A small portion of the blade was visible, less than half a centimetre, but the slight greenish glow emanated from the metal.
“Duncan, I need your aid,” Derek said. The voice was a whisper, but Duncan could hear it clearly inside his own head.
“How do I help you?” Duncan whispered. He glanced at Jen’s sleeping form. The last thing he wanted was to wake her while talking aloud to himself. If he was lucky, she’d only have him committed.
“Take up the sword,” Derek said. “Pick it up and it will bring you to me.”
Duncan looked down at the sword.
“How are you speaking to me? You died!” Duncan whispered.
“My spirit lives on,” Derek replied. “Within the sword. It contains my life force. And that of others Ezekiel slew.”
“That sounds … awkward,” Duncan muttered. “How will it help you if it brings me to you? I just got home!”
“Duncan, you must,” Derek moaned. “If you do not, Xiphos will rise again.”
“Xiphos is dead,” Duncan said, his eyes smouldered with volcanic fire. “He ceased to exist when the undead did.”
“And you must prevent his return!” Derek cried. “Take up the sword. Come to me. We will destroy him forever.”
Duncan hesitated, but only for a moment. Derek had helped him, indeed he’d given his life to find Duncan a way home. Home, where he was now. How could he possibly go back?
“Where will it take me?” Duncan whispered.
“Syrane,” Derek said. “We will be in Syrane, near to the tower of Olfaern. From there we will destroy Xiphos.”
“I’ve only just returned. All that work to send me home and you want me to come straight back?” Duncan argued.
“You will be gone but a moment,” Derek said. “We will return you home again.”
“How?” Duncan asked. “It took a year or more last time.”
Derek said nothing for a moment. Then he whispered in Duncan’s mind.
“Jade has become powerful while you were gone. Years have passed. She is a much more competent mage than when you left,” the priest said.
Duncan hesitated on the edge of trust. He owed Derek so much; he wanted to help him. Then his gaze took in the sleeping form of his wife on the bed. He’d not seen Jen in so long, he’d fought so hard to return to her.
But if he were back in Syrane, and his visit would seem as if it were mere moments on Earth, he might relax a little? He had been away more than a year the first time, yet no noticeable time had passed on Earth. And if Jade was more powerful now, she could return him to his home again. He could disappear back to Syrane, help Derek and come home; and no one would be the wiser.
The thought of Jade twigged a memory within him.
Wait…
It was soon after he’d taken Xiphos’ power.
And not long before I’d lost Xiphos’ power, he thought ruefully.
He and Jade discussed Margaret’s possession incident in the Archmage’s Tower. Jade had asked him if he could use a spell of divination to compel Xiphos’ spirit to tell them of events in the real world.
“Divination looks into the current and gives answers. If I could find Xiphos there, there’d be no guarantee he’d know what we needed,” Duncan had said. “What makes you think that a spirit or anything in the spirit world can affect the real world? Or have any knowledge of hidden events?”
Duncan’s brow furrowed as he recalled the rest of the conversation. Jade had quoted a time when Corvus had contacted the spirit of a relative of an alleged murder victim. Duncan had disproved the argument by confirming the spirit could only know what they knew in life. When someone died, they did not gain an omniscience or inside knowledge of the rest of the world.
The furrows in his brow deepened.
How did Derek know?
“How do you know Jade has become more powerful?” he asked.
“Duncan, I …” Duncan felt Derek falter. The priest’s voice inside his mind trembled, then fell away to nothing.
“You cannot know,” Duncan breathed.
“Duncan.”
Derek’s voice was firm now. It was a stark contrast to the earlier uncertainty, reminding Duncan of the day they’d met in the temple of Mergoth, when Derek had summoned the power of his god to destroy the undead. Derek’s words now resonated with a deep and unwavering confidence. Full, deep and resonant; confident in Khor’s power to defeat his enemies.
“Duncan, Xiphos returns. He has cheated death once more. He will prevent my last journey; I cannot pass into Elysium. I am a prisoner. But I accept this fate. It is more important that you prevent Xiphos from regaining the sword.”
“Why?” Duncan asked. “Why does he want the sword?”
“It contains much of his life force, the essence that was Xiphos’ magical power,” Derek said. “Ezekiel drained it from you when he stabbed you with the sword. Xiphos must not regain it.”
“And you are his prisoner?” Duncan asked.
“That is of no consequence,” Derek said. “The sword must not fall into Xiphos’ hands again.”
Derek’s response came as a solemn revelation, and it was in the manner of his words, the familiar cadence of his voice, that Duncan recognised the return of his friend’s true self.
“That must be what that other fellow meant. When I met him outside the temple. He told me to take the sword away and never let a wizard or mage come into contact with it ever again,” Duncan mused. Through their connection, he could sense Derek’s confusion. In response to the unasked question, Duncan explained his musings. “Garth Bowen. He told me to take this sword far away,” he muttered.
“Garth is wise. He knows much about such things,” Derek said. His voice faltered again. “Duncan, he reasserts his control. You must not let him return with his full power!” Derek shouted in Duncan’s mind.
“And sacrifice you to an eternity of what?” Duncan spoke again, his voice rose with each syllable. Upon the bed, Jen stirred at his words.
“That is of no … consequence,” Derek said. Duncan could imagine him saying it through gritted teeth. “My fate is not worth that of others falling under the yoke of Xiphos.”
“The hell it’s not,” growled Duncan. He reached for the sword hilt and grasped it with both hands.
9. that’s a pretty big ogre.
Bastian grew more nervous, if such a thing were possible. The young man who stood before him seized the coffee merchant in his intense glare and held him there.
He was a compact, clean-cut man, but at first glance seemed unremarkable. A mop of untidy black hair framed his face. The piercing blue eyes that beheld Bastian were almost hypnotic in their intensity.
When he spoke, his voice was low and threatening.
“The man who brought you this book,” the young man said. “Where can I find him?” The visitor held the book that Garth Bowen had delivered to Bastian a few days previous.
During one of Bastian’s regular interactions with Norton Keep’s locals, a friendly trader, unaware of the book’s true value, casually mentioned the tome. As villagers often did, they shared the tales of recent chaos. Including the unlikely detail of an ogre walking away with the unusual book amidst their plunder of this innocuous village.
Bastian, always attuned to the whispers of rare book lore, recognised the potential significance of this stolen book.
Bastian had engaged Bowen to find the book; or rather, the Order of the Gryphon, Bowen’s famous mercenary band. The merchant had not expected the revered sword master to be the one who undertook his mission, nor had he expected Bowen to be the one who personally delivered the book to him.
Bastian had behaved as if he were a star-struck apprentice, when the great Cállavëar had entered his establishment and presented the book to him. Bastian had stumbled over his words, spilled some coffee on the floor and dropped the rag twice when mopping up the spill. Unfortunately, the man had not lingered; he’d been on a personal mission for the castellan. Bastian had accepted the book and paid for his services.
“Garth Bowen, sir? His enterprise is called the Order of the Gryphon. They have premises near the castellan’s keep, up on Tower Road,” Bastian stammered.
The young man stood on the opposite side of the counter, mirroring Bowen’s earlier position. Both visitors had held the book, yet this newcomer sent shivers down Bastian’s spine. When he’d enquired about the tome, Bastian had been happy to show it off. Bastian had built quite the reputation as a collector of many unusual books. This one was The Collected Wisdom of Isidelis, a compilation of the writings and observations of the Archmage Isidelis. Isidelis had a great expertise in utilising the powerful magic she extracted from the stars themselves. Bastian had little time to read much of the book. Isidelis talked about meteors, comets, and other objects from the sky; and how she extracted and used the magical energies from these marvellous things.
The young man sniffed, then turned the book over in his hands.
“And where did Master Bowen come across this book?” he asked. Bastian felt a chill at the man’s tone.
“He retrieved it from an ogre band, would you believe?” Bastian twittered nervously. The young man’s eyebrow raised a fraction.
“Ogres,” he whispered.
“Yes indeed,” said Bastian. “In the foothills of the Garon Mountains.”
“And you paid Bowen for his services? He extracted a fair price for his assistance to you?” The young man’s voice was almost a sneer now. Bastian felt the colour drain from his face. He felt very uncomfortable and an unexplained instinct made him briefly contemplate calling for the watch. The watch patrols organised themselves well and were regular in this part of Norton Keep. He knew one would not be too far from his door.
“I paid him the agreed price,” Bastian said in slow, deliberate tones. “I’m unsure, sir, how this applies to the book itself?” Emboldened, he held out his hand to the young man. He was in his own business establishment and knew help would not be too far away should he call for it. Bastian forced a smile as his visitor handed the book to him, and the young man nodded his thanks.
“A pleasure, sir.”
Bastian stood immobile as the stranger’s piercing blue eyes seemed to bore into him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was deeply amiss. The tension in the room thickened as the young man’s voice took on an unsettling edge.
“You see,” the stranger said, his voice still carrying that ominous undertone, “there are matters at play that concern the very essence of that book. Matters of great significance, of which you may not be fully aware.”
Bastian’s heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. The stranger’s mysterious demeanour, coupled with his insistence on knowing the details of Bowen’s involvement, left Bastian with a nagging suspicion that this book held secrets far beyond his comprehension. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.
“I’m but a humble merchant, sir. My interest in the book was purely academic, or mercantile. I assure you, I seek no part in any … matters of significance.”
The young man’s eyes never wavered from Bastian’s, and his lips curled into a knowing smile that sent a chill down Bastian’s spine.
“Academic pursuits can sometimes lead to unexpected revelations,” the stranger replied cryptically. “You see, this book contains knowledge that is not meant for the uninitiated. Knowledge that could have dire consequences if placed in the wrong hands.”
Bastian’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of the situation. What had he stumbled upon? What secrets lay hidden within the pages of The Collected Wisdom of Isidelis? And why was this stranger so intent on discovering Garth Bowen’s involvement?
“I truly know nothing of these matters, sir,” Bastian said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to appear composed. “If you seek information about the book, perhaps it would be best to consult the writings of Isidelis herself. She is the source of the knowledge contained within.”
The young man’s smile widened, but it held none of the warmth associated with a genuine grin. Instead, it seemed to convey triumph.
“Ah, Isidelis,” he mused. “A name of great significance, indeed. It seems we have much to discuss, my dear merchant. But for now, I bid you farewell.”
With those parting words, the stranger turned and strode purposefully toward the exit. Bastian couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief as the oppressive atmosphere in the room dissipated with the stranger’s departure.
###
The same young man, hidden beneath the veneer of humanity, stalked the cobblestone streets of Norton Keep with a burning rage in his heart. His mind seethed with a singular, burning purpose. He had one goal: to find Garth Bowen. The renowned sword master had crossed a line that could not be forgiven. The young man’s anger was palpable, a furious storm raging within him.
As he navigated the crowded streets, his thoughts were full of malice. He knew that tracking down Bowen, a man of formidable skill and reputation, would not be easy. But an all-consuming hatred fuelled the young man, and he relished the prospect of a confrontation.
The world had branded him as something vile, something to be shunned. In his human guise, he blended into the crowds, a seemingly unremarkable figure with a mop of untidy black hair and piercing blue eyes. But beneath that facade lay a creature of immense strength and brutality, and it was that aspect of himself he intended to unleash upon his quarry. He was a switcher, cursed with the unnatural ability to transform himself into a monstrous man-beast. His cursed form was that of the biggest, nastiest ogre in Syrane. Zekhur, he was called. Zekhur would be the name of Bowen’s doom.
Bowen’s actions had resulted in the deaths of several of his brethren, ogres of his tribe who had defended their lair. Their loss cut deep, and it was a wound that festered with every passing day. Zekhur could still hear the cries of his fallen comrades echoing in his ears.
His anger was a raging inferno, but he knew he couldn’t afford to be careless. Unlike his brethren, Zekhur had the intelligence and reasoning ability of a canny human man.
Zekhur stumbled upon the book amid the chaos of a village rampage. Initially ignorant of its significance, the tome found its way into his loot amidst the plunder. Over time, as the book lingered in his possession, its value became apparent to Zekhur, not merely as a trinket among spoils but as a repository of formidable knowledge.
In the stillness of the ogre’s nights, a mysterious presence infiltrated his dreams. It defied simple description; a whisper within his mind, an ethereal force that spoke of immense power locked within the pages of the book. Zekhur, guided by these nocturnal encounters, found purpose in preserving the tome. It became more than a looted possession; it transformed into a mysterious artifact promising untapped potential.
Yet, the presence in his dreams, though compelling, remained cryptic about the when and how of using or passing on this newfound source of power. Zekhur, grappling with the nebulous guidance, found himself uncertain. In a twist of fate, the book slipped from his grasp.
Retribution against Bastian, the merchant who had hired Bowen, would come later. For now, Zekhur firmly set his sights on the sword master. The voice in his head had urged him to retake the book, but the book would wait. Bastian was going nowhere.
But he was determined to prove that switchers were not to be trifled with. Zekhur clenched his fists, feeling the unnatural power surging within him, waiting to be unleashed. Zekhur would find Garth Bowen, the man who had wronged him, and he would show the world the true extent of his power. Revenge was his only goal now, and he would stop at nothing to achieve it. Bowen’s days were numbered, and Zekhur would make sure of it.
###
Some days later, Zekhur had combed through the labyrinthine streets of Norton Keep, following every lead, interrogating every source, and leaving no stone unturned in his relentless pursuit of Garth Bowen. The trail had been elusive, like a wisp of smoke just out of his grasp. But Zekhur was determined, fuelled by a burning desire for revenge.
