A Wizard's Tears (4 page)

That night, the stars and moons of Elrohen shone brightly.
They had travelled far, certainly further than Keldoran had ever been before, and his excitement kept building.
The mage had set up the camp, creating two tents using some fabric in the rear of the carriage. The first, his, was immaculately clean and vast, enough to house seven or eight mages, let alone one. The tent he gave the four of them to share was a small, dirty looking one, not even fit to throw on a fire. Yvanna was not impressed.
“With respect,” she asked carefully to the mage, “How do you expect the four of us to sleep in that?”
“It is quite simple,” stated the mage. “You lie down, and you close your eyes.”
Yvanna was left with her mouth open in astonishment, for the mage then ignored her and entered his luxurious tent.
“How can he be like this?” she fumed, stamping her little foot.
Keldoran opened up the tent and peered inside. “It’s small, but we’ll all fit.”
Yvanna sub-consciously stroked her hair, annoyed that it was going to become unruly, and make her look like a vagabond. “Well,” she declared, “I shall sleep in the carriage. You three can sleep in the tent. It’s a matter of privacy.”
The Bu’kep chuckled at this, and grinned at the other two. “Well, you heard the lady lads, the tent is our privilege!” With a merry hop, Corg entered the tent to settle down for the night. Sighing, missing his own bed, Relb entered the tent after him. Keldoran stood looking at Yvanna for a moment, wondering whether he should say something to her, try and persuade her out of sleeping in the carriage. Her face looked resolute, however, and Keldoran knew deep down his words would be ignored. Sighing, he nodded goodnight to the blonde female, and entered the tent.
Yvanna stood for a while, looking out at the stars. Only two more days of this wretched journey, she thought. What a bunch of miscreants she was travelling with! Soon, at least, she would enjoy the luxuries of the big city, be surrounded by gorgeous looking men showering her with expensive gifts. The thought comforted her, and she went to open the carriage door. It would not budge.
She tried it again, no movement. She then remembered to her distress that the door was magical. The mage opened it with a gesture from his hands, not with a key or a handle. Oh, curse him! Curse this rotten trip.
Reluctantly, she approached the muddy tent. She could hear jostling inside, as if the three within were struggling to find room. The night grew cold about her. She was damned if she would join them. One of them might even try and take advantage of her good looks.
Yvanna decided to go to the rear of the carriage, and she clambered up behind the food and water barrels. Here at least was dry. She opened up one of her backpacks, rummaged for a moment, then came up with a blanket. Now she would be warm.
The stars winked at her as she finally succumbed to sleep.

Yvanna woke to the wind in her face. Sleepily she yawned, and stretched. Her back ached. She had not had a pleasant sleep in the back of the carriage. Still, better than the tent and those three imbeciles!

The wind was uncannily strong, and this roused her quickly from slumber. It was night still, she noted with chagrin. She could only have been asleep for a few hours. Groaning, Yvanna looked out at the sky. No stars were out. It was ominously quiet, save for the foul wind that whipped through her hair. Where had this come from? It had been quiet when she had settled down to sleep, and she remembered there had been stars. Something was wrong.

The feeling of disharmony grew on her, and she did not know why. She clambered down from the carriage, slightly bruised, and cold. She sneezed. The sound seemed to drift slowly away, hanging on the stifling air. Yvanna frowned. The air was thick, the wind not fresh but seeming to have its own, tenacious form.

She glanced over at the tents, first the mage’s lavish dwelling, then the small tent. All were quiet. The others were still asleep, then. Snorting to herself in disgust, she took a few steps away from the carriage, peering into the gloom, for there were no lights to guide her. She saw nothing.

The horse in front of the carriage grunted. Yvanna walked to the horse, and patted it on the nose. “So, you’re awake too, I see,” she remarked casually. “I think we could be in for a long night, you and I.”

Rain began to fall, soft drizzle. Sighing, Yvanna stomped to the back of the carriage. It offered little shelter, and soon the rain grew heavier, enough to start annoying her considerably. Still she would not go to the relative safety of the tent, her own pride and stubbornness refusing to make her budge. Pretty soon she was soaking.

Misery and cold overcame her arrogance after several more moments, for the rain became a torrent, and the wind enveloped her in its mounting anger. So suddenly the weather had turned on her, and it was all she could do to stagger over to the tent. Noises were coming from within, so it seemed the others had finally woken to the sound of the rain above their heads.

“Let me in,” she shouted into the wind, “I’m getting soaked!”
The tent opened and a hand pulled her inside. Corg grinned at her. “So you have come to join us, after all, young lass!”
“Unhand me, you foul man, “ she bellowed, wrestling free of his grip. “I will not be handled so!”
“Forgive me, I was just rescuing you from the storm, lady,” bowed Corg before her. “Things are taking a turn for the worse. I have not heard such a wind for a long while!”
She glared at him, and looked at the others, who were peering out from their warm blankets. They nodded at her, noting with some amusement her bedraggled appearance. Subconsciously she parted her hair with her fingers, trying to untangle the wet knots that had come to know her there. She hissed at them. “No-one had better laugh,” she warned, “Or things might turn nasty in here.”
A close rumble stopped any retort the others may have had. It was very near, sounding right above their heads, a fierce growl from the sky. Corg shook his head in amazement. “This is going to be a bad storm,” he stated.
Keldoran listened intently to the pounding of the rain on the side of the tent. The fabric of their temporary abode was flapping in and out as the wind pummelled into them. Relb appeared from under a blanket, eyes wide, almost frightened at the gathering of forces outside. “I wonder what the mage is thinking of all this,” he whispered to Keldoran.
“Maybe he started this, “ answered Keldoran. “This might all be a crazy mage’s test for us!”
“Interesting notion,” said Corg. “I don’t think so, though, young Keldoran. This storm is the full furies of the skies themselves, not some bizarre spell incantation.”
Corg spoke true. The tent swayed alarmingly to and fro as torrential rain hammered into it, the wind howling round them like a mad ghost. Thunder pealed, the loudest Keldoran had ever heard, right above their heads. A flash came from outside the tent, and they knew lightning was racing across the heavens.
“I don’t know how long this tent is going to last in this,” said Relb in a frightened voice. “Maybe we should rouse the mage and get into the carriage.”
“Well, you go!” answered Yvanna. She was certainly not going back outside. She squeezed some water out of hair miserably.
A fierce gust enveloped them, and suddenly the tent’s fabric ripped, letting in harsh rain and cold. “Oh no!” said Relb, not happy at all that he had been proved right.
Corg motioned for Yvanna to crawl aside. “I’ll go,” he said, “Time to speak to our mage friend.”
They watched as Corg opened the tent flap and forced himself out into the raging gales. Keldoran got a blanket and tried to wedge the ripped hole with it, holding it up with his hands. Despite getting soaked and feeling cold, he was enjoying this small adventure.
Corg stumbled over to the mage’s tent. He was soaked in seconds, and he marvelled at the fury of the storm, and how suddenly it had appeared. Glancing upwards, he saw the lightning fork across the darkness of night in a blinding flash. The thunder that followed was deafening.
As he approached the entrance to the vast tent, it suddenly opened and the mage walked out. The mage had his hood covering his face, which protected him slightly from the rain. He nodded at Corg, then turned his attention to the sky. Raising his arms, the mage began to chant, in a clear, powerful voice. Energies crackled at his fingertips, and light issued from his hands, spreading to surround the carriage and the two tents. Corg watched in awe as the rain splattered against the pale yellow light as if it were a physical barrier, before realising he wasn’t getting wet anymore. The mage chanted some more, and then lowered his arms. The light hovered around the carriage and tents, not moving, providing physical protection from the elements that raged outside of its area.
“Cute trick,” said Corg.
The mage turned to him, and nodded once more. “A simple barrier of protection; this will shelter us tonight.”
The others emerged from the tent, dumbstruck. They looked at the shimmering yellow light that surrounded them. It was pale, faint even, but they could see the rain pattering harmlessly on it. Indeed, all was quiet, the storm’s fury and sounds lessened as if it were outside of a warm home, and they rested within, listening.
“It would be great to learn how to do that,” breathed Relb in amazement.
Keldoran nodded at him, staring at the barrier.
“Rest, now,” spoke the mage to them. “We have a long journey tomorrow.”
Corg made his way back to the others, then stopped in bewilderment. “What is that?” he asked to nobody in particular, pointing at the sky.
All eyes turned to the sky. At first they wondered what Corg had seen, seeing nothing save for the rain hitting the mage’s barrier. Then a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and all of them felt a first tingle of fear.
The sky was shimmering in a weird, unholy light. A myriad of colours: red, green, purple and orange. It flooded and seethed around the mage’s barrier, drawn to the magick of it. As they watched, the colours fused together until they became just one, a deep, blood red. Alive, organic, it lapped against the barrier, and the ground shuddered at the impact.
The mage lowered his hood, and looked on in amazement. The others glanced at him as if he was going to say something, tell them all that he knew what this phenomenon was and not to be alarmed. He said nothing.
Suddenly the blood red energy, if that was what it was, spiralled upwards, exploding into the sky in a cacophony of sound. A terrible ripping sound penetrated the storm and the barrier, and all eyes were on the sky as a tear appeared in it.
“What in Untaba’s name…” breathed Corg in wonder.
The tear grew in the sky, and the ground began to shake. The watchers tumbled to the ground as the soil beneath their feet rumbled and quaked. The barrier the mage had created to keep out the storm shattered, and the rain fell upon them once more. It was relentless, pounding into them, and the wind picked them up and sent them hurtling across the ground like they were made of paper.
Staggering to his feet, Keldoran was determined to keep looking up. He noticed the others hauling themselves up to stand. Eyes heavenward, they all watched in awe as a black form descended from the rift in the sky. Lightning crackled and thunder boomed around it, what looked like the shape of a man, suspended in the air by what force they could not understand. For a few moments they watched as the blood red light encompassed the figure, bathing it in its energy. Then there was an explosion.
The horse bolted, the carriage wheels spinning in the sodden earth as it sped away in fright. Even as the group turned to look at this, the storm died away. The rain stopped. The thunder faded. Incredibly, stars winked at them again from the night sky. The rip in the heavens had gone, as had the black figure and the blood red light.
All was quiet.
Not sure what it was they had witnessed, the mage took the task of retrieving the frightened horse, which had stopped around a hundred yards away down the road. The others exchanged uneasy glances.

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

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

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

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

Behind him, the ground sighed in relief as he moved away, and began to repair itself. The grass grew once more and the flowers unfurled their wondrous colours.

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

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

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

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