Honor Crowned (18 page)

Chapter XXV

When morning came, they found themselves surrounded by a veritable sea of mist.  It was impossible to see anything more than two wagon lengths away.  All sounds were muted and everything was covered with a thin layer of moisture.  Conrad built up the fire to burn away the slight chill in the area and they took the time to have a good meal.

Although there were no markings, Jorem was certain they were well past the border of their own land.  From here on this was enemy territory and serious trouble could come upon them at any moment.  Greater care would be needed as they traveled from here so this would be their last fire for some time.  If there was anyone here, Jorem wanted to know about it long before their own presence was discovered.

As they started their march, the early morning mist continued to drift through the trees.  Moisture glistened on the needles of the pines.  The creatures of the forest were still slumbering in their dens and warrens.  The sun remained hidden behind the thick foliage of the trees.

Jorem’s boots and pant legs were soon damp from the morning dew that was thickly beaded on the grass and sparse low shrubs and ground.  Only occasionally would he glimpse one of his men as they ghosted through the trees.  They’d seen no sign of enemy forces yet.  Still, they took no chances.  One misstep could bring an army of hundreds down upon their tiny band.

Cresting a small hillock, Jorem carefully scanned the view before him.  A hint of movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention.  Peering intently, he waited.  There, ahead and to his left, something passed through a gap in the trees.  Crouching low, he crept forward, using shrubs and deadfall to mask his approach.

Without the sounds of the wildlife, he couldn’t signal his men without revealing himself.  He would get just close enough to see what danger they faced.  Then he would retreat and gather his men if needed.  As they had learned in recent days, a group as small as theirs could decimate a much larger force if approached with cunning and skill.

Laying belly down on the ground, Jorem wormed his way along the length of a fallen tree.  Coming to its end, he peered through the branches of a small bush.  A small shaft of sunlight pierced through the branches above, causing the dew trimmed leaves and trees to sparkle like diamonds.  A slight breeze swirled the mist through the trees.

A lone figure, still shrouded in the morning mist, wandered aimlessly from tree to tree.  A long dark cloak trailed behind the figure like an afterthought, a forgotten item no longer needed.  As he watched, the figure stumbled and fell.  Long dark hair tumbled to the ground.  Jorem quietly crept closer.

Slowly, the figure pushed up from the ground, staggering forward and leaving the cloak behind.  The ebony wave of hair parted, revealing golden skin and delicate features.  No one else in the land could look so exquisite in such a bedraggled state.  Zensa! 

Jorem stood and stepped forward.

“Zensa!” he cried.

No response.  The Dragon Mage continued wandering, stumbling, going nowhere.  Jorem walked up to her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.  She stopped but still did not respond.  Jorem tilted her head up and looked into her eyes.

“Zensa, it’s Jorem!”

Still nothing.  Her eyes were glazed over.  The sparkle was gone from her emerald eyes.  Pulling her close, Jorem held one of the strongest mages in the land against him.  Limp and frail, she was a shell without strength or purpose.

“What has happened to you, my Lady?” he asked, holding her tightly in his arms.

A sharp tingling started at the base of his spine, traveling quickly up to his scalp. 
“Magic,”
he thought. 
“Old magic.
” Glancing from side to side, he could see nothing.  Closing his eyes, he was nearly blinded.  The trees, the ground, the sky, the entire world shone as bright as the sun.  Opening his eyes, Jorem gasped.  With his eyes closed, he could see magic, but never had he seen anything like this.  Before he could react, a tremendous force grasped his body, pinning it in place.  Then, just as suddenly, he was ripped from the ground and flung into the air.

Everything blurred.  Instead of falling back to the ground he was hurdled forward at such speed that trees, rocks, even the very mountains streaked beneath him.  It was happening so fast he didn’t even have time for fear.  He was struck several times by thick branches as he burst through the canopy that had been so high above him just moments earlier. Then all was a blur of color.

Whether he had passed out or not, he wasn’t sure.  The next thing he knew, he was crashing through a window and slamming up against a stone wall.  Slumped on the floor, his body screaming in pain, Jorem looked up and groaned.  Zensa’s body was still clasped tightly in his arms, limp and lifeless.

Jorem shook the Dragon Mage to no avail.  If she was breathing, it was but a whisper.  He felt panic rising up within him.  Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself as best he could. 
“Take stock of your situation, think, then do.”
  The grating whisper of the old wizard, Pentrothe, came from the distant past.

Looking around, Jorem found he was in a small, round room.  Tables and shelves crammed together filled much of it.  Debris cluttered nearly every surface from the floor to the topmost shelf.  Jars, globes, pots, pans, and books were strewn throughout the room.  Many items looked vaguely familiar, but most were unrecognizable.  A thick layer of dust covered almost everything.

One table in the middle of the room was clean—a round wooden table wiped clean save for a small crystal globe resting at the center.  No dust showed on the table or on the globe, while the rest of the room was a forgotten disaster of jumbled discards.

Gently easing Zensa to the floor, Jorem quietly walked to the clean, round table.  Something about the globe nagged at the back of his mind.  Where had he seen this before?  A quick glance showed numerous globes scattered about the other tables and shelves.  Those globes, like everything else, were covered in dust.  Looking into the globe on the table before him, he reeled back in both body and mind.

“The Forbidden,” he whispered in shock.

Long ago, Pentrothe had shown him this awful device, a device made to steal the soul of another mage, to entrap the soul and funnel off its power.  It was an old magic, hidden away from mankind for centuries by the dragons—items of such awful power that to be found with one carried a sentence of death.

Within the globe, a bright light flashed about, a miniature sun, almost painful to look at.  The light—a soul belonging to the Dragon Mage Zensa.  Somehow, when the Forbidden had pulled Zensa’s soul to it, Jorem, holding her physical body, had been pulled as well.

Jorem had no idea how to work the device.  Even if he had had the knowledge, he had no magic of his own.  He did recall that the wizard Pentrothe had attempted, without success, to destroy the one he had.  What was he to do?  How long did he have before Zensa was too far gone?  He recalled Pentrothe mentioning something about it but the details escaped him.

Jorem leaned closer to the globe.  “Zensa,” he spoke quietly.  “Zensa, what do I do?”

The spot of light stopped dashing about, but other than that, it was silent.  The globe’s smooth, polished surface… 
“Wait!”
Jorem’s mind screamed.  Looking closer at the globe, he could see scratches on the surface.

More scrutiny revealed several flaws in the glass.  This was not a true Forbidden, but a poor copy.  Somehow, someone had learned, or almost learned, how to recreate these awful devices.  If it were not a true Forbidden perhaps… perhaps it could be broken.

Without hesitation, Jorem ripped his sword from its scabbard.  Raising his sword high above his head, he tensed.  With every ounce of his strength, Jorem brought it crashing down upon the globe.  The device burst at the first touch of the blade, glass shards flying in all directions.

The sword, with such force behind it, cleaved cleanly through the table.  Sparks flew as the blade struck the stone floor.  The impact of steel on stone sent a jarring shock up through Jorem’s arms, forcing him to stagger back.

The spot of light that had been trapped in the globe now hung in the air.  It was even brighter now than it had been.  It grew and pulsed.  Jorem pointed to Zensa’s body by the wall.

“There,” he said.  “Your body is there.  Return to it if you can.”

The light slowly drifted over to Zensa’s body.  Gradually, the light sank down until it was directly over her chest, then molded itself into her body.  Zensa arched as if in great pain, gasping for air as though she were drowning.

Jorem dashed to her side and knelt beside her.  In a flash, she grasped his tunic in a grip of iron.  She pulled him closer, even as she gasped for breath.

“Release the others,” she choked out.

Looking up, Jorem realized in horror that all of the globes, perhaps even the jars, held the souls of others, mages trapped for who knew how long, forced to serve another.  Their bodies likely long gone to dust, their souls were trapped, unable to continue on.

Jorem stood and gripped his sword with both hands.  He stepped to a table and swung his sword sideways, just above the table top.  Glass shattered and metal clanged as everything on the table crashed to the floor.  Two small flickers of light hung in the air above the table, souls freed from their prisons.

Like a man possessed, Jorem launched himself from table to table, shelf to shelf.  By the time he stopped, nothing would remain whole.  When he finally ran out of targets, dozens of small flickering lights bobbed before him.  Some were as bright as Zensa’s had been, others were mere flickers.

“GO!” Jorem shouted.  “Find your bodies if you can, find your future if you can’t.”

In the blink of an eye, they were gone.  Only the light coming in through the broken window illuminated the room.  A dim glow from across the room caught Jorem’s eye.  One last globe survived.  An irrepressible anger filled Jorem.

Tossing aside tables that stood in his way, Jorem strode to the globe.  A thick layer of dust covered the globe.  The dim light inside the globe was barely discernible.  He slashed down at the globe.  The blade met it with a sharp “ping”, rebounding from the globe so fast it nearly cut his ear off.

The sharp blow from the sword knocked the dust from the object.  There was no small light inside this globe.  The entire orb glowed and pulsed.  This was a true Forbidden, unbreakable.  His sword had left not so much as a nick on its surface.

“Echalain!” Zensa gasped, staring at the globe.

Gingerly, Jorem lifted the glowing sphere from the base on which it rested.  The glossy surface was cool to the tough.  For as strong and durable as the globe was, it weighed very little.  Cradling the globe in his arms he returned to Zensa’s side.  She had managed to rise to a sitting position, but was still breathing heavily.

When Jorem knelt beside the Dragon Mage, she reached out toward the sphere.  Her delicate fingers were just about to touch the glass when she jerked back as if burned.  Her eyes were wide with fear.  Her hand trembled, though clutched to her chest.

“It is he, the Dragon Echalain.  He is aware, and he is angry.”  Zensa’s words were a bare whisper.  “We must set him free.”

Jorem drew his sword again and was about to strike the globe again when Zensa shouted, “WAIT!”  Her order resounded with both command and fear.

“After so many years, his essence must be freed as close to his body as possible.  Otherwise, he may never find it.”

“So where is his body?” Jorem asked bluntly.

Zensa’s shoulders slumped.  “I do not know,” she nearly sobbed.

Just then a door in the next room burst open with such force it was torn from its hinges.  A short, wide figure filled the space where the door had been.  Dressed in a cloak of midnight black so long it dragged on the floor, the figure raised both hands above its head.

“What have you done?” the apparition screamed.

Jorem set the globe down, sword still in hand, and spun to face the new threat.  With a shrug, the black-robed being’s hood fell back.  A slack jawed, hairless, pudgy face emerged from the dark hood.  The man’s mouth was nearly as wide as his face.  His eyes were opened wide and held little sanity.

From the tingling sensation at the back of his neck, Jorem knew the man was a mage and that magic was coming into play.  Casting about, Jorem searched for something to throw.  A shard from one of the broken containers came to hand.  Slinging the shard at the mage, Jorem watched in dismay as it smashed against an unseen barrier surrounding the mage.

A bright ball appeared between the mage’s hands.  Jorem could only watch as it came hurdling toward him.  At the last moment, the flaming ball exploded right in front of his face.  Some sort of barrier had prevented the flames from reaching him.  A hand grasped him from behind and tossed him to the side.

Zensa stood in his place.  Disheveled and dirty, she still looked more dangerous than anything Jorem had ever seen.  With her arms stretched wide, she glared at the mage in the other room.

“Release my master!” she hissed.

“Die, witch!” the mage screamed.

A steady stream of the flaming balls shot across the rooms.  Jorem watched as one after another, they smashed against Zensa’s shield.  Each explosion forced her shield back.  Sweat beaded on her brow as she fought against the onslaught.  She was losing.