Light in the Barren Lands: Travail of The Dark Mage Book One (43 page)

Whack!

Another resounding blow across the face finally brought him around. He looked into Jiron’s eyes. “What?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you. What happened?”

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he tried to connect with the magic, and was surprised to discover that he could. Still feeling a bit fuzzy, he sent his senses toward the conduit and found it in place. The focal point was now an angry red as the conduit was blocking the outflow of magic in anticipation of James’ command to call for it.

“Back in position,” he cried. Lurching to his feet, he summoned his orb. Returning to where the
Vyrilyzk
had been, he found it obliterated, pieces scattered all around the room. Of the earth spirits there was no sign.

“Hurry,” he urged as Jiron moved to retake his own position.

Jira watched her uncle worriedly as he sat.

“I’m okay, Jira,” he said,
just as a single crack of gunfire shattered the silence
.

Lights sprang to life in the stairwell, drawing his attention to where agents were boiling forward.

Crumph!

An explosion threw agents into the air as wood, steel, and concrete went flying.

“Jiron…” But what he was about to say remained unsaid as Jira screamed, “Father!”

Lying on his back, Jiron lay in an ever widening pool of his own blood, a dark stain darkening the center of his chest.

“No!”

More gunfire came from the stairwell. Jira pitched forward as two bullets ripped through her upper body. Before James could react to the horror before him, three more bullets made mincemeat of him; one in the arm, one in the back, and another in the side of his neck. The force of the impacts threw him forward.

Men were shouting as agents moved into the room.

Weak and rapidly losing consciousness, James glanced to the unmoving body of his friend. A small hand touched his shoulder and he turned his head to find Jira, eyes wide open, mouth working to speak but nothing would come. Unwilling to allow Jiron and his daughter to die so far from home, James sought the magic and managed to get a tenuous grasp upon it.

The conduit was in place, the spells were waiting for his command. Then with his last ounce of strength, he activated the spells.

In the weeks to come, the story of what happened next made the circuit through the tabloids. So out of this world was it, that the mainstream news media only mentioned it as a side note. According to those agents present within the upper level of Cinderella’s Castle, the terrorists were enveloped in a field of white, blinding light.

Some agents were blinded, while others claimed to have seen the terrorists’ bodies turn transparent before disappearing altogether. Then in a massive, explosive sound that blew out every window in Cinderella’s Castle, as well as a third of the park, they were gone. All that was left were three areas stained with blood, and a small pile of shattered crystal.

Epilog

________________________

Kip should have been asleep hours ago. Especially considering how he and the other five novitiates with whom he shared the room were going to be awakened early the next morning. Or could it be morning already? Being in a room with no windows made determining the exact time difficult.

Rolling over, Kip tried once again to pass through the doorway into sleep’s realm, only to find the door locked tight. “This is insane,” he mumbled to himself. When the Brother came in the morning to gather them for Morning Prayer, he was going to be like the dead.

Maybe it was the fact that the lad in the cot next to him was snoring like a fellow twice his size? Kip felt like punching him to make him turn over, but such behavior was frowned upon in these new surroundings. Back in his old place, he would have felt no misgivings at all for mistreating another so he could get to sleep.

As a lad of fourteen, which is as close as he could figure his age to be, Kip was used to a lot worse. Having grown up on the streets of Meuranoll, one of the many cities bordering the Sea of the Gods, life hadn’t been easy for the youth.

Most of the street gangs had no use for him, and the few times that he’d tried stealing to squelch the growling of his stomach often as not ended in disaster. If not for the timely intervention of Brother Ollin, he quite likely would have been dead by now.

Brother Ollin was unlike any priest he had ever encountered. Dressed not in fancy robes, instead the Brother garbed himself in regular clothes, usually clothes that had seen better days. He spent his time with the street kids, the riff-raff and downtrodden, he was both kind and generous.

Every evening, he would invite those he spoke with to sup with him at a local tavern. Not the best inn in town, mind you, but the food was good, free, and all he could eat. Kip soon grew to like Brother Ollin very much. He never missed the Brother’s evening gatherings. Of course, the prospect of food afterward prompted his attendance more than what was actually being said.

The Brother talked about this new god that no one had ever heard of before. Kip listened with half an ear, doing so merely to be fed afterward. However, over the course of a couple weeks, the words of Brother Ollin began to resonate with him. They started making sense. It wasn’t long before Kip started asking questions of the Brother during his talks, and before he knew it, they were having actual dialogs about this new god.

Then came the day when Brother Ollin announced his time in Meuranoll was at an end, and made requests of those he had come to know and who showed interest, as to whether they would like to travel with him back to his home temple, perhaps to become priests themselves. And Kip was one.

He was astounded!
A street rat as a priest?
But Brother Ollin claimed that there were many of his fellow priests who had had just such an inauspicious start to their lives as Kip and the others. “Why,” the Brother stated, “the High Priest himself claims to have once lived on the street.” Kip, to say the least, was intrigued. Having nothing better to do, and hoping his newfound habit of regular eating would continue, he tagged along.

Of the fifteen that accompanied Brother Ollin from Meuranoll that day, only Kip, and five others who were located in different rooms within the temple remained. Six were weeded out after a brief introduction with the High Priest. A good natured man looking to be in his late twenties, the High Priest had met each, and right then and there determined who would stay and who would have to return to Meuranoll.

Two had already been sent packing by the High Priest by the time the man stood before Kip. Kip wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was quaking in his boots that day. He had never felt so scrutinized in his life. But when the High Priest gave him a grin and said he could stay, Kip practically jumped in the air and kicked his heels in delight.

In the days that followed, the final three to leave had felt that this life was not for them and departed with no ill feelings on either side. Kip’s life wasn’t hard by his previous standards. Perhaps a bit tedious, but at least there were always two meals a day and no one was out to get him. He felt accepted. And for someone having grown up on the streets, that was something Kip treasured above all else.

Sleep still eluded him. He no longer felt even remotely tired. Sighing in exasperation, he rolled over for the hundredth time only to find the position no better than the previous. Finally, he gave up and sat on the side of his cot.

Glancing around toward the sounds of the other sleeping forms in the room, he was slightly annoyed that he was the only one in this predicament. Thoughts crossed his mind to wake the others out of spite, but he knew that such an action would be frowned upon just as much as the slapping of an obtrusive snorer. As if to emphasize his problem, the lad in the cot next to him gave out with a ripping-loud snort, sucked in air like a pig in heat, then thankfully, rolled over.

“Where’s Brother Falyn?”

Kip turned toward the door at the sound of voices on the other side.

“Sick,”
came the reply. Kip thought the second voice may have come from Brother Bomma, one of the priests in charge of Novitiate training.

There was a shout and he heard the sound of many feet running along the hallway outside. Such a thing had never happened before. Running was absolutely forbidden. Intrigued, Kip stood and went over to the door. Just as he was opening it to see what was going on, the first voice said, “We need a fourth!”

Upon opening the door, Kip found the voice belonged to Father Vickor, one of the higher ups in the temple’s hierarchy. A man in his early forties, he looked more the street fighter than priest.

“Kip!” exclaimed Brother Bomma when he heard the door open and saw the lad’s face appear. “Get back inside!”

The Brother’s expression and tone of voice was not to be denied. Pushing the door closed, he was forestalled when Father Vickor placed his hand on the door. “Wait.” Turning to Brother Bomma, he asked, “How far along is this lad in his studies?”

“Relatively new…” began Brother Bomma when enlightenment came. “You can’t be serious?” he asked his superior.

“We need a fourth.”

“A fourth for what?” Kip was mightily confused. There was something in the air that he had never encountered here before.

“Can we rely on him?” asked Father Vickor,

Brother Bomma hesitated only a moment before nodding. “I believe him to be trustworthy and honorable.”

Kip’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He had no idea Brother Bomma felt that way about him.

“Kip, was it?” asked Father Vickor.

Kip merely nodded.

“Okay then, Kip. Come with us.” Turning on his heel, Father Vickor broke into a run along with Brother Bomma. Speechless and confused, Kip hesitated only a moment before racing after the pair.

Other priests had joined them by the time they reached a doorway leading into part of the temple Kip had never before been allowed to enter. He slowed, but when Brother Bomma hollered for him to keep up, resumed his quick pace.

Down a hallway, then down a flight of steps, Kip soon found himself in a room large enough to hold every priest in the temple, which was a good thing as almost every priest was in attendance. A few were still in their small clothes which indicated that whatever was happening, hadn’t been expected.

A fourth priest joined Father Vickor, as they entered. Kip could see the priests were each grouped into quads. Each quad was positioned an equidistance from the others as they formed a grid around the outer edge of the room. Close to the center, he saw the High Priest standing motionless.

Arms slightly raised, eyes closed, the High Priest looked to be deep in concentration. Then by some unspoken command, each priest fell silent. Nervous, and feeling somewhat out of his depth, Kip stared around at the others in the room.

“Now, gentlemen,” spoke the High Priest.

White light flared as each leader of a quad called upon the holy might of their god. A second later, the other three of the quad did the same. Kip had no idea what to do, and was a little bit scared. His fear rose exponentially when he felt something grab hold of him deep within. Whatever it was, it felt as if it was drawing something from him.

Scared, his first impulse was to fight it, but then he thought better about doing such. He was in the company of priests, men whom he had come to know, some better than others, but all who had been nothing but good and helpful. Whatever was happening to him couldn’t be bad. So putting faith in these men and his newfound god, he gritted his teeth and endured it.

The High Priest was no longer in the room deep beneath the temple, at least his spiritual
self
was not. Roaming the ether between worlds, he was buoyed by the faith and power of his god.

Long had he and his priests been practicing this. For two months now had he drilled his priests on merging their faith and righteous might together as a cohesive whole. Until today, he had no clue as to why. He simply woke up one morning and knew this was something his god wanted done.

He still didn’t know precisely why they were doing this. Sometimes following a god raised more questions than answers. But when the need to do something came over him, there was no denying it. And that time was now.

Trying to maintain a sense of
self
in the tumultuousness of the ether, he kept a firm grasp upon the lifeline his priests were supplying. Without it, there would be no way for him to find his way back. Battered to and fro, he forged his way ever deeper into the cosmic maelstrom.

He knew he searched for something. As to what, he prayed his god would inform him when the time was right. Then he saw something that kept its form longer than a moment. Drawn to it, he discovered three blotches upon the ether, adrift and tossed about as so much flotsam. He hadn’t a clue as to what they were, but certainty filled him and he knew these were what he had come to find.

Drawing upon the righteous power of his priests, he pulled magic from his lifeline and fought the maelstrom for control of the blotches. Power from his god extended outward from his
self
to envelope the three blotches. When he had them securely ensconced within the protective haven of his god’s might, he realized these blotches were more than simple manifestations of the maelstromic chaos. Much more.

Unable to fathom their mystery further due to having to continually battle the churning maelstrom for control, he began retreating along the lifeline to his earthly
self
. Along with him, came that which he had been sent to recover.

Every bit of retreat was a battle. The maelstromic ether fought to keep him in its bosom, unwilling to allow him his freedom. But the power of his god could not be overcome. Little by little, he and his prize withdrew along the lifeline until at last, he passed from the etheric plane and into the earthly one.