The Dreaddrac Onslaught (Book 4) (31 page)

“Smegdor, have the wraith slowly torture one of the general’s guards so he understands his own peril,” the Evil One said, snarling. He looked up, glaring at his aide.

Smegdor cringed.

The king caught the frightened man in his stare. “Do you have a problem with that, you cripple?” the king yelled. He felt warm spittle at the corner of his mouth and licked it off.

“I’ll go at once and prepare the wraith for his mission,” the terrified man said, keeping his head lowered.

The sorcerer thought constriction around Smegdor, and the man’s whole body twisted, his face grimaced. Smegdor slumped to the floor in agony. His gasping breaths were desperate. He clutched his chest with both arms as if to pull away some heavy object pressing down on him. As the servant was about to slip into unconsciousness, the Evil One released his hold on him.

Smegdor sucked breath as a drowning man popping up for air.

“Get out and attend to the wraith and his mission,” the king said.

Smegdor struggled to get up. He was bluish from the lack of oxygen. His oxygen-starved muscles trembled, but he crawled to the doorway nearby. He said nothing; he couldn’t survive another attack, and the monster well knew he’d taken the man to death’s door.

“Smegdor, the wraith had better be successful, or you will be the one that pays for his failure,” the king said as Smegdor struggled out into the hallway.

*

Smegdor half-crawled, half-stumbled back to his room on the level below, where he allowed himself time to recover from his near death experience. Having seen the Well of Souls too closely, he was terrified of dying and having his soul condemned to that most horrible of places for eternity. When he felt he was able to walk again, he forced himself to go down to the dark catacombs on the level between that where the rodent herds were raised and the orc armies’ barracks levels.

Smegdor studied the inventory of wraiths the king kept resting within their coffins in those dark caves.

“There’s a goodly number that could be used as needed, but none are the powerful creations the king sent against Sengenwha and Prince Saxthor on his expedition. Those monsters cost the Dark Lord too much of his own power. The loss of such power can’t be risked again so soon,” Smegdor mumbled. He looked up, jerking his head this way and that to be sure no one heard him.

This wraith will need to be powerful enough to accomplish the gruesome task of torturing a strong guard slowly to death and have the experience to seriously terrorize the general. After all, General Tarquak is a coward, and only the greater dread of facing the Evil One will make him overcome his fear of battle and failure, Smegdor thought. The general must be made to leave the security of Sengenwhapolis for an attack on Botahar. I hate the wraiths. They chill my blood, but I must awaken one for this assignment. At least I feel confident I’ve selected the best of the lot for the mission.

He looked about across the large, dark cavern, dank and moldy with crude niches cut into the rock holding simple coffins.

“I have the king’s protection,” he mumbled to himself. “That will protect me from the wraith’s cruelty when awakened, I hope.”

Smegdor passed further through the catacombs’ tunnels, where tiny rooms each held a single chest. Each chest contained the inhabitant’s home area soil. The chests varied, but there were resonating crystals in each coffin’s side. The crystals were synchronized to a master crystal’s energy waves. The master crystals rested on pedestals centered and spaced periodically through the tunnels. The Dark Lord focused dark energies emanating from this focal point in the earth to feed the crystals that in turn fed the crystals in the chests, keeping the wraiths fully charged, yet confined and ready for their master’s missions. Smegdor could feel the energy pulsing through him. His hair stood on end as he moved from crystal to crystal down the corridor, looking for the creature he’d selected. The adjutant finally came to the chest of a wraith formed on the soul of a man particularly cruel in life. He read the card’s history.

“This agonized man slowly tortured his wife to death for leaving him and never repented even as he was hanged. His thirst for vengeance and an awakened lust for others’ suffering fused to his soul in death, and it festers now in this monstrous creation.”

Smegdor held back a moment as revulsion swept over him, thinking of what he was about to awaken. The hot moldy air made it worse. He stared at the chest for a moment before noting his foot tingled, and he shifted his weight.

A sudden sparkle of light flashed from the dark corner of the room. Smegdor jumped involuntarily, his nerves tensed and released. “Who’s there?”

There was no response, only silence. Then he felt and even heard, a dozen of his own strong heart beats before calming down. A moment to recover and the little man stepped over to the glitter’s source. He reached down, picking a crystal that must have dropped when preparing the chest for the wraith. The beautiful citrine, a yellow quartz crystal the size of a pigeon egg, felt warm in Smegdor’s hand. He slipped the citrine back into its receptacle and returned to the task at hand. Only then did he see the trembling rat that had disturbed the crystal scurry into the dark recess of another niche.

Smegdor raised the baton given him by the king. He looked at the sapphire crystal of nearly black hue, whose inclusions could suck energy, then fracture the beams and refocus to cause multiple burns. Also, it repels an opposing energy, or drains the essence out of it if it comes too close.

The man looked again at the chest before him.

This monster will be preparing to strike if he who opens the chest isn’t prepared. Wraiths are energized souls particularly sensitive to other energy concentrations and thus will fear the wand. This one must already be aware of my presence so close.

His heart began to beat faster. Then, reassured by the wand between him and the chest, Smegdor took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Beware wraith. Smegdor, the master’s representative, calls you forth. Come with me to the master when I open the chest.”

Being totally without remorse or restraint, wraiths focus on stealing other souls for their master and draining the victim’s energy for their own. Without the wand, I would be a smoldering husk within seconds of opening the chest. The wraith must know from the outset that, with the baton, I’m in charge, or it will destroy me.

He swallowed, then withdrew the restraining crystal, setting it aside on the pedestal. Another deep breath to bolster his nerve and he took firm hold of the chest’s lid. “Wake and rise!” Smegdor commanded, lifting the chest’s lid.

The dark vapor within the chest swirled. It rose slowly from the receptacle to hang in the air as it formed up into the translucent facsimile of a man. Still it was wavering as the energy of its being pulsed like a heartbeat. The last of it to form were the eyes. They seemed hollow but hard in the sockets, searching about the room for he that commanded it to rise. Smegdor provided the specter no physical form, so it could say nothing and ask no questions. Sensing the baton’s crystal, the wraith nodded to acknowledge its submission to Smegdor, who turned and led the essence back up to his chamber.

“You will leave at nightfall for Sengenwhapolis in Sengenwha. There in the capital, you will find General Tarquak ensconced in the rubble of Sekcmet Palace. You will seize one of his great ogres and torture the creature to death slowly in front of the general. Having made that point of power clear, you will instruct the general he, or his replacement, will march on Botahar to the east before the next full moon. Is that clear?” Smegdor asked, carefully controlling his voice.

The eyes in the specter flashed and narrowed. Smegdor’s hand tightened on the baton between them, and the form drew back. Then a cruel smirk warped on the vaporous face. The cloudy hands clenched the air before it and twisted slowly, apparently enjoying the suggested agony that would result.

Smegdor understood perfectly; if the wraith couldn’t liquidate this annoyance ordering him about, the ogre and this General Tarquak would pay a heavier price.

“I see you understand your orders,” Smegdor said, his courage returning, clutching the baton. “Go, then, on the night wind for Sengenwha, and remember the general must march on Botahar no later than the next full moon.”

* * *

Bellowing and wheezing, the poor ox they had finally stolen dragged the patched cart to the crest of a hill in northern Graushdem. The worn out beast stopped to catch its breath. Earwig and Dreg sat up, bedazzled. Before them the massive Wizards’ Hall ruins spread out over the plain below.

“Is that the Wizards’ Hall?” Dreg asked, astonished by the sight. “I heard of it in stories since I was a kid. I never imagined anything like that.”

“That must be it,” Earwig said, her voice a reverent whisper. She looked left and right to take it all in. “I heard of it long ago but never convinced my hermit husband to bring me here. The power hidden in those ruins is still perhaps the greatest outside Dreaddrac.”

Dreg snapped the whip, and the ox strained and lumbered forward. The beast was exhausted and would have collapsed long before but for Dreg’s refusal to drive it day and night. The creaking cart made so much noise locals along the farm roads had come out thinking they were peddlers. By the time they approached the Wizards’ Hall, the two travelers hardly noticed the rattling and creaking. They were subject to constant backaches from riding all day at a forty-five degree angle due to the difference in the size of the cart’s wheels. The decrepit bundle of cart, riders, and emaciated ox ambled along on the weed-grown road to the hall, making everyone and everything along the way wary of the approaching spectacle.

It was dusk when the travelers rolled up outside the ruins’ outermost wall and stopped to camp for the night. Just at last light, as Dreg was settling the campfire into a bed of coals, he noticed a dark vapor rise above a high tower battlement and slide down over the ruins, drifting quickly in their direction.

“What’s that coming this way, Miss Earwig?”

“What? Where?” Earwig looked about.

Dreg pointed to the dark shadow almost lost in the twilight that hesitated on the crest above the outermost wall. Dreg’s chest was pounding; the thing resumed its advance toward them. Alarmed, Dreg jumped up, wondering what good the stick could do against a smoky essence.

Earwig stepped in front of Dreg, between him and the dark form that was now in their camp gathering itself, taking a more defined horned, if human, form. 

“What do you want?” the witch said. She spread her legs and put her hands on her hips in a defiant stance.

The wraith couldn’t speak as yet, but hovered there several minutes observing them. Then an orc emerged from the shadows, breathing heavily as it approached. The wraith seized it. A short squeal or howl, Dreg couldn’t say which, and the hybrid thing stood stiff, staring with an evil grimace.

Earwig was first to move. She started toward the orc, who, apparently surprised at her aggressive move, stepped back, losing the grin. He slapped his warty hand on his sword hilt, shaking it in warning.

“I said, what does your ugly self want?” Earwig demanded to know.

“You must be that witch the king told us about,” the wraith-orc said. It moved forward two steps, hesitated, and looked at Earwig with head cocked to one side, trying to make out her features in the campfire light.

“What if I am? What business is it of yours?”

“Don’t you go getting yourself in a huff, Witch.” The orc shuffled forward slightly.

Earwig didn’t back off. She was holding her stare on the orc. “Dreg, hand me my wand!”

Dreg shifted his eyes left and right, then pursed his lips, puzzled. “Now! The wand.”

Dreg looked behind him, then went to the cart seat and brought her the crooked stick he found there, remembering her using it at the last transmutation fiasco. This must be what she wants.

Earwig whipped the wand out of Dreg’s hand in a full arc and shot wizard-fire at the orc.

The wraith-orc snatched its sword from its sheath and deflected the bolt off into the night. “Hold back, Witch!”

Earwig held her stance but lowered the wand.

“The Lord of Dreaddrac has warned, I mean told us you were coming. We’re to conduct you to him at the Munattahensenhov if we find you. Put down that wand.”

“How do I know that’s true?”

“Well, nasty looking as you are and being a dead soul as I am, you must know we’re both on the same side in this war.”

Earwig lowered the wand to her side, took a long look at the orc, and chewed her lip. Dreg stepped closer to her but moved behind her.

“Maybe he’s right, Miss Earwig. Maybe they’re going to help us get to that king you’re always saying is your friend and can look outs for us.” 

“Maybe so,” Earwig said, studying the orc with a keen eye. She started to turn, and the wraith-orc started to come closer. She whipped back and shot another bolt of wizard-fire at the orc, who again deflected the bolt.

Dreg dove for cover under the cart and looked back to see the battle enjoined again.

The orc jumped forward, sword in arc, and catching the wand in its hook, whipped it from Earwig’s hand, flipping it out into the darkness beyond the campfire’s light. Earwig stumbled backward and fell back on her well-padded posterior, exhaling a “Humph!”