Wielder of the Flame (26 page)

Where had the sorcerer
disappeared to?

But Marc had no time to answer the question.

From the corner of his eye Marc saw another two of the foul
monsters leap toward him. He stood, drawing his sword free from the dead one on
the ground before him. The first one had jumped high so he crouched near to the
ground, just dodging it. The second one came in low so Marc whirled his blade
in an upwards slice. He caught it in the face, cutting a long purple bloody
line through its jaw and right eye.

It flew with the force of the attack and spun wildly in the
road, flinging blood and mud in all directions.

The tingling sensations from his sword began to disappear
and Marc felt suddenly dizzy. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision
when he heard a snarl and a heavy force crushed against his breastplate. He
landed hard, skidded in the mud, and then slammed into the wall of one of the
buildings making up the alleyway.

Marc cried out in pain as claws found the space in-between
his shoulder plate. Bright blue and yellow lights clouded his vision. There was
another snarl. He could feel the thing trying to claw away his armor. The
leather straps on his shoulder plate began to tear and the creature pulled
harder. There was a snap as his shoulder armor was torn free. He yelled in pain
as the wolf-lizard bit into his shoulder. Still disoriented he let out a battle
cry and was finally able to bring his sword up into the monsters midsection.
There was a cracking and squelching sound as the blade bit through the animal’s
backbones. Warm wetness poured onto Marc’s hands and he made a noise of
disgust. The monster gurgled and then went slack. He shoved the thing off of
him and struggled to stand.

He looked up just in time for his brain to register
something happening very fast before his eyes.

Safral was falling down on him, a knife in his hand, pointed
towards Marc.

This was it.

This was how he, Marc, was going to die.

And just when I was really liking my new home.

But before the wizard could finish off the boy there was a
shattering of thick glass from off to the side. A cloaked figure emerged from a
nearby window with tremendous force, a sword clutched in the figure’s grasp,
pointed forward.

The barreling figure slammed sideways into the wizard, sword
first. The knife in the magician’s hand moved over. Instead of killing Marc,
the blade bit fairly deep into his cheek.

Marc cried out with the pain and rolled away.

He got to his knees, clutching at his cheek.

Blood and rain poured through the spaces between his
fingers.

The pain was sharp, biting, pounding with his heartbeat.

He placed his bloody hand on the cracked stone wall next to
him to help him stand.

He leaned against the wall and turned around.

It was in that moment that something magical happened. The
rain continued to pour downwards. It landed against Marc’s cheek and carried
the blood from his cheek downward as well.

The blood from his wound fell from his chin with the rain.

A single drop was all it took.

The blood splashed against the blade.

A bond was created.

And something awoke.

The glowing aura from the sword immediately brightened
twofold, and continued to grow brighter by the second.

 Marc did not know what was happening, but he recognized the
feeling from when he first withdrew the sword from its place of holding and
what followed after.

His palms began to glow, and then his arms up to his
shoulders. He felt the warmth within and all around him growing hotter.

The magic began to envelope him.

Power rushed from him, like a shockwave. It wiped away the
rest of the surviving monsters in the blink of an eye and with only a tiny
whiff of smoke to speak of their departure. 

He did not know, because he could not see, but Zildjin and
Sesuadra and the stranger watched in awe as the whole of Marc’s being grew
brighter.

A golden pulsing aura surrounded Marc and the weapon in his
hand.

It rose up, hovering with a will of its own, Marc still
gripping it in his right fist.

The sword began to change. The metal became searing white
hot and flames began to burst from it. The flames spread quickly, enveloping
the blade. Then it burst upward in a magical display of gold and orange energy.
The rust fell from the sword like ash, and the scratches on its surfaces
disappeared. A small carving began to emerge on the blade near the hilt on both
sides of the sword.

The weapon had been revitalized to its proper glory.

Then the flames spread, surrounding Marc, and for a moment
he was afraid that he would be burned alive at worst, and at least that the
clothes Eleanor made would be torched.

But nothing happened to him, or the clothes.

The searing light grew, shooting up into the sky. The dark
alleyway was blazing with light.

The crowds in Kolima looked up in awe at the magic.

It grew and grew, climbing higher and higher into the sky
with the speed of a bullet.

The night all through Kolima was chased away with the light.

The people looked up in awe and wonder as the night turned
to day.

Even those in nearby towns and villages and on the road of
Amber Elms leading to Kolima, could see the light in the sky.

The stranger stood up, leaving his sword in the now dead
wizard at his feet. He pulled back the hood of his dark colored green and brown
cloak. He was a man of about twenty two, with long dirty blonde hair.

“The Wielder of the Flame,” he said in a hushed voice filled
with wonder and awe.

Finally the magic reached its pinnacle in the outer limits
before breaking the atmosphere. A golden and orange fiery shape exploded in the
sky, like a star.

Marc knew it was the same powerful magic as before. It had
become dormant since his arrival here to this new place, sleeping inside the
sword, but it had now awoken.

It made a sound, something between the roar of a burst of
flame amplified hundreds of times, and an echoing screech. And then, within
only a few moments the pulsing light and energy coursed downward, back into Marc,
back into the sword.

There was a swift rushing sound as it happened that did not
fade but rather ended abruptly as the magic returned to where it had emerged.

Marc felt entirely drained from the display and the
transformation of the sword, and he fell to his knees with exhaustion.

He teetered on his knees for a moment.

He heard footsteps running towards him.

He fell backwards.

Strong arms caught him. He looked up into the face of a man
with blonde hair who looked a few years older than Zildjin.

“All is well,” the man said.

Then he saw Zildjin and Sesuadra appear, standing over him
also.

And then he was closing his eyes, embracing the sleep which
his drained body demanded.

Nyrith watched from afar as the man
dragged the body of the soldier, and then of her mentor, to the dark corner of
the alleyway, shoving them behind a large stack of crates, the other two
holding up their young friend.

She was tempted to reveal herself and take revenge for the
death of Safral, but it was the four of them against her, three really, with
the fourth in some state of sleep, and the magic she had performed for Safral
had left her weak, favor was on their side.

She waited until they left, disappearing into a crowd of
people just a street away, before she dropped from her perch in the hanging
gardens of someone’s balcony, and raced to the body of her master.

Safral was dead.

She put her hand hovering over his mouth for the longest
time but she felt no breath escape his lips. He did not so much as stir. Blood
covered his torso, still dripping from the large sword wound in his side. If
not for his injury he appeared to be asleep.

Her hands trembled as the anger welled up inside her. Safral
was the closest thing she had to a family, the only father figure in her life,
and now he was gone. There was so much still she had to learn from him and she
now would never have the opportunity to do so. She clenched her fist.

She rose her hand in anger and brought it striking down on
the old man’s chest. She pounded furiously.

You cannot just leave me here, all alone! You were going
to teach me so much!

Who will teach me now!? WHO!?

Purple light flared from her fists, surrounding her hands
and she continued to pound on him.

Seeing Safral dead forced her to remember the day when she
had first met the old man. She had grown up with a traveling band of
entertainers, learning the ways of the Ladies of the Eve. Even at a young age
she danced in front of men for coin, but always only for show, not to touch or
for one man, as she was too young to be had. When she was a little older she
began to learn the carnal pleasures and Safral was her first solo act. Nyrith,
disgusted to be forced to perform with one so old, had begun with a dance to stall
for time. Before she could move from the dance to the next part of the act he
had stopped her. She had been afraid that she had made a mistake and that
Safral would tell her Lady of the Eve Mother, and that she would be punished.
But that had not been the case. He had told her that he sensed a potential in
her to wield magic, that she could become a sorceress, but only with his help.
That day, he snuck her out of the group that owned her and began to teach her
magic.

Suddenly the old man’s hand snapped upward and caught one of
her wrists mid-air, immediately pulling her from her thoughts.

His grip was as hard as steel, the grip of death.

The old man’s eyes opened, sickly green light illuminated
from his pupil-less eyes. His mouth opened, revealing the same unearthly hue.

“
Belato-orrr
!” he croaked.

It was a throaty voice, not his own, but one from beyond the
grave.

His other hand reached into his inner robe pocket shakily,
as if he was losing control of his body. The shaking hand withdrew, holding a
perfectly smooth oval shaped gem, red in color. The hand reached out to her,
holding the gem up for her to take.

The light flickered, and faded, and was gone.

Safral closed his eyes and mouth, and fell back, releasing
Nyrith from his grip.

Nyrith sat back.

She knew what the red gem was, a symbol of Safral’s loyalty
to the Great One. An apprentice only received such a gem when he or she was
proved worthy of it.

She tentatively plucked the gem from his dead hand.

A powerful feeling flowed through her.

Now Nyrith had one.

She was loyal to the Overlord.

Belator.

She knew the name.

The Necromancer.

Is that where you want me to go?
She thought, staring
at the old man.

Safral had spoken of many things since she had come-of-age,
including Belator, the dark wizard who focused his learning and use of magic to
the many mysteries involving life and death, mostly death. Everything Safral
had said involving the studies The Necromancer performed had intrigued her, but
the description of his personality and methods of teaching had not sounded
encouraging. She liked the way Safral taught, she wanted to learn from
him
.

But now he was dead.

She clenched her fists again, but did not strike the old
man. She was tightening her hands to hold back her tears. She knew Safral’s
message was important enough for him to struggle back to his body to deliver,
so she would comply.

It was his last wish for her, and it was apparent he trusted
the wizard enough to take her under his wing, so she would go.

She stood up.

Someone was bound to come upon the alley soon and if she
wanted to leave Kolima she would have to do so before someone began asking
around about the death of one of the more powerful and prominent Overseer’s
Hands in the city. They would be bound to seek her out first, she was almost
always seen at his side she was his apprentice after all.

She was sad that she could do nothing about her mentor’s
body, but she did not have much time. She needed to get her things together and
leave quickly.

Belator
.

She felt a moment of calm wash over her. Despite her other
emotions which threatened to overtake her, a small part of her, the most
selfish part of her, was happy.

Belator is even closer to the Overlord than Safral.  

I will still be able to learn all I would have learned
under Safral,

And more.

Demar was on the bridge of his ship
when he saw the light.

It was dark.

He found solace in the stars and when he could not sleep at
night he frequently walked the bridge of the ship, looking up into the night
sky. Thantor would always accompany him. And he was there that night as well,
to witness the spectacle.

The light appeared on the horizon far in the distance.
Everyone on the deck saw it. They stopped what they were doing, mesmerized,
amazed.

The light was a fiery golden bright, shooting straight up
into the sky.

Only a very powerful magic user could be capable of such
displays!
was Demar’s first thought.

“Runemaster,” Thantor said in a quiet voice filled with
wonder, “Have you ever seen such a thing?”

The light continued skyward for quite some time. Then it
reached its zenith and exploded into a bright indistinguishable shape.

The Runemage did not reply, just continued to stare.

The shape remained in the air for a moment, a sharp bold
contrast to the inky blackness of the night sky behind it, before it folded
into itself and returned to the earth.