Wielder of the Flame (39 page)

Satisfied, she walked the length of the newly made tunnel,
the magical strands still in her hand, and when she reached the other side, she
let the magic go. The hole disappeared quickly and the stone returned to its
former solid state.

She was about to let the veil fall back over her eyes so
that she could see more than just her immediate surroundings when one of the
grotesque things entered her vicinity.

For no reason other than her mere presence there it jumped
at her in a feral unprecedented rage. Instead of dropping the veil Nyrith
reacted quickly. She spun in a beautiful move, whipping out her dagger and
swinging it in a graceful arch. Even loaded down with her traveling gear she
was able to move elegantly. She grabbed at some floating aura’s nearby and
empowered her attack. A bright purple deadly energy flared around her dagger
transforming it into an incredibly huge mystical sword. The purple force hit
the monster-human with an explosion of violet flames. Half the thing crumpled
to the ground in a heap but the other half hit her in the shoulder and threw
her to the ground. The smell of rotting and burning flesh assaulted her
nostrils and she gagged. She stood up quickly, trying to reorient herself. The
wall was no longer in her area of visibility. She was about to let the veil
fall back about her so she could see her surroundings when another thing jumped
into her line of sight and charged her, and then another right behind it.

Without other real options, Nyrith moved and twirled,
flinging the augmented dagger in wide arcs. Boom. Boom. Both attackers fell.

Two more came running at her and she did not stop.

Three more, then five.

She began to push forward trying to find the wall. She would
have to retreat back through the wall and find another way to Belator. She
continued swinging and twirling with seeming reckless abandon, but was actually
in control with each strike. The bodies fell at her side, most of them
unmoving, but some continued to twitch though they were no more a real threat.

Sweat began to break out on her forehead but the reanimated
corpses continued to pour into the small area in the magical world that she
could see. She cursed her position and wished her area of visibility was much
wider so she could find a safe path and escape. She was trapped in a situation
with no way out. If she let the veil fall back over her eyes she would see the
world normally and maybe find a way around Belator’s undead forces and to
safety, but she would lose connection to the power that was helping her defeat
the creatures and would be forced to fight them with a simple dagger.

She lost count at twenty. The things were not very strong,
but they did not stop coming. Nyrith grabbed at more and more auras, creating
larger and larger explosions. She began taking two at a time, then four, then
six. Black gore spattered her face and body with each attack. She wiped her
face clean over and over but bits and pieces of the things kept splattering on
her.

Her body was beginning to tire, she could not take much
more.

“
COME ON!”
She cried angrily, “IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE
GOT!? IS THAT ALL!?” ten came into her circle of vision, one of them twice as
tall and twice as large as any of the others. It bumbled in, its fat bulging
muscles pulsing with sickly green light. Its head was misshapen and its throat
protruding out at an impossibly awkward angle.

She stopped dancing, gathering all the strength she had and
charged forward with a scream.

She leapt into the air with an extra boost from the magic
around her. She spun in the air, pulling and gathering magic, empowering her
attack. The purple augmented dagger surged with violet light. She soared over
the two man tall creature and came down with a furious battle cry. Her purple
dagger flew straight down into the thing’s head and neck, burrowing deep into
its deformed torso. Black goo like blood rained upward and Nyrith turned her
head trying to avoid it. The creature stumbled once, and then sank to its
knees. Its already oversized stomach suddenly inflated to twice its size.
Nyrith groaned and put her arm to cover her face. The man beast exploded with a
thundering roar of flames mixed with the squishing of tearing rotting flesh.

Nyrith was flung up and away with the outward force. The
black world around her was quickly being replaced as she soared through the
air. The encroaching fog appeared around her, with the rest of the world
quickly following, she looked down and saw what seemed like an endless sea of
the grayish green humans filling the wide street and even climbing up some of
the buildings to the roofs, all moving forward towards the wall. Every now and
then one of the large things stood out from the others. She landed into the sea
of things, her traveling pack tearing from her shoulder. The undead softened
her fall but she felt the impact to some degree and she lay, dazed.

There was no way she could fight her way through to safety.
She had been a fool to come to Sulendald. She felt too tired to stand. She
would soon face her fate.

The human monsters that were around her, turned and were
about to charge.

“STOP!”

A voice like thunder and stones crumbling together sounded
over the grunting and moving of the army.

The things obeyed the command.

Nyrith moved her head, trying to see the voice’s owner.

Suddenly a dark shadow came over her and she looked up at
who it was. The individual she saw she could not quite say was human. He had
the tall figure of one, but his skin was a sickly grayish white. She had never
seen an Alborcan but had heard and guessed their skin would appear similar. His
face seemed to have lost most of its layers, almost revealing the bone. He had
no nose. At first she guessed he could be Alborcan but his ears were very
elongated and pointed at the ends and she thought then that he might be an elf.
He stood tall, higher than most of the things surrounding them. He wore robes
that had been taken off of his upper torso and rolled down to his waist,
revealing his partially muscular and in a few places oddly bony upper body.
Around the cloth and his waist was a sizable black belt with a large two horned
skull as decoration in the front. He wore metal armor decorated with bone on
his shoulders, legs, and arms. In one hand he wielded a long metal rod with a
long scythe attached to its end. He held an air of absolute power and authority
about him. His eyes were black with little white rings for pupils.

The human-monsters gave him a wide berth as he approached
Nyrith. She moved her tired hand into her shirt and withdrew Safral’s red
gemstone, holding it up feebly.

He said nothing but reached down and plucked the gemstone
from her hand. She had been on the receiving end of many fierce gazes of
Safral’s, but never before had she felt so intimidated. She both liked and
hated it.

“Safral,” She answered his unspoken question about the red
stone, “My previous Mentor, Master,” she corrected herself.

The tall figure replied with silence, looking from the gem
to her.

He waved an arm, gesturing for his soldiers to continue
their attack against the soldiers in the distance.

“He told me to seek out Belator and gave the red gemstone to
me,” She swallowed, averting her eyes from the individual’s frightening gaze,
“If that is you then here it is. I know what the gemstone means, I bow to the Great
One, as did Safral. I followed up with several of Safral’s contacts and I was
pointed in this direction until finally I made it here.” There was an awkward
pause, “I—uh, He said that Belator, if that is you, would accept the gemstone
and allow me to be your new apprentice.”

The individual looked around as if Nyrith was suddenly gone
and he was searching for something else to occupy his attention. Finally he
spoke.

  His voice was again like thunder with crumbling rocks.

“I am indeed Belator. I sensed the presence of something up
here using magic to attack my troops. I am surprised that you are the wielder
of such power. I am also surprised of this,” He lifted the red stone to the
light, “I did not think Safral one so weak as to succumb to death.”

“It was the Wielder of the Flame,” Nyrith  replied, “The
rumors are true, I saw with my own eyes.”

“You are a bold apprentice to sit by and watch your Master
die at the enemy’s hands.”

“He had ordered me away to another part of the city to help
execute his plan. He desired the sword, he could feel its power, I could feel
its power, but he did not know it was the Sword of the Phoenix, or that another
Wielder had been chosen.”

“Very well,” Belator said, “we shall send word back to the Great
One of this. It is important news.”

“and,” Nyrith scrounged up the courage to speak again, “and
I—?”

Belator looked down at her intently.

“Am I to be your apprentice then?”

Belator looked up into the sky, closing his eyes, then he
returned his gaze to her.

“I have witnessed your abilities against my soldiers, and I
am impressed to see them come from one so young. But you are weak still and
require much instruction. Your training begins now.”

Nyrith, empowered by the news stood, somewhat shakily.

She shook her head and her arms, regaining her balance.

She wanted to smile but kept it to an inward one.

Her training would continue.

She was happy.

Drake had not come to save Puck.

The voice belonged to the Alborcan mercenary that Marad had
bound with metal transformed by magic and they had left in their house while
they went to Ranasa’s abode.

Ranasa’s mother’s lifeless body flashed across his mind’s
eye and he was suddenly furious.

“You come with us,” The man said.

The man’s breath stank of rotten fruit and dirt.

Puck gagged and could only imagine the terrors he would have
to face in the care of the barbaric Alborcans. He did not want to go with them.

He saw in the distance the two guards on night watch. The
rest of the Bloodcloaks remained sleeping soundly in their makeshift beds
around the campsite. One guard was relieving himself just a ways away from the
wagons, the other was half asleep against his spear, gazing into the glowing
coals of the fire. The balkars were nearby along with a few aldoms. The
creatures were completely content to remain in their spice circle, snoozing.
Two Alborcan mercenaries were creeping up to the distracted guards, ready to
slay them silently. Puck spied more figures lying in wait in the trees nearby
the campsite.

It was in that moment that Puck realized that his chance had
come.

He was about to escape.

But it would take all the effort he could muster to wake the
Bloodcloaks to start a fight, in which he would slip quietly away during the
melee.

He could not wait much longer.

He closed his eyes.

The crystal around his neck, it had helped him before, he
would use it again.

He let it touch his skin and he drew strength from it.

It glowed fiercely and Puck opened his eyes, they were a
swirling shifting shiny silver where his grey pupils had been.

He reached out with his magic, empowered by his sister’s
pendant. He felt all the buckles and swords and cooking pots and pans and
everything metal within the camp. He lifted anything that was not attached to
something and slammed them against anything else metal.

At the same time he raised his voice and yelled,
“MERCENARIES!”

A number of things happened in quick succession.

In only a matter of moments the little campsite was plunged
into chaos.

First the clanging metal rang out loudly.

The mercenary closest to the Bloodcloak on nightwatch drove
his sword through his enemy from the neck down into his abdomen, killing him
instantly.

The rest of the Bloodcloaks sprang to their feet at the
crashing noises.

Some looked frantically around for their swords, which were
swinging in the air clanging against other metal.

“Alborcans!” One of the Kingdom soldiers cried.

The Alborcan next to Puck cursed in his native tongue and
punched Puck in the face. Puck sprawled against the grassy foot of the tree
from the impact, stars dancing across his vision.

The metal objects hovering in the air clattered to the
ground.

The mercenaries erupted from hiding, rushing forward,
weapons drawn.

Both groups collided fiercely with each other, the cry of
battle escaping their throats.

Puck’s head swam with pain. He was at the edge of
consciousness again. His body was too tired from the days of abuse it had
undergone.

His hands were shackled together again. He needed to free
himself, find out where his gear was, the artifact at least, and escape while
he still had the chance.

Puck felt the Alborcan’s hand grab his hair and yank,
pulling the young man to his feet.

Puck looked past the stars swimming past his vision and into
the eyes of the mercenary. Any dark face paint had been washed away, the man’s
true complexion being clearly revealed as extremely pale, almost white, like
the rest of his kind.

“You are far more trouble than you are worth,” he cursed at
Puck again in his native tongue.

“Trouble
this
.” Puck said.

He drew strength once more from the crystal around his neck.
The manacles glowed brightly in a flash and Puck shaped them into a long sharp
object.

The mercenary had only enough time to raise his hands
slightly to defend himself before Puck shoved the newly fashioned weapon into
the man’s gut.

The Alborcan grunted with pain and doubled over, falling to
his knees.

He groaned once, then gurgled, and finally fell on his face
and was still and silent.

Puck scrambled back, surprised at himself. As a child he and
Ranasa had always envisioned growing up and going on adventures. They had
reenacted many tales and legends of brave warriors and heroes from the War of
Power and before, letting their childish imaginations fly away with reckless
abandon. In his mind he had slain many foes, both man and beast, and come off
conqueror, but never before, in reality, had he intentionally harmed someone.
Puck continued to scramble away a few more paces before standing up. He panted
heavily from the exertion but he could feel battlefire running through his
blood, giving him strength.

The sound of swords clashing and cries of pain continued to
sound throughout the campsite. Puck glanced over at the fight. A few
Bloodcloaks lay in their own blood upon the ground as well as a number of
mercenaries but the rest were still in close quarters combat.

I need to find my things,
Puck thought.

The crystal around his neck glowed again slightly.

What a strange powerful thing. Aliyana was right, it has
saved me after all.

He continued to look down at the campsite. He saw many small
piles of equipment and things scattered about, around the fires, but he could
not make out his own pack and traveling gear, or sword.

I do not have much time!
He scolded himself, hoping
to make himself think faster.

Think! Think! Think!

He closed his eyes again and reached out with his magic,
ignoring the pains up and down his body and face. He sensed the metal nearby,
the movement and clashing of swords, the chink of coins in coinbags. He prodded
further, seeking for the signature steel of the weapon that had been in his
family for generations.

At first he felt no distinction.

It was frustrating not having the metal there in his hands
to help, but the circumstances were forcing him to compensate.

You are a Shifter!
He encouraged himself.

Finally he felt it.

He opened his eyes and turned in the direction where he
felt. His gaze fell upon the last wagon in the small three wagon train, the one
he had been chained too.

Of course.

He stood up slowly, fighting the intense pain that pulsed
through his body. His mind demanded to remind him of each pain with every
subtle shifting of his body as if to say
stop moving! You need to lay down
and rest!

But he could not do that.

Whoever the victor of the battle below would be, Puck would
remain the loser.

Escape was his only hope.

He finally got to his feet but had to steady himself against
the nearby tree. His vision swam at his getting to his feet, threatening to
topple him. The feeling passed and Puck straightened to move forward.

The battle was nearing an end, neither side seemed close to
victory, both having taken equal casualties.

Puck hobbled, as quickly as he could muster, to the last
wagon, staying just out of the light of the dim glowing coals of the campfires.
His eyes were finally mostly adjusted to the dark by the time he reached the
cart. He could sense his weapon was nearby in the back portion of the cart. He
put his hands on the ledge of the wagon and lifted himself up. There were a few
barrels and wooden crates, but it was mostly empty.

Then he saw it. Next to one of the crates were his wristband
and other things. He grabbed his boots first and carefully put them on. His
feet ached in protest. He quickly discarded his grubby and tattered
underclothes and dressed in some other things he had in his pack. He felt
better already. He reached for the wristband, eager to have it around his arm
again and did not pay enough attention to his surroundings as he picked it up.

He bumped a large crate and it fell, making a large thump
against the wooden bottom of the wagon. Puck froze, as if somehow remaining
still would stop anyone who might have heard the sound to come and investigate.

Keep on fighting, keep on fighting, keep on fighting!

He chanted silently.

The clash of swords and shouts continued, uninterrupted by
the crash in the wagon.

As Puck was turning to leave he saw that the fallen crate
had dislodged one of the boards that made up the bottom of the wagon. It was a
secret compartment. Only a few items lay within.

Puck’s curiosity overrode his sense of urgency and he bent
down for a moment.

There was a coin bag and what looked to be a leather-bound
book of some sort.

Something important enough to hide.
Puck reasoned.

He withdrew the book and opened it to a random page.

Captain Krojak is a failure of a leader. His dealings
with the Alborcan mercenaries always end in some sort of squabble that is never
really resolved. Today he split the company into two different groups, one to
go to Essoril to try and capture the son of the family, and another to go off
with the Alborcans and try and capture the wife and daughter of the family. I
of course will go to neither and stay with the wagons. Since I do not really
exist within the company Krojak will not even notice my absence. I still cannot
believe that Krynn—

Puck glanced over a few other pages and realized that he was
not reading a book, but a journal. They were mission report notes, not of one
of the Bloodcloaks within the company, but of a spy loyal to another Krynn in a
different part of Terragur. He wanted to read more but heard the sound of
battle lessening.

He stowed the journal into his pack and then grabbed the
coin purse as well. 

Finally he latched the sword to his belt and wrapped his
belt around his wasted, securing it snuggly. He thanked the Exalted Spirits for
showing him the journal. His mission had not been completely in vain.

But he was not quite free.

The clash of swords was few now, the battle was almost over.

As quietly as he could in his condition, Puck jumped from
the back of the wagon.

He dropped to his knees in pain and cursed as rocks and
pebbles scattered at his fall.

Then, a voice from the side of the wagon facing away from
the camp came to Puck’s ears.

“Hee—elp,” The owner of the voice sounded in pain and in
trouble, “Someone,” they coughed, “Who is there?”

 Puck stood up quietly.

“Plea—se,” they coughed again.

Puck closed his eyes, unsure of what to do, he thought he
recognized the voice.

He peered over just to confirm his guess.

Fatloaf was skewered to the side of the wagon by a long
spear. One of the mercenaries lay in a slowly growing pool of their own blood
beneath Fatloaf’s feet.

Fatloaf locked eyes with Puck and Puck immediately regretted
looking.

“Please,” Fatloaf said, desperation in his eyes, “Help me.”
His voice was quiet and gurgly. He was unable to raise it any louder.

Anger welled up inside Puck. His cheek flared with throbbing
pain. He walked over and stood before the helpless man. The tables had been
turned, the tides shifted. Puck now stood in the position of absolute power. He
could now exact revenge for all the pain the Terragurion soldiers had inflicted
upon him.

Any hope within Fatloaf’s eyes died as the precise
implications of his situation dawned on him. His fate was inevitable, all the
misdeeds, all the malicious and unkind things he had done throughout his life
had led him to this moment in time, his hour of reckoning.

He saw Fatloaf’s sword on the ground next to the impaled
man.

Puck made his decision. He bent down and picked up the
terragurion soldier’s own fallen weapon, raising it high above his head.
Fatloaf closed his eyes, gripping the wood of the spear pierced through his
midsection tightly, anticipating the final killing blow.

“Darkness consume you!” Puck hissed, letting out all his rage
and fury.

The young man brought the sword down with a powerful,
precise, strike.