The Eleventh Tome – Chapter X

The Prophecies of Andrapaal

The Eleventh Tome

Chapter X

written by: Tim Law

Year 513 of the Kingdom of Thuraen

Fredrickson the Third is King

Vladimir the Young is Chief Sage

Zerrick felt the pressure of the demon’s grip loosen as the images faded from his mind. A brilliant flash stole his vision for a moment as the human sacrifice was claimed by the entity of darkness, it returning to the abyss of eternal torture that it called home. The master magickian clamped shut his eyes and refused to open them, searching through memory of what he had been shown, time and time again, each viewing revealing to him more and more knowledge of the human kingdom’s fate.
In his mind Zerrick spoke, no longer was he able to use his maw, as it too had been devoured by the demon as it filled his mind with visions.
‘The heart of the kingdom has been claimed, the prophecy seen and the eleventh tome been claimed again,’ thought Zerrick. ‘Indeed the signs seem right for a strike upon the slave kind.’
That Thurzuk laid total claim to the human kingdom, seemed right to Zerrick. The fool did not understand the magic that he pretended that he could handle; it would be that one’s demise. That in turn would make the humans much easier to dominate in full again. The glorious days of the vorsurk kind would be born again.

***

Raven allowed only the smallest part of himself to peer cautiously around the charred shell of one of the many buildings of Andrapaal’s back alleyways. He whipped his head back as quickly as he was able, by the slightest of margins did he miss having that one peaking eye skewered by a vorsurk thrown dart. In the mid afternoon sun, the monstrous barbarian had poorer sight than by the dusk, but still it was luck, and by luck alone that Raven remained alive and with both his eyes. Quieter than a mouse, his father Michael crept into Raven’s shadow. Both men stayed crouched behind the skeletal remains of what looked like it had once been another of Andrapaal’s ale houses. Where once a stained-glass window had sat depicting the image of a buxom barmaid serving mugs of frothing ale, there was now half an alcove, the remaining part filled with jagged coloured teeth more fitting as a dragon’s jaws. Before Raven could signal to his father that his single look had revealed seven of the beasts, the first of them lunged, blade first around what little remained of the corner. Michael’s hammer struck true the barbarian’s blade as he rose so much faster than Raven did, to meet this challenge. Raven remained crouched, thrusting forward with a broken spear head and a vorsurk hand axe, normally a weapon the brutes threw. The first of these makeshift weapons glanced off the beast’s thigh and crunched into the crumbling stonework of the ale house wall. The tiny axe struck true, embedding itself into the vorsurk’s abdomen with a squelching thud. The lupine beast did not notice, focused upon the two opponents it faced, and taking a glance at the small army that these two lead. Michael’s next hammer blow was aimed perfectly by the veteran soldier, a powerful strike that sunk into the creature’s eye and jaws and ripped the head clean off in the follow through. The headless vorsurk instantly dropped his blade and slunk down against the wall. Raven released his grip on the axe he still held and caught the blade, in one sweeping motion, able to carry the wicked curved sword in a bottom handed strike that drew forth a spray of crimson from the chest of the second vorsurk to appear, and a similar spray of red blood from the neck of the third unlucky creature. Raven followed the rise of the blade so that he stood beside his father, the party of ex-prisoners at their backs as the remaining four of the vorsurk made an appearance. Two of the scum of Andrapaal wielded lengths of chain. With a roar, one of them charged the four vorsurk, rushing straight past Michael and Raven to strike at the monsters himself. Michael tried to call back this man, but found he was already too late as two flicks from one vorsurk’s weapon brought the brave but foolish fighter down on one knee. The third stroke opened his skull, causing the body to fall forward with a soft thud. The man was dead before he had a chance to strike with the chains. Raven took in another hurried breath, before slashing out with the curved vorsurk blade in a double handed motion. Shoulder to shoulder, Michael fought beside his son, positioning himself where he could to get the maximum swing for his weapon. The fight was tough, six of the prisoners joining the fight before the combatants were finally evenly matched. As another of the fiends fell to his father’s hammer, Raven risked a brief look at how the older man managed. Through his narrowed eyes Raven saw that beneath the mud and muck covering Michael from head to foot, his father was smiling.

Alone and afraid, Anton crept his way painstakingly forward, keeping to the shadows as often as he could. The city had erupted into chaos, had been sacrificed by its icon of wisdom.
“And for what gain?” the truth keeper asked, cursing under his breath as he heard himself speak the words. Two of his former soldiers rushed passed where Anton hid, but ran on without sighting their master. Anton let them go, not able to give them the speech of hope that they needed to hear.
‘Your mission is of far more importance than a pep talk,’ Anton thought to himself.
The truth keeper still wore the silver sash, but more for what it represented to others than what it no longer represented to him. Already the symbolic sash had caused two citizens to drop what they had looted from a ruined market stall and rush off back into the chaos before Anton had opened his mouth to speak.
‘The queen needs you, move slow and steady, and don’t get killed,’ the truth keeper stated over and over in his mind as a mantra. As a reaction Anton slapped a gauntlet over his mouth to keep his thoughts in place, as a party of three of the vorsurk lumbered after the two truth keepers that had rushed by. An ugly thought crossed Anton’s mind; the creatures looked distinctly like hounds trailing two rabbits, just before the prey was caught and butchered. The heart of the soldier desired so strongly to aid his men in the fight that was sure to come. Too long had that heart been away from the border skirmish, dealing with city ruffians instead and the will of the sages. The need to remain alive and find the queen, won out over any other possibility Anton may have considered. Like a shadow himself, Anton moved silently away the very moment that the sound of swift slaughter began. He was so close to where the queen lay hidden, with each heart beat that thumped loudly in his ears, the truth keeper that sought her hoped beyond hope that he did not search in vain.

Paechra stood her ground with teeth clenched tightly together. The invading force of barbarians had discovered her band of resistors and had seemingly focused their efforts upon her and the citizens of Andrapaal that had banded beside her. There was no time for talk, no time for questions. Paechra knew she had to keep the spirit of the she-bear around her, continue to keep her claws intact. If these same citizens knew what it was that fueled her magic, they would have given her up in an instant. With all the living things but people gone in the blaze of Vladimir’s spell, Paechra fed upon what remained. As vorsurk and citizen fell alike, she stole each of the citizenry their last breaths. Without the last of the life essence of the dying humans, the druid knew that she would be the next to go, dooming all of the others who had gathered to her side. Paechra prayed to the spirits and the mother druid with each swing of her deadly claws that when the battle was finished, the citizens that remained would understand and be willing to forgive her.

Thomas wandered the streets dazed and confused, simultaneously drunk and in shock at what he witnessed. The screams he heard within his mind were only just louder than the screams he heard echoing throughout the city. His bleary, blood shot eyes shied away from the afternoon sun, and he kept as much as he could to the shadows as he stumbled along, ever searching for a place of peaceful quiet. The drink muddled his mind, so that only subconsciously the butcher knew that he sought out friends, but he trusted these basic instincts that caused him to search for the other members of the citizens eleven, his only family in the city and his sole family in the world.

Back within the palace, a pair of eyes flicked open and stared about wildly. The study that had once been so familiar suddenly was so equally foreign. Stolen memories, replaced haphazardly by the sorcerer that had ruthlessly probed him, caused the figure a moment of frightening puzzlement. From where the figure lay listlessly upon the room’s floor nothing looked like it belonged. This may have been due to the angle of vision, or the almost total darkness the room was cloaked in.
‘Who am I?’ a voice thought, trying to sound out the question, failing in the attempt.
‘My mind is on fire! Is this death, or what comes after?’ Panic began to mingle with the feeling of bewilderment.
‘I am Vladimir! I am chief of all sages of Andrapaal, nay sage-king and ruler of the whole of the kingdom. Such an honorary title must be written and recorded. Where are the sages? Where are my sages?’
“Where is the light?!”
Vladimir shuddered as he heard his cracked voice echoing against stone.
“The light is gone for you child. When I am finished, your very life will be forfeit,” the low growl of Thurzuk stated plainly, bringing the recent past flooding back through Vladimir’s mind again.
Vladimir tried to scream, to cry out in fear, hoping beyond hope that his truth keepers or one of his chosen eleven citizens would stumble in and save him. But the claw of the vorsurk sorcerer silenced any sound that Vladimir attempted to make. The thoughts of his truth keepers slaughtered due to his own imagined faulty blades, his eleven claimed by the sun’s unforgiving heat from his own spell, the simple fact that none would come to his rescue, kept any further sounds he had planned to make silent. In his quest to claim everything, Vladimir had driven it all away.

The butcher Thomas stood shell shocked at the edge of what once was the forge of Gregory the blacksmith. It was like this at the other five sites where his friends once lived. Dark smudges marked what was left of stone walls, little fires continued to burn like the last remaining evidence of the people that once worked, played, existed in that place. Now there was no sign of life, let alone friend. With little more than death there at the forge, Thomas was completely alone. The lupine monsters that attacked the city stayed clear of where their wicked magic had dealt more damage and death than mere weapons ever could. The butcher wept, pleading silently in his mind for the world to go back to the way it was. Back to when he could turn to any one of his friends and they would tell him what to do. With the tears still running down his cheeks, Thomas trudged off through the back streets in search of the slaughter house. He had left his own place of work last of all to search, fearing most of all he would witness the same scene there as he had everywhere else.

Raven marveled at the blade he had acquired. The edge seemed eternally keen, sharp and thirsty for the blood of the enemy. Each time he swung it, an enemy fell, making Raven recall just whose flesh this weapon had been forged to claim. This just made him even more determined to continue on. Michael still fought at his side, swinging his hammer as he grinned with a childlike glee. They had lost a few more of the prisoners, foolish men who had never fought against the vorsurk, never trained as part of an army. These men whom Michael and his son led were street rats at best, or they were cut throats as bad as the monsters they fought at worst. Now there were Raven and Michael and four others. The number of the vorsurk had thinned considerably, gladdening Raven as they came upon the scene of Gregory’ forge. The forge though was an empty shell. With merely a shake of his head, Raven ordered the small band of fighters to continue on. Deep down Raven knew that Gregory was gone. A flicker of hope burned in his heart though, that Paechra had been far from the forge when the blacksmith had passed.

Anton battered on the remains of the door to the simple cottage where he had last left Catherine. A vorsurk great-axe had made short work of the portal two blows taking the door from its hinges, evidence of a vorsurk’s visit that worried Anton greatly. The colour of the door had originally been of a deep crimson wood, but his brother Bartholomew had been too lazy to keep the portal in good condition, the shade now a shamefully lighter version of its original splendor. A carpenter by trade, but not skilled enough to be chosen as a member of the eleven selected by Vladimir the Young, Anton’s younger brother had let his own home become a rundown, neglected version of the majestic palace it had once been. Anton cursed silently the ill omen of the portal’s shade and stepped silently inside. Within there were two of the barbaric monsters, each one as wild and wolf-faced as the other. Both had arms and legs bulging with muscle, both had weapons drawn. The first held the huge double headed axe, both heads dripping with blood. The blood of citizens ran so freely, so freshly that it tattooed the house floor with a dotted trail that showed the exact path that the beast had trodden throughout Bartholomew’s home. The second wielded a hefty bar of metal with a large hook at one end and a single jagged spike at the other. Both of the vorsurk were distracted by the small booty of uncut gems they had discovered within the marital bed of Anton’s brother and his wife. The truth keeper made note that if his brother still lived he would speak with the carpenter as a big brother should have to a younger sibling, gently explaining what happened to carpenters who did not gamble, who did not pay their dues to the kingdom.
Thinking simple thoughts like this helped Anton keep his fears at bay.
“Hey!!! Leave those things alone!!” Anton yelled, not caring if the pair of creatures understood him. The truth keeper had fought brutes like these before, and he knew that his best chances stood if he gained the element of surprise, and initiated the fight. Before either brute had turned to face him, Anton had smashed one of his brother’s crafted chairs and embedded the stake-like remains into the fleshy skull of the vorsurk that bore the pole. The creature spun about and lunged with the spike of its weapon before it realised the extent of its injury. The momentum of its torso as it attacked caused it to fall as its legs refused to respond. Its bloodshot, wild eyes were sightless before the head made the floor. The second creature ignored its kin and came at Anton with three heavy, slow strikes, all three blows from the bulky axe glanced off the truth keeper’s armour, not one of the strikes finding any flesh to mark. Each blow forced the truth keeper back a pace forcing Anton back to the doorway. He drew his sword in a hasty action, saw the vorsurk smile at the faulty blade, and then frown as Anton threw it at him. Even as a thrown weapon the sword was poorly made, missing the bulky target and crashing harmlessly into the wall. In a split second decision the truth keeper wheeled around a second chair and smiled a tightlipped smile of satisfaction at the sickening thud that followed as the chair met the vorsurk’s head and showered both Anton and his enemy in splinters. The beast was dazed for no more than a moment, but in that moment Anton had pummeled it with two well aimed blows, a left to the bobbing apple at its throat, and a right to its bearded chin. As the vorsurk fell back with a cry, Anton found the metal bar dropped by the first vorsurk burying the strange weapon into the chest of his fallen foe. The cry became a gargle, and then silence.
Three figures emerged from beneath the bed, the third, Catherine, assisted by Bartholomew and Elisbeth his wife. She turned wide eyed to face her rescuer, unsure of how to thank him, then she looked back to where the nasty weapons of both the vorsurk had made such marks upon the bed, the very place where the three of them had taken refuge. The pole had passed once right through the timber, but the heavy axe-blade had cut the bed shared by Bartholomew and his wife in two.
“What do we do now, older brother?” Bart asked sheepishly.
“I do not care what path you choose to take, Bartholomew,” Anton stated plainly, yet forcefully. “My charge is with the queen and the queen only,” he explained.
Without awaiting a reply, the truth keeper turned away from his brother and Elisbeth and offered his gauntleted hand to Catherine.
“Come,” stated Anton panting heavily. “If I am to keep you alive we must leave the city.”
All the queen could do was whimper in reply.

Thurzuk stood before a cowering Vladimir with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched a smile on his wolfish face. Still standing within Vladimir’s cell the vorsurk sorcerer sifted through the human’s secret thoughts touching what the magic allowed his fingers to manipulate and his mind to see with a surprising tenderness. The mind of the human child was twisted and cruel, like the mind of a vorsurk pup of a proud father. Thurzuk’s father had been proud of him as the pup grew into a determined man. By the time Thurzuk joined the mages as an apprentice, the one thing his father forbid him to do, Thurzuk’s child knife had neatly slit his throat. Thurzuk’s father had been his first official kill, and with it the pup had become fully recognised. Now, as Thurzuk worked his way through the bare naked thoughts of Morthos, he saw the selfish, ambitious boy for whom he really was. As every memory of every experienced moment was painfully teased out of the human’s mind, thoughts of who Vladimir was, what he looked like, and how he should act faded from Morthos’ thoughts. The image of the old sage, the powerful sage vanished too from within the cell, replaced with Morthos, a decade in years younger than he should have been, dressed in a robe that was not quite yellow and yet not quite blue either.
“What have you done to me?” Morthos asked, panicking, as the transformation back to his true self left him tired and breathless.
“It is not what I have done to you, but what you have done to yourself,” Thurzuk laughed wickedly. There was no pity in the vorsurk’s eyes, only evil glee at what was to come. The barbarian’s voice dripped with contempt and a hunger to see this cowering human enslaved or destroyed.
“Cloak me!” the sorcerer barked as a sharply stated order. Noiselessly the tome obeyed.
The image of Vladimir, stolen from the mind of Morthos suddenly wrapped itself about the vorsurk, shimmered through the room as golden flame and then gently embracing the sorcerer from head to foot.
“Arise my symbolic offering!” stated a new, stronger, more powerful Vladimir that now stood before Morthos.
“And what if I tell you, nay?” Morthos whimpered.
“Arise, my puppet! Arise, my goat, my perfect sacrifice!” Thurzuk ordered, and made a jerk of his hands.
Morthos felt his body shift against his will. He felt a fool for thinking the black tome was to be the source of all his power. In truth it had never been his. In truth the book had only belonged to itself. In his mind Morthos cursed at the tome’s betrayal, his dreams to rule the kingdom seemingly gone. Thurzuk sensed the human’s dismay. The vorsurk laughed richly with the image of Chief Sage Vladimir disguising his true features.

Zerrick caught a glimpse of his reflection in a half covered mirror and recoiled in utter disgust. The candles that still flickered about the room and the chalked symbols that covered the floor told the sorcerer that he was still in his casting chamber; the familiar environment helped him to cope with the vision of himself that he witnessed. Twin wounds marked Zerrick beneath both of his eyes, showing the sorcerer just how close he had come to having his sense of sight literally stolen by the torture demon. It had gone, leaving the chamber that had felt full and alive, suddenly feeling cold, silent, and completely empty. With all of his strength Zerrick stretched out one of his half clawed hands and grasped a great copper bell. This simple looking bell was marked with the vorsurk word for slave ‘Jsuyit’ written in the blood of eleven of the currently living slaves of Zerrick’s house. Whenever the bell was rung no sound would be heard, but the enchantment placed upon the bell would compel the eleven slaves to obey their master’s call. The sorcerer murmured a spell for transferring the essence of life, the arcane words one of the first spells he ever mastered. As three of the summoned eleven humans appeared in the doorway of the summoning chamber Zerrick announced the casting word and milked the trio of the pure essence that caused them to live, feeling the strength he gained from the simple casting seeping through his numb body, returning it to normal. The sorcerer ignored the three humans as they fell to the floor and then crumpled into dust, the spell cast by Zerrick causing the humans to dry out and then crumple like old books.
“If you wish to live clean up the mess left by your kindred and fetch me three more slaves to replace them,” Zerrick announced as the other eight humans arrived only a few moments later. Zerrick could smell the fear on those other slaves as they immediately made to obey him. The sorcerer could also sense the yearning of the bell to have the blood of eleven living slaves marking it, eleven being the holiest of numbers, the number of power, of evil and of the vorsurk arcane. While the life of the sacrificed three pulsed through his veins Zerrick slowly rose from the cold and hard stone floor where he lay and strode powerful strides towards the chamber’s exit. The sorcerer wished to be rid of the nightmare of the demon’s visit, while retaining the precious visions that same demon had given. In the doorway to the chamber two of the servants who had responded to the enchantment of the bell remained, seeming to still be awaiting orders. Their delay infuriated the sorcerer, and he vowed to punish them appropriately, when the time was right. For now though his need for the pair before him to retain their lives far outweighed his immediate desire to feel the power of their stolen lives flowing through him. It was enough for him to enjoy the horror in his servant’s eyes as they looked upon what he had suffered.
“Go… Summon the great sorcerers that are still brave enough and foolish enough to dream of the books of power, to envision the glorious days of the wolf-kind once more… And prepare the great banquet hall for one hundred and twenty guests. Tonight we shall house one of the great numbers of power,” Zerrick growled, his stern tone threatening unspoken punishment if he was not immediately obeyed. Zerrick sucked from the life of the pair as they hurried away to fulfill his bidding. He did not steal so desperately, so hastily as to destroy them and leave his demands uncompleted. Zerrick’s posture straightened, just as the posture of the pair of servants slightly slumped. This enabled him to move through his residence with the poise and dignity of a true sorcerer, the master of magic that he was.

***

In the dust filled room light created odd, eerie beams that illuminated patches of the floor and walls. Cracks had formed in the once solid palace, and scenes like this were common now throughout both the palace, The Great Hall, even in central areas like the kitchen. The dust formed from millions of particles that once clung to books, scrolls, untouched manuscripts, all suddenly shaken free. Where the light did not pass through the dust, darkness laid claim, darkness just as strange as the patchwork of light, just as covered in lung choking dust.
Moosuf sighed in relief as he heard a cough, and then an echo from another part of the cell. It was the sound of the old men, the sages of the blue robes. Moosuf was hearing evidence that some of them had survived the strange attack. As these old men, four in total, rose gingerly, unsteadily to their feet, they continued to cough. Through the cracks in the walls the sounds of attack could be clearly made out.
“Come masters of the written word, we must leave this place before our own need to horde knowledge becomes our deaths,” the sage Jefferson clearly boomed.
Moosuf was glad that Jefferson had survived, for in the short while he had been speaking with the sages, Moosuf had settled upon Jefferson as the sharpest mind, the most curious, and the most intelligent.
“What of our brothers?” another sage asked, taking in a lung full of dust that made the old man cough harshly.
As Jefferson stepped over a fallen bookshelf and the prone form of Sammeal lying silent and still beneath it, he sighed a soft sigh.
“Brother, those that remain so prostrate before us, we can do nothing for until we return again,” Jefferson stated with a frown. The old man’s face formed fresh creases as his features distorted into the unfamiliar form.
Seeing that a frown was truly so foreign to Jefferson’s features, made Moosuf respect him more. It also brought home to the red robed sage the true gravity of their situation.
“Come! To remain here will do us far more harm than good,” Moosuf encouraged, beckoning urgently from the room’s doorway for the men to hurry.
“The boy is right, we must leave, but not to the outside,” another sage added, moving his old frame faster than Moosuf thought possible.
“If not out, where then?” Jefferson asked with a laugh, a smile back upon his wrinkled features.
‘Boy?’ thought Moosuf to himself with a smile. ‘I will be thirty-seven summers when the leaves begin to fall again.’
“Do we seek the villain? Do we seek to stop our attackers?” a sage that Moosuf recalled as Mitchellum of Lotindale, suggested with ridiculous bravado.
“I say yes,” Jefferson replied. “If anyone knows just how the heart of our kingdom has been betrayed I say it would be Vladimir… or Morthos… Whichever of those or another that our Chief of Sages is truly named.”
“Come then Jefferson, lead us in this search for the truth!” agreed one blue robed sage.
“We are all behind you in this worthy quest. An attack on Andrapaal shall not mean all history is lost…” stated another of the remaining sages.
“Follow me then my brothers! We head to the hole of the betrayer… Vladimir’s room!” urged Jefferson.
Moosuf watched in awe as Jefferson gently guided his fellow sages out the doorway and back into the roles of questioners. Even after the kingdom’s heart had been struck, Moosuf felt certain that belief in the past and the preciousness of the written word would remain firmly a part of his people’s creed. As all five left what remained of Jefferson’s cell, they one by one wiped what dust they could from their faces and tried to breathe what air they could find.

The hour was late in the afternoon, bordering on evening. The summer sun shone bright still though, innocent of the harshness it had unleashed upon the city of Andrapaal and her citizenry. Raven, Michael, and those still with them crawled forth from dark shadows. Each man bore at least a few shallow cuts and purple bruises, evidence of brief battles where in less than a minute you either lived or died. Some of the men had deeper wounds; one poor victim of a jagged dagger blade had a small tear that would not cease oozing a grey green liquid. Far from medical aid he could only cover the wound with cloth. It was a weeping patch of stomach no bigger than a thumb nail. Soon after he had acquired the wound he began vomiting a mixture of acid and blood. He froze mid step soon after that and fell rigid and pale, his eyes wide open in shock, and yet sightless. Wordlessly, those that remained alive stepped over him and continued to follow after the father and son that led them.
Raven wiped the grime from his forehead as he surveyed the area that lay beyond where they had taken shelter for the last five minutes. The dying day had played in the humans favour. The vorsurk disliked this in-between time before dark, their eyes finding it difficult to focus on their foe. Nearly a hundred of the force that had attacked the city had fallen prey to Raven’s borrowed blade, or Michael’s hammer, or any of the other make-shift weaponry that the ex-prisoners wielded successfully. Many of these small victories were due to good use of the day light, too bright for the vorsurk. In the desert lands they had been driven back to by the sylva the barbaric vorsurk used sorcery to ease their suffering caused by the day’s light. Thurzuk had thought his force large enough to take the city in under an hour and so he had not bothered to protect his army from the brightness of the day. Michael and Raven discovered this shortfall in their enemy and utilized such an advantage in each and every skirmish. The small party of humans had now survived enough battles that they had arrived close to the butchery where Thomas worked. This part of the city was unique in that it seemed nearly untouched by the sun’s fury. It had not escaped vorsurk attention though. It looked to Raven and Michael both, that here was where the brutes attacked with greatest intensity.
“If only we had an army of the best truth keepers in the kingdom,” Michael said. “We could have taken the vorsurks here by surprise… we may have had a chance to strike the main force of the vorsurk force from the rear, surprise them and then drive them out of the city.”
Raven nodded silently beside his father.
“Not even with the band of prisoners that we had at the beginning of all this could we have tried such a strike,” Michael’s son replied. “I believe though that anywhere our fellow citizens stand together and do not fall Paechra stands with them battling the hordes. We must get there, we must!”
Although both men conversed almost silently, Michael felt and saw the passion in his son’s words.
“You lead son, you pick your men and give them their orders,” Michael stated grabbing his son by the shoulders.
“I have battled these monsters, but mostly alone. I choose this time to follow you father. Teach me what it is that the experiences of life on the border taught you,” Raven said with a thin smile.
“Watch and learn then, what those years away from your mother taught me,” smirked Michael with a wild look in his eyes. Raven’s own eyes widened then in wonder and worry, but he remained silent, respectful of what it was his father had planned.

Morthos felt himself jerked along unceremoniously, shambling like a doll as he tried in vain to stall each of his steps. Within his frightened mind, twisted thoughts made him smile grimly.
‘Even as a husk of a human, an ancient sage, I still walked these corridors, walked these streets in control of my destiny. Now even my limbs are not mine to control, mine to order and then expect in an instant that I be obeyed,’ Morthos repeated to himself, a mantra of defeat that began anew as Thurzuk forced the human’s feet to rise and fall time and time again.
“Soon, so soon you will fulfill your final purpose,” the cracked voice of Vladimir cackled, laced with Thurzuk’s menace.
In silence Morthos felt his feet rise and fall, his thoughts suddenly focused on what final purpose the sorcerer had in mind.

From his precarious perch high above the scene of battle at Thomas’ butchery, the vorsurk warriors seemed to Michael to be small, dark but numerous like ants swarming around their nest before a storm. The tower that his elder frame had crawled across to gain such a view had seemed the most dangerous place in Andrapaal. It was a branch of the Tree of Knowledge, the knowledge held within the tower gone, consumed as it was engulfed by vorsurk arcane fire. The devastating spell cast by Vladimir had left the structure precarious, but it had been the only place where Michael could spy upon the vorsurk force and clearly see the battle below him with no great risk of being detected by the beasts. From where he lay clinging to the leaning tower wedged in the frame of a shattered window Michael could see the glow of blue that surrounded a figure in the midst of the humans and vorsurk that mingled together, a bloody huddle. Once he felt he had seen enough Michael slowly made his way back down the outside of the tower, careful with his movements, hoping that he would not cause the tower to topple. Then, back upon the cobbled streets again, amongst the ruin that was the city, the reality of the situation caused the experienced soldier to pause. Images filtered through his mind, the huddled group watching him scratch out a map in the street dust while he quickly explained his half baked rescue plan. Everyone nodded as if they had understood, but Michael’s subconscious whispered to him thoughts that stated otherwise.
Presently, Michael breathed deep the musty, dusty smells of the abandoned house where he, Raven, and their small band of fighters lay, hidden, waiting. A grin of gritted teeth and determination was plastered across Michael’s face as he glanced across the corridor, catching the narrow, thoughtful eyes of his son, giving the boy an encouraging wink. Michael knew with every inch of his being that the plan he had formulated from way above them would not fail. It was his mind that plagued him, daring him to ignore the doubt that the devils of uncertainty attempted, like little rogues, and tiny thieves to sneak into the pockets of his thoughts where Michael kept safe his confidence. The old warrior could sense them there, as the doubts made themselves known.
‘You have too few men…’ ‘The enemy is too strong…’ ‘They are all around you…’
“Better go then,” Michael replied. The creatures of uncertainty had not expected that response. The vorsurk too were to be caught off guard by what happened next.
‘They have to be,’ Michael thought within the secret spaces of his mind.
‘But what if they are not?’ his thoughts laughed, suddenly confident that they had his measure.
Michael however was not listening, already out the doorway and following the line of debris he had chosen from way above, the soldier only hearing the heavy, eager breathing of the five men who moved with him. They all yearned to engage with the wolf beasts again. Suddenly, silently, the plan claimed the first victim. The beast was beheaded with a single, clean stroke from Raven’s blade, one of a party of sixty vorsurk that all shoved each other as they tried as one to break through the wall of humans and be the first to reach Paechra and claim the honour of victory over the leader of the resistance. With that single sword stroke almost twenty of the sixty vorsurk turned to attack the new arrivals and the expected bedlam that Michael’s plan relied so heavily upon erupted.
So intense was the focus of the vorsurk in front of the pack that a pair more of the creatures fell to deadly cuts before it was known by vorsurk and human alike that Michael and the band of prisoners had arrived. With two swings of his hammer the old truth keeper felled a pair more of the vorsurk and then with a surge of courage the wall of humans and the sylva in their midst surged forward with renewed energy, pinning the force or vorsurk between the two groups of resistance.

Owen the Librarian snuck through the streets of the city, a rat dressed in blue sticking as closely as he could to the shadows. He was seeking a way to safely abandon a sinking ship. The head of the spear he still possessed was caked in blood. There was a deep gash across his left shoulder, a wound he had gotten when he faced a pair of vorsurk warriors that had been stalking the prisoners. He had been separated from the band of prisoners for an hour since he had stayed back and surprised the wolf-like ambushers at their own game. Now Owen had given up on any chance of catching the group that was led by Raven and his father, instead seeking to escape the city and flee to the forest and beyond to one of the townships hoping to warn them that the city had been attacked. Turning away from a scene where three vorsuk had cornered a family and were herding the mother and her children towards the slums Owen caught the sound of sages in debate.
Turning left down a different side alley to the one occupied by the trio of barbarians and then right Owen listened again. He chose a door and broke it open, revealing six sages in blue robes and one in robes of red.
“Greetings brothers,” Owen stated in reply to the looks of surprise he received.
“A great spear you have there, Sage Owen,” announced Sage Jefferson.
“And what weapons do you wield my brothers?” Owen asked.
“We have the weapon of all the sages! We wield the quill, the chalk, the implement of recording knowledge and history!” Jefferson boldly replied, proudly showing off the words that adorned the walls of the room the sages hid within.
“Let us survive the night with real weapons my brothers. If we see the dawn of tomorrow let us then take up the quill and parchment and see what we can remember we survived,” suggested Owen.
The red robed sage that Owen recognized to be Moosuf nodded in agreement.
“I have been trying to keep these great sages as safe as I can, but under the circumstances their reluctance to do anything other than write is becoming frustrating.
“We will need to get you some sort of sword and then get these old men underground,” said Owen. “Stay here… I’m going fishing for vorsurk…”
Closing the door behind him Owen snuck back to that alley and the trio of beasts. The wound in his shoulder gave the sage reason to believe that the vorsurk forged the sharpest of blades. In a matter of moments he hope to have three of their blades to try.

‘Leave me be!’ cursed Thurzuk, trying hard to keep the incessant prying of the black tome from his thoughts. Finally the voice of the book broke through the untrained sorcerer’s feeble guards and flooded Thurzuk’s mind with commands.
The vorsurk tightened his claim upon the human’s mind and sent forth all of the chaotic noise that he could into that vessel.
“Raise the city! Raise the city!!” pleaded Morthos, his limbs flung free of the magick’s grasp as the tome’s commands bombarded him. Young hair was ripped from Morthos’ head in clumps as the human tore at his own scalp, trying to free the words.
“It shall be as you command!” rumbled Thurzuk, forcing his will back upon the feeble human and the powerful tome. Beads of sweat and blood glistened upon his scalp, shoulders and chest as the vorsurk wrestled back the power.
“I am the master. I demand to know the mysterious words of power that shall raze this slave pit that the humans call a city! I demand that you show me how magic can make this wish so!!!” Thurzuk’s voice boomed.
Himself again, Morthos quaked at such a sound. The roar that came from the one disguised as Vladimir promised more painful probing of his memories, more physical suffering from wolf-like claws and teeth. The very tone of Thurzuk’s voice made a promise of pain and suffering without end.

Paechra panted, her hands hung heavy, her shoulders ached, and she did not know just how much more fighting she could bare. The words that she had mouthed, her mantra, whispered as silently as the flap of a butterfly’s wings. The sylva’s lips had dried and her throat was raw. Eight of the citizens, strangers to the sylva, had created a ring around her upon the slick, bloody, cobbled street. Many of them cried out in agony, vocal evidence of the cruelty that the vorsurk warriors had caused them. Paechra hoped that those around her making no sound still lived. She had stopped stealing little amounts of life from these unsuspecting allies, trying to generate the magic that she fought with from her own essence. This weakened Paechra so quickly that the humans that had been drawn to her in the end had to become her protectors. Now these humans no longer shielded her and all that was before her was the smell of wolf and sweat and battle, a wall of ten barbarians, six strong deep, a wall of certain death. Paechra’s eyes struggled to remain open, the sylva fighting to face her killers as exhaustion threatened to cause her to collapse.
Nine of the hairy beasts raised their weapons as one; a replica of confident, evil, fang filled smiles. The blades caught the afternoon sun and gleamed, each curved knife or serrated blade flashing as a brilliant herald of the doom that was to come.
Then out of the wall of vorsurk burst forth her saviour. Paechra’s eyes opened wide in surprise. The boy with the dark and spiked hair was almost unrecognisable, blood and gore covering him, disguising the features that Paechra knew. It was the voice that revealed the identity of the new arrival.
“Paechra,” said Raven with a smile. “Finally, meet my father.”
‘Thank you, mother,’ the druid sighed in her mind.
Through the gap in the vorsurk ranks came a handful more humans. Paechra was not certain who it was that Raven referred to. At that moment she did not care. The humans formed a new ring around her, and as the battle continued, the world for Paechra suddenly went dark.

The words began as a mumble, a whisper, but as Thurzuk marched the human Morthos down the corridors of the palace, the shout that emanated from the sorcerer’s mind became channeled through his voice and was suddenly like a physical blow to both the vorsurk sorcerer and his human captive.
“Raise the city! RAISE the city!! RAISE THE CITY!!!” the image of Vladimir cried out with Thurzuk’s distinct harshness in his voice. The power that was radiating from the tome, unseen and yet truly felt almost had complete control of Thurzuk. Each of the eleven books of power shared the first impulse of trying to mentally dominate any who sought to control them. Necron-Blaith, named after Necron the vosurk worshipped death spirit differed from the other tomes in how it possessed its users, ageing them and sucking life from them with each spell they cast from its pages. The cost of possessing the eleventh tome was the greatest, but so too was the promise of mastery over the dead, the undead and if the tome could be tamed even power over death and thus Necron itself. When Necron-Blaith sent an urge or a command it had thousands of lives of past sorcerers sucked dry of life behind it. They were words that could not easily be dismissed or ignored. Morthos, touched by dark magic through experience with the tome, could hear and feel some of Thurzuk’s suffering and fought his captor firstly trying to break the mental hold that the vorsurk sorcerer had over him. When this failed he struggled physically against the magic that held him tightly in its grasp. Without the aid of the tome Morthos remained caught, enslaved, whimpering as he felt the touch of the eleventh tome demanding that Thurzuk prove his worthiness to witness and wield the power held within the pages of the arcane digest.
“Enough! Shall I make an offer of the human whelp?!” Thurzuk screamed, ripping away the control that the tome had upon his voice with great effort.
The look of fear that had been plastered across Morthos’ features deepened. The annoying mumbles and pleadings coming from the human suddenly ceased.
‘Nay, the human built his kingdom. It is this which crumbles about you at your command. The slave pit is already razed. There is another city, one ruled by your ancestors, a true monument to Vorsurki power,’ the voice of the tome explained gently, this time confined again to Thurzuk’s mind. As it spoke, images of tunnels, rooms filled with treasures and terrors, a citadel constructed of dark earth, crimson stone, and the blood, flesh and bone of servants unfolded in titillating imagery. Morthos caught occasional sights of what the tome was revealing, a connection between him and the dark book of forbidden magic retained. As Morthos translated the snippets of images that he was given part of him felt fearful, but part of him felt thrilled.
‘This fine city only awaits the simple command, Nul Fei Ottut. State the runes, and resurrect your kingdom,’ the tome instructed, purring with glee at what was to come.

***

The great maps that Zerrick had unfurled before him smelled of the very eons that they had existed. The paper seemed to vanish beneath his claws, the faded ink, impossible to read with his elderly eyes. The sorcerer fed off the lives of hundreds of his slaves as they mingled silently about him, preparing his ordered banquet like an army of ants instead of a whirling dervish of noise and chaos. Their master’s changed features, maw-less mouth, and fresh scarring caused the silence of many, while the near impossible task of preparing the extravagant feast in time for the arrival of so many guests kept the remaining busy. Zerrick only had focus for the lands that spread out across the greatest of the tables he owned. He painfully scanned his eyes over seven maps in total, two of these maps no wider than his forearm. Altogether the geography covered by the ink included the lands now claimed by the slave kind. His eyes flickered, first black, then yellow like a cat’s, and finally a blue-green, the true colour of his orbs. The strange spell attempted to speak to the maps, begging them to lead the sorcerer to his heart’s desire. As Zerrick’s club-like hand slammed hard into the grand table the slaves that were close enough to witness the anger of their master exploded into noisy action scattering in search of a task far away from the sorcerer, just like the insects that they were. As his life blood flared with the fiery emotion a patch of one of the maps flashed for a minute moment, a sparkle located at the heart of a young forest.
‘The tome must be showing me the way,’ Zerrick thought to himself, his anger turned instantly into bubbling excitement. He began to laugh, a horrid, throaty gargle, he continued to blurt forth his joy as images began flashing across the rolled out parchment, showing the sorcerer how the land had changed over time. Zerrick knew now where the greatest of the eleven tomes lay, and whom it was that he needed to claim it from. It was as if the book itself begged him to come forth and take it. He felt ready, anxious for the banquet to begin.

***

The spirit of the city of Andrapaal heard the strange tongue of enemy magick, and shivered. The sun spell had been a harsh blow, a strike that had destroyed many outer walls, homes and businesses, claimed many lives. These syllables of power that could now be heard by the city spirit threatened even more damage, more death and destruction. Then it happened, the spell began to change the city, causing the solidness of Andrapaal to unravel, burning buildings became ghostlike images. Streets cracked and broken from the heat of the sun strike became wispy, transparent. Only the humans and the vorsurk and the single sylva remained real and solid. Still responding to the strange shout of “Nul… Fei… Ottut…” the spirit of the human city, all which remained of Andrapaal began to sink beneath the valley soil. There was a moment where nothing existed where the city had once stood. Then like a horror rising from the grave there came the outline of a new structure, a citadel which dwarfed the human city. It had outer walls twice as large and three times as thick as Andrapaal had, sharp spikes protruding from the top five feet. Some of these spikes already bore rotting heads and polished skulls. Where the palace, library and city gardens had previously stood now was a giant tower of dark stone. It rose above the outer walls and was topped with a ballista, a giant crossbow that could fire a log sized spear. Other smaller towers appeared throughout the city, each bearing a deadly weapon at the very top. Where a human or vorsurk had stood as the citadel solidified the bodies became caught within the stone, life ending with a single scream or sigh and then nothing.

The words, nonsensical and rough upon the ears, rang out throughout Andrapaal.
“Nul… Fei… Ottut…” repeated over and over again.
For Anton the raising of the vorsurk citadel was frustrating. He dragged the silent queen along behind him as he scurried from the shell of one charred building of Andrapaal and headed toward the next. The couple had almost made it as far as where the city walls had collapsed, when the unnerving words had begun. It was as if the very city understood the language spoken, from the first moments when the words began the very earth trembled.
“Almost there!” Anton shouted over the noise as he pulled the queen up again and began to cross the wasteland of broken city between them and freedom. As if it were the tide of the ocean receding, the ruins of Andrapaal seemed to sink below the surface leaving a vacant lot in the heart of the Vale of History. Citizens and vorsurk stood about surprised, amazed, some were even frightened by the affects of the vorsurk syllables upon the very city itself. As the guteral growl of arcane runes continued to boom across the empty landscape the earth continued to rumble. From the soil slowly rose another city, a citadel dark, huge one that was so much bigger than the palace and library that it replaced. Around the heart of this city beneath that had been dragged to the surface by the vorsurk spell came the maze of twelve to fifteen feet high walls that penned in together those who had survived the vorsurk strike. Anton screamed his frustration and thumped a gloved hand uselessly against the stone structure that now barred his way. Catherine looked on with her sunken eyes, fearful eyes, still silent.
“Hey!!” three vorsurk soldiers cried out and charged like bulls, straight towards Anton and the queen.
Anton stared about the newly risen city in disbelief, then, picking a random passageway, he pulled hard upon Catherine’s arm.
“This way!!” he yelled, hoping beyond hope that it was the right choice.

Moosuf froze as the strange syllables echoed about the city streets. He looked to the older sages, the blue robed scholars; the ones that history had claimed were wiser than wise. The old men looked like rabbits in the lantern’s beam, suffering far more severely from shock and uncertainty than Moosuf did.
“Which way?” the sage in the robes of red stated with sudden anger, his own fear erupting from him as frustration. Jefferson, his smile fading to nothing, looked to Moosuf like he was on the brink of death. “I know not young one,” stated Jefferson in defeat. The other sages in blue stood silent.
The earth shook as Moosuf sighed. “We go this way,” he stated simply and made to move. As Andrapaal sank away from around them Moosuf paused, confused. As the earth then gave birth to the vorsurk capital Moosuf asked again of the blue robed sages “Which way?”
“You lead, young one,” urged Jefferson. “But travel slow and steadily.”
“For we are all old men,” stated another of the blue robed sages.
Moosuf nodded and picked a path. He led with care, unsure of what lay around the next corner.

“Are you ready to hear the truth?” Thurzuk asked suddenly, and clutched at his throat in surprise.
He and Morthos still remained where they had been when the tome suggested, or more accurately demanded, that the sorcerer rise up the fortress.
Morthos had braced himself for the feeling of being sucked dry as the runes were stated; a bold, loud, rhythmic chant that echoed throughout the palace and the city in the vorsurk’s gravel like growl. The human sage felt some of the pull caused by the casting, but from the grunts of agony and the twist in obvious pain that contorted the features of Vladimir that Thurzuk wore, it was obvious to Morthos, and to his relief that the caster was the life force that the tome stole from. Then as the very stones of the place Morthos had called home twisted and crumbled in a dust choked eruption black, foreboding walls of a new palace rose up about the pair. Statues of brutish vorsurk warriors, majestic sorcerers in mid-cast and human slaves faces filled with pain or terror appeared throughout the passage ways.
Then the strange and sudden question had interrupted the silence.
Thurzuk had spoken, but it had not been the same stone grating, rough voice that Morthos was familiar with. The vorsurk and human both heard something more powerful in the tone of the voice that had asked the question, although it had been within the vorsurk’s mouth that the query had been formed. It was almost jovial seeing the shock appear in Vladimir’s face, in the lupine eyes that sat within the face of the blue robed sage of the silver sash.
Both Thurzuk and Morthos recognised the tome’s presence in this new voice, and the power that came with it. To Morthos it was the sounds that had plagued him and gifted him when it had been he who had taken up the ancient form of Vladimir. Thurzuk recognised it as the suggestive friend who had convinced him to slay his master, the convincing voice that told him he was ready to grasp his destiny of leadership and rulership and to steal it from the grasp of all the others. It was the voice of the tome, heard for the first time outside of the heads of Morthos and Thurzuk. Quieter was the voice, but still it promised power, promised to reveal secrets, costless secrets.
Morthos’ mind was ripped free of its melancholy stupor as his longing to have such power in his grasp again caused him to revert back to the strong, determined focus and control he experienced all those years he pretended to be Vladimir. Morthos ignored all the pain and injuries that the day had caused him and drew all his attention to what occurred before him.
“I have no time for this foolery!” growled Thurzuk, uncertain and angry. The eyes within the mask of Vladimir’s face narrowed dangerously as the sorcerer spoke, scanning the passageway with a fleeting glance before he focused like a vulture eyeing off a meal drawing both bloodshot eyes purposefully upon Morthos.
“What magic you still possess shall be mine, in but a moment little one…” the vorsurk promised.
‘He thinks I caused that!!’ Morthos thought to himself in great shock. A surge of confidence filled the human and the feeling of utter helplessness that had plagued him suddenly lifted from his shoulders like a great weight.
‘For a decade or more years I fooled a whole kingdom into thinking I was something that I was not. If this vorsurk sorcerer thinks I am powerful perhaps this could work in my advantage,’ Morthos continued to think, to plan within his mind.
“Who is the greater master? The seeker, or the discoverer?” the tome asked, this time channeling its crypt-like tone through the mouth of Morthos.
“The discoverer, certainly!” cried Thurzuk triumphantly, little thought spent in his answer.
“Neither,” stated Morthos, unsure of where such words sprang forth from, but glad to hear his own voice calm and steady.
With a strange confidence the human relaxed and let the words flow out.
“The master is the one who tames. Some things can never be tamed, and hence have no master.”
‘GOOD!’ stated the tome in the two minds, a simple statement that rang with a powerful judgment and completeness.
‘You have no master do you?’ Morthos thought, the sudden feeling of complete confidence melting from him, the human imagining a pool of his bravery gathering wetly about his ankles.
Where Morthos was afraid, Thurzuk was foolishly confident.
“Grant me the words to be away with this worm, he does nothing but stand in my way of greatness!” demanded the sorcerer.
“Evo! Euitut! Lamannanus!!! GEA’Thu TUT!!!” blurted Morthos as he was suddenly jerked towards the vorsurk. The feeling of being a puppet upon strings overcoming him and causing him to faint.
Thurzuk witnessed all. His skin crawled as he felt Morthos draw near, and then pass through, into him, wearing him as another would don a robe. And suddenly Morthos was Thurzuk who was Vladimir again. Two minds tried to fill the same space, and yet Morthos and Thurzuk had never felt so alone. With them within that shared mind there was another; a powerful presence. Morthos and Thurzuk had never felt as afraid as they did at that very moment.

***

Zerrick sighed, deeply. It was a breath that came painfully through his lungs via the hole for a mouth and nose that the monstrous demon had left him with. The sorcerer did nothing to hide his frightful appearance. Zerrick needed all of his powers during the banquet he now hosted to defend against his allies. He knew that such a vision would give those other sorcerers present something to discuss and gossip about, making Zerrick the very centre of attention exactly what he needed to be. It was one thing for him to be able to gather all of the powerful of the vorsurk clans. It was something else entirely for those same vorsurk to actually listen to his message. The food was picked at by the many guests. It disgusted the sorcerer how the delicious, delectable bites of the finest meats, were almost ignored by all. The largest room in Zerrick’s compound was normally empty, but this evening the place was full, every seat taken. Spread across each of the eleven tables, like a table cloth there were copies of the old maps, a blatant way that Zerrick chose to keep the conversation of the meal focused upon his summoning.
“You keep us from our own business! You summon us to show us pictures from your childhood? Zerrick what is this most IMPORTANT news that we are all here to discover?” growled a guest, one of ten other sorcerers that shared his table. Zerrick did not expect such a blatant approach from this close to him, from those he had chosen for the honour table. Angered Zerrick decided to draw life essence from that insolent voice, so that he himself would be able to reply. As the sorcerer who had spoken clutched at his throat, a look of utter surprise formed upon his features. Zerrick spoke. “You insult me Fei-Ng, with your false insolence. All who have answered my invitation have done so knowing I have within me a gift. It is a great knowledge that I have paid a great price for,” he growled. The room drew silent.
“But was the price paid indeed worth the gift granted?” replied a small group from the back of the great room.
Zerrick still felt the tingle of the demon’s presence in his life blood. It was greatly polluted now, but the power was still present, available
A bolt of lightning flashed from Zerrick’s eyes, causing them, for the briefest of moments to turn the colour of pure gold, a dusty yellow which shone in the light of the torches that lined the walls. The bolt was harmless, causing those whom it struck to cry out in shock rather than pain. What it showed to all present though, was a mere glimpse of the knowledge that burned like flashes of lightning within Zerrick’s mind.
“Lead and we shall follow. We would all be fools if we refused,” laughed Fei-Ng. Zerrick’s wrinkles broke into a great smirk. A moment later and the mouth vanished. Fei-Ng visibly shuddered as Zerrick returned the essence of life he had brutally stolen. From that moment the banquet continued jovially. Suddenly all one hundred and twenty one vorsurki magicians were friends, brought together in a common cause by a moment of arcane brilliance. Zerrick pondered as he watched his guests eat and enjoy the food he could not, whether it was the will of the demon that events occurred as they did. If that was so and the creature had not truly left him, Zerrick worried how else his plans may be influenced. He had to purge himself, but not at the risk of the knowledge he held. That price would be far too great to pay. More research was needed. Noiselessly he left his own gathering and retired to his casting chamber once more.

***

Anton panicked silently, not wishing to reveal to the queen that they were lost. The changes that had occurred within the city had confused the head of the truth keepers, each twist and turn of the newly formed alleyways led Anton and Catherine deeper and deeper into the city that they tried to escape. Anton cursed as from every turn in the path the foreboding center tower could easily be seen, a structure that highlighted the extremeness of Andrapaal’s metamorphosis.

Still in the passages of the great tower, the strange, dark stoned fortress, Morthos forced himself to breath. The silence was interrupted.
“Are you ready to hear the truth?” the powerful, raw, frightening voice of the tome asked again. The words of this new question were felt upon the tongue in Morthos’ mouth but he knew for a fact that his mind had not formed them. The words that held such power, still bounced about the walls of the corridor as faint echoes were from that third mind that now hid behind the face of Vladimir.
‘Yes,’ stated Morthos weakly, a mere whimper of a thought. He felt the voice of Thurzuk struggling to respond, but found that the vorsurk who shared his mind failed. Something prevented Thurzuk from even thinking beyond the basic elements, turning emotion into words.
“Your sages, who you call master, leader, and guidance of your race, their words are lies. The wisdom they have been recording and teaching are concocted from the truths that the forest dwelling sylva wanted you to hear. The sylva you call friend, has used words to trap and trick. Your written words weave about your kind and wrap you and your kindred into contracts that doom you to constant death.”
‘No!’ thought Morthos, he had focused his whole life on reaching the pinnacle role in what he thought to be a kingdom that produced, promoted and lived for truth.
“Yes,” hissed the tome in glee. “Your allies saved you from the vorsurk, and then fed you a tale of lies disguised as rules so that they could tie you to a duty that protected them.”
“Why?!” asked Morthos angrily, instantly shocked to hear his voice out loud, echoing off the corridor, mocking his query as it faded away.
“The vorsurk have always been a race of males only. Never has there been a female whelp of their kind. It is a cruel joke played by Sinestri, the god they have chosen to worship,” the tome laughed cruely.
“How has the wolf-race survived for so long then?” Morthos asked, skeptical of what the tome stated.
“Based in the lands of your kingdom the vorsurk had easy access to the forestlands in the west. Like farmers at harvest time the vorsurk would enter the forested kingdom of the hated sylva and reap from the females there of breeding age and younger…”
Morthos frowned. “Hence the vorsurk were driven back east to the Sylva Gift desert and beyond. This is not new knowledge for me or any other citizen who has ever listened to the story of how our kingdom began,” the sage said, disappointed.
“I know that none of your kind has ever suspected that the humans were planted as a shield against further raids, more attacks, occurrences where the sylva-ones had their women and children stolen from them…”
“You lie!” The ones who dwell in the forestlands are our friends! They are all our allies!” Morthos cried, “They saved the humankind from a life of eternal slavery!”
“Nay, you are wrong, human,” the tome sniggered. “They selfishly saved themselves from slavery. Your trusted allies have tactfully placed your race as a shield between them and their nemesis.”
As the tome spoke its voice became faster and faster, images of the Kingdom of Thuraen taking shape on a map of the world filled Morthos’ mind, showing how the sylva positioned the humans exactly where the vorsurk raiding parties struck, showing how in the years that the humans had been freed from slavery their numbers and the numbers of the vorsurk had declined as the sylva flourished, proof of all that the tome stated.
“Do you know the greatest lie of all?! It was from the coupling between the vorsurk and thir sylva slaves that the humankind was conceived!! Coupling with the slave-race, your race then created more vorsurk!!!” announced the tome.
“We are part vorsurk?” Morthos murmured.
‘Think not on this!’ Vladimir injected. Morthos knew though, it was not the true wisely sage, just a creation; his own creation of a person he hardly had known. Perhaps it was a warning from his subconscious given voice so he would pay it heed, but Morthos was curious and he had to have these secrets that the tome teased him with.
The mind of Thurzuk tried urgently to speak, but again the tome kept the vorsurk’s words unheard. Morthos received a feeling of fear, but dismissed it as not his own.
“Tell me more…” Morthos enquired eagerly.
As the tome spoke, Morthos found he was suddenly moving. Whether it was Thurzuk or the tome itself that propelled the body, Morthos did not know. This lack of knowledge concerned him. The sage traded his focus between listening to the tome’s revelations, and discovering where it was he was being led.

***

The day had already proven to be a long one for Zerrick, and the sorcerer’s old form longed for rest. By the constant beating of the tribal drums however, it was obviously clear to Zerrick that his responsibilities were not over yet and that much needed rest was a long way off still. He was on edge, but quietly confident that things were all going according to his plan. A pair of his human slaves accompanied him, giving him sustenance, and yet still Zerrick needed the aid of a magic staff to walk. The staff contained a small pink jewel, an imp encased within, Zerrick stole the power he needed to form his lips and tongue from this creature, much to its annoyance.
“Is all prepared for my travels? You may speak your reply,” growled the sorcerer. The two slaves, dressed in the common house colours of Zerrick and one of his new allies looked at each other with wide eyes.
“Great one…” Zerrick’s own human began, but found he had not the nerve to continue speaking to his cruel master.
“Great one, the number of slaves you have requested are penned and dressed as you desired. Your soldiers only await the order to begin offering the sacrifices to The Dark One, Sinestri…” murmured the other slave.
Zerrick nodded at this news.
“Excellent…” was his sole comment. One hundred and twenty one times the same number, fourteen thousand six hundred and forty one lives given up in the name of his campaign. None of the human kind from his own stock, all of the sacrifices gathered from the stocks of his new allies, symbols of their trust and faith. In truth all symbols of both greed and blind belief. No greater offering had been made in the history of the vorsurki people, the number of power 11 so multiplied. The great god of all things evil, the one whom all of Zerrick’s kind prayed to for strength, power and the wealth that came with the combination of both would have to pay heed to such a sight. Surely He would see and just as surely Sinestri would smile.
“Excellent…” Zerrick stated again. Everything was indeed going according to his plan.

***

Moosuf lifted his head like a startled wild deer. The smell of smoking flames had the red robed sage on edge, each time that he heard the clear sounds of fighting or heavy boots marching he swung his head up in the direction of potential danger. The elder sages were still with him, Moosuf counted each member twice each time they paused for a rest, not sure why he had wordlessly accepted the responsibility for these old men, but proud that so far he had not yet lost a soul. Now they sat in one of the towers of the newly born citadel, the blue robed knowledge keepers ignoring the small spot fires that still burned as they scoured what was left of the history scrolls, not yet claimed by the lick of fire. Moosuf tugged on the sleeves of his red robe, eager to leave and be on the move again, but not without these men he considered his charge.
“What is this?” proclaimed Jefferson, Moosuf managing a small smile as he saw the old man become more excited than a child. Two other sages hurried to their brother’s side as quickly as their ancient limbs allowed.
“Nay,” stared one with crestfallen disappointment. The other just shook his head sadly.
“In truth it be that our brothers of earlier years have granted us no warning of such an event as this,” sighed Jefferson in agreement.
Moosuf’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The search continued, but with less hope and less effort the longer it went on.
‘We must move on,’ thought Moosuf, panicking as another pocket of fighting broke out between some truth keepers and some of the vorsurk not far from the tower. The sound of weapons clashing could be easily heard over the soft crackle of fire.
“There is nothing here to be found. We must move on,” Jefferson stated, almost as if he had read Moosuf’s mind.
“Come then,” Moosuf sighed, “This way.”
As each of the old men rose up and left behind the scrolls they had been searching for answers, Moosuf counted them and then counted again, making certain he still had not lost a single soul.

Five old men were forcibly marched by where the figure of Vladimir stood, watching. ‘That is Jeofferous the Clear-sighted and there with him are Nathan and Divinus,’ Morthos thought. ‘All three of them intellects and loyal to power, I was certain that I could count upon those three for support when I took the throne.’
Now those Morthos thought he could count upon as allies were slaves instead, a fate brought about by a spell he Morthos had cast. Morthos strained against the physical and mental shackles the tome was using to keep him enchained and somehow succeeded, hiding his feelings of surprise and horror as he recognized the quintet of sages dressed in blue. So it was the vorsurk sorcerer’s grin of pleasure that appeared upon the watching figure’s face.
‘These are the guardians of the lies your culture has built around you,’ the tome laughed.
“So few, where are the others?” Morthos asked, as he spoke his voice sounded like the growl of the sorcerer.
“Great One! We are searching the fortress, the grounds that surround it, and we plan to explore deeper, further…” one of the vorsurk warriors that shepherded the five old men stammered, groveling at his master’s feet.
It dawned on Morthos that these vorsurk, only soldiers, could sense the existence of their master beyond the face of Vladimir.
Morthos felt the impact as a heavy boot connected with the maw of the warrior who spoke.
“Enough!! Leave us, take the slaves away and gather up the rest!” exclaimed the same gravelly voice. This time it was Thurzuk’s anger that came through in both the statement and the blow. Without another word Thurzuk took control and guided the body out of the fortress and into the streets. The vorsurk sorcerer had broken free of the restrictions the tome had placed upon him and took up a stronger position within the mind then Morthos held. It gave the human some hope to feel Thurzuk break free. Hope, but also fear that the sorcerer was closer to possessing and wielding the power of the tome.
The wolf-like warriors that kept the old men subdued muttered quietly a sentence of guttural syllables, that for Morthos could have been either curses or an apology, and then they took their leave. The five sages looked old, ancient, standing there, a silent image of weakness. Morthos remained in silent disbelief at the sight, unable to bring himself to speak. It seemed to the human that the tome had brought him there to show that his world, the world he felt destined to rule, was crumbling around him.
“Take them away, and any others that you find. Keep them close to the fortress, but keep them away from the towers. It is their words that grant them their magic,” Morthos stated with great care.
‘Seek out the sylva; we know she is here,’ urged the tome, breaking Morthos’ concentration.
“Where is the sylva?” Thurzuk demanded.
“Great One! There is known resistance in the far corner of the city. With your permission I shall escort you there,” one of the vorsurk soldiers stated, Morthos seeing the groveling in the creature’s eyes only, its voice emotionless. The eyes of the other vorsurk betrayed their inner turmoil. Morthos did not envy the creature that spoke out. The human felt Thurzuk’s response forming. The lupine sorcerer that shared his mind space was becoming impatient. The promise of a sylva slave was too much for Thurzuk to resist. Morthos still felt remorse for the death of the sylva’s father, but he somehow again kept his feelings hidden and allowed the vorsurk to speak.
“Lead the way,” barked Thurzuk’s voice.
Morthos felt himself on the move again. He had a feeling that the tome still watched, still heard every word. Morthos also sensed that Thurzuk had already begun to forget the punishment the tome bestowed upon him for insolence. Morthos waited for the cursed, black leather bound book to play a role in things once more. He wondered how he could protect the sylva if he ever got a chance. Morthos was shocked by these sudden feelings of compassion, these new feelings of understanding.
‘This is the true wisdom and real power that I could give you,’ purred the tome in Morthos’ thoughts. The emotion of feeling such a mind whisper secretly to his own, in such a close space as that which they shared caused Morthos such a feeling of raw emotion that he took complete control of the figure that wore the face of Vladimir and shivered violently. It was as if he had just left a warm cozy inn and felt suddenly the nip of winter’s frosty fingers. In the middle of a hot summer though, this was unlikely.

The city changed around Raven, first fading to nothing and then rising up from the empty earth like a phoenix rising from the embers of a fire. The battle was Raven’s sole focus, a blur of chaos for him, one he needed to survive along with his father and Paechra his friend. The prisoners that he hardly knew seemed like vorsurk themselves as they fought around Raven against a shared enemy. The barbaric vorsurk as a pack smelt of sweat, pelt and the blood that covered them. The monsters were bigger, stronger, more intense warriors than any citizen of Andrapaal could have ever become. Of the party of humans that fought back against the invaders, only Michael had actually officially fought the vorsurk along the border of the races. Raven’s experience with fighting the barbarians had been during his ten year search for his brother’s killers. The prisoners had never been trained truth keepers but they had already proven their killer instincts, for most it was their ability to kill, and viciously, that had lead to their incarceration. Raven found that here in the thick of the battle he was reminded of those years away, especially those times he was alone in the vorsurk lands. Morthos’ betrayal had led to Raven missing the experience every boy of the human kingdom survived to truly become a man. Raven was familiar with the beasts though, and had still inherited the desire to see the kingdom defended and the vorsurk enemy destroyed. Fighting within the confined spaces of the walled streets of the vorsurk fortress Raven led the attack. Memories of facing similar packs in similar walled streets flooded through Raven’s mind. He wove about the skirmish like a shadow at times striking at the exposed bellies and legs of his enemy killing some and wounding others. Where Raven waded through the sea of bodies and came face to face with the maw of a vorsurk he found the blade of their race cut quick and clean allowing him to stab through the broad chest of his foe or slice through enough of the neck of a beast that it fell instantly at his feet. At every moment Raven kept watch for where his father and the sylva Paechra fought, joining them at times where they seemed in need of aid. Of all the defenders, it was Michael who had the greatest trouble against the vorsurk and seemed to need the aid of his son the most. The day had caught up with him, ducking and weaving between the destroyed pieces of a city he called home, a puzzle he so wanted to see put together again, and yet knew with certainty that it could never be so. The eldest of the party, and the most experienced, all of his knowledge was mostly that of a trained soldier. It was the same experience as so many of Michael’s brother truth keepers, learnt fast, fighting shoulder to shoulder like a human wall that existed to repel the barbarian. Swinging his hammer in the small space they all shared quickly became impossible. Finding the right footing for the hammer blows became even more difficult for Michael, as friend and foe alike danced an unscripted dance, one of promised death with no planned positions, only instinct. Somehow Michael found a fallen truth keeper’s blade. Even then with a familiar weapon, the fighting that he had experienced so many years before was nothing like what he faced beside his son.

Thomas remained hidden away and watched. He cursed himself, his weakness, a need to always find a hole to hide in when trouble entered his life. His eyes widened as he witnessed the stand that Paechra led, silently uniting a shocked and shaken city simply by showing that against the vorsurk invaders Andrapaal could fight back. As the daring attempt to rescue the sylva unfolded, Thomas’ eyes grew even wider, seeing the finesse of the fighters and feeling inadequate. Seeing the unmistakable figure of Vladimir being led to the sight of the battle over the sylva, finally drew Thomas the rat from out of his hole.

Accompanied by eleven vorsurk warriors the figure of Chief Sage Vladimir marched regally, strong and purposeful with his head held high. A mere few yards from where the vorsurk warriors fought to reach the sylva the sage made his way up the steps of a tower and holding up his hands as he stood in the tower doorway Vladimir addressed the combatants.
“Citizens hear me! People of Andrapaal! Come and witness the final piece of the prophecy! The lioness has come. With her comes…” the voice of Vladimir declared. At the voice of the Chief of Sages the battle ceased. Such was the power of the tome channeled through both Thurzuk and Morthos that the vorsurki and humans felt compelled to obey the voice.
‘I command and my people obey,’ thought Morthos, amazed.
‘Nay…’ the tome hissed back with a nasty laugh. ‘It is I whom they obey… It was never you… and yet it could be us together…’
The citizens that had hidden themselves away in the dark shadows of new alleyways, behind the maze of walls that now lined every street slowly were drawn forth, forced by the tone of the sage who spoke back out into the strange streets.
“Paechra is not the villain here!” Raven called defiantly. There was an element of pride that Michael heard in his son’s voice, pride and anger.
‘Calm yourself my son, you duel with words against a master of text and history,’ Michael thought to himself with great concern.
“Paechra is your saviour, keeping death’s fateful hand from touching many of you. She has risked her own life to save yours…” Raven continued.
“The sylva is the one of prophecy,” Vladimir’s voice cut in, calmly, but with obvious intent of stunting Raven’s speech. “Her coming has brought forth these vorsurk to our streets. It is she that they seek. It is she that they wish to claim,” the chief sage continued, drawing back the intense focus of the gathering crowd.
Raven and Vladimir exchanged vocal thrusts and parries, all the while gathering more and more of an audience to their verbal battle.
“If we give them the sylva, they leave us?” Raven called back in retort, indicating the weakened sylva at his feet. “We give them her and we get this!” he then added throwing his arms wide to show the vorsurk fortress that had replaced the glorious city of Andrapaal.
“If we gift to them this sprite, the barbarians will leave us with our lives. Our city will be our own again, our kingdom left in peace. Who here wishes to throw away the majestic history of humankind for a sole… magic user?” Vladimir stated, haughtily, framing his final sentence as a query for the gathered numbers, knowing that the reference to Paechra’s magic would cause a reaction. Morthos and Thurzuk both smiled inwardly as the crowd cried out, on cue.
“I am sorry,” murmured Paechra.
“Hush sylva, it is these citizens who should apologise to you,” whispered Michael, hoping that his son had not heard a single distracting word. Paechra looked up into Michael’s face, a child, vulnerable and in need of protection. Michael almost did not believe that he saw the bodies of bloodied, defeated vorsurk torn up by she-bear claws.
“For the lives I have saved, I had to take so many,” explained the sylva. Michael nodded to show the sylva that he had heard and that he understood.
“If you wish to mark Paechra as a criminal for the magic that she cast, look to yourself! What of the dark, vorsurk magic that you have enslaved yourself to so a whole kingdom can be fooled?” replied, finger pointing accusingly at the figure of Vladimir.
“Fool!” barked Thurzuk’s growl.
“Fool? You are the fool Vladimir. Or are you Morthos? What other disguises do you hide behind? You only wish Paechra captured to please the barbarians that you associate with!” Raven bit back with great confidence, feeling the confidence that at last he had the audience to reveal what he had discovered only the night before. Little did Raven realise what a gamble he took, as Thurzuk took over the duel of words from Morthos whose mind he shared.
“We value your brave words, and your obvious loyalty to your allies,” Thurzuk began with a rumbling chuckle.
Raven was caught off guard and paused for a moment, swallowing his next sentence. He searched for his friend, finding that Paechra had succumbed to her exhaustion and now lay at his feet. Raven channeled his focus away from the figure of Vladimir and turned it fully upon the girl he was trying to save.
“Take what you need,” he whispered to his friend.
With great relief Raven saw the faint, shimmering blue light surround Paechra. In her weakened state he knew that Paechra needed to draw her power from somewhere other than herself. Raven for the first time could feel the lightest of pulls as she borrowed it from him.
Raven looked passed the vorsurk and citizens and sought out again the face of Vladimir. When he met the eyes of the chief sage, Raven was too far away to see the turmoil reflected in the figure’s orbs. He took in a great breath and began to speak again.
“I too am from the prophecy. I too have claimed vorsurk lives. Take me to your own allies, sorcerer. Trade me for this city,” Raven stated.
The figure of Vladimir took a visible step back.
“Take him!” screamed Thurzuk’s voice in a sudden fit of rage.
Morthos had a feeling of respect for the foolish Raven.
Without a physical fight, Raven allowed himself to be taken. As he was led away, the deadly vorsurki blade fell from his hands and clattered to the stone street, shattering the silence of the stunned crowd.

The clattering blade shocked Thomas into action. The butcher scurried like a rat, seeking the camouflage offered by the shadows of the foreboding buildings that had risen up around him as he hid cowardly. His head still ached, but Thomas was no longer sure if it were due to the aftermath of the drink or from the insane experiences of the day. What the rogue truth keeper Raven had boldly stated the previous night, began to seem more and more real to Thomas. Raven’s words had seemed harsh and foolish, accusing the very chief of sages of a crime whose punishment was dark and depressing incarceration at best, and eternal and permanent death at worst. The exchange between Raven and Vladimir caused Thomas’ head to hurt even more as the butcher tried to follow what was actually being said. The foreign blade clattering to the stone resounded like the boom of thunderclaps in a lightning storm, shouting in his sensitive ears. It was the shock of seeing the rogue truth keeper give himself up that finally spurred Thomas into action.
“Thomas,” Raven laughed as the butcher’s nose was suddenly mere inches from his own.
Thomas could sense his friend’s discomfort from the stench of his breath. The butcher ignored this and spat out his question.
“Raven, why?”
“Thomas, I did it to protect Paechra. I swear I saw her name written in the hall, in the prophecy…”
The butcher’s bloodshot eyes widened at this revelation.
“You are the only one she knows now, Thomas. You are Paechra’s only friend in this city, her sole trusted companion. Be a better person for your sake and for Paechra’s sake. Do it, before Paechra has a chance to discover who you really are,” Raven urged before he was dragged away by five of the vorsurk soldiers.
A single wolf-like warrior ripped Thomas away from their captive, dumping the butcher effortlessly onto the harsh cobbled street. Suddenly for Thomas, his body ached as much as his mind. In the reflection of the sword that rested silently beside him, Thomas spied the face of Paechra. As her clear eyes meet his that were streaked with lines of red, Thomas saw the sylva flash a weak smile of relief. Inwardly he sighed.
Paechra felt the tiredness lift from her muscles and her mind as the essence borrowed from Raven remained within her. The human seemed to empower her, make her feel even more alive.
‘Strange… Something I will need to ask of the mother druid,’ Paechra thought to herself.
“Come on, Paechra. We should move,” Thomas grumbled as he picked himself up. He held out a hand to help the sylva rise, hoping she could not use her magic to detect just how scared and hopeless he felt.
“As you say, Thomas,” replied the sylva, coming to her feet without assistance and seemingly with far more stamina than that which the butcher had at his disposal.
“I’m doing this for Raven,” murmured Thomas.
The butcher led his new charge down one of the side alleys, hoping it would be a path to something that resembled a safe place, something that probably no longer existed.

***

As the sun set and darkness settled across the desert, Zerrick limped forth from the cover of his large, canvas tent to the roar of applause and a deafening holler from over two thousand voices. The torture demon had stolen much of the master sorcerer’s strength, as well as causing permanent damage to Zerrick’s facial features. The knowledge that Zerrick had gained for those losses, far outweighed any burdens that he suffered. Zerrick was now the only sorcerer with the knowledge of where the eleventh book of power lay, waiting for him to claim it. Such knowledge brought forth from his power hungry kindred an abundance of foot soldiers. There were always more than enough volunteers, seekers of adventure who wished to leave the promise-less desert far behind them. Zerrick was no fool; he knew the level of loyalty to expect from these fighters. He also knew such knowledge as his brought forth allies, other magicians that sought the same power, the same secret. Zerrick did not need the demon’s gift to tell him that such allies were in truth the real enemies in his quest. All who drew to his call for arms and conquest were needed, for now. It was the way of his people. Zerrick still lived where many he had know had already been obliterated, perished in their struggle to gain the ultimate power, become invincible and then claim rulership over the tribes of his kind. Zerrick vowed to guard his words from revealing what it was he knew, and to prepare his mind to repel intruders. This was just how the game was played. Zerrick was determined to still be playing when the game finally came to an end. From eternally far away, the sorcerer overheard a dry chuckle. It took enormous effort to ignore the noise, but Zerrick did as he addressed his army for the first time. He could dwell on strange laughter later, the importance of the words he was about to say would require all of his concentration. It seemed on this clear night even the stars themselves came out to hear him. Zerrick drew magic mercilessly from those around him, reforming the tongue and lower jaw that the demon had stolen. He ignored his dispensable victims and focused his attention on the masses that remained. As the army grew silent he began to speak, he began to inspire them. The sorcerer knew that when his last syllable had faded into nothing the roar of his forces would be trebled in volume, compared with their original applause.

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• About
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Tim Law

JUNE 2021 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com

Timothy Law is a writer of fantasy, horror, detective fiction, general fiction and everything else that pops into his head. He heralds from a little town in Southern Australia called Murray Bridge. A happily married father of three, family is very important to him. Currently working at the Murray Bridge Library in the role of Library Manager he has dreamed since his early high school years of becoming a full-time author. Working for a library, surrounded by so many wonderful stories it is difficult not to be inspired to write. Many of his short stories and general musings can be found on The World of Myth magazine website, his blog - There Are Some Who Call Me... Tim! or on the Parenting Express website. Tim is also the author of the fantasy novel The Eleventh Tome, book one of The Prophecies of Andrapaal. He has a multitude of other novel ideas floating around in his mind. All he now needs is what every author wishes for, time, a little peace and quiet and of course a willing and understanding publisher. While seeking what seems to be the impossible he somehow finds time for scotch and board games with his brother-in-law, family movie nights and weekends away with his wonderful wife.

Latest posts by Tim Law (see all)

• The Eleventh Tome – Chapter X - February 16, 2026
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