The Orbs of Creation: The Age of Mysticism

By D.A. King

Slowly the long line of robed figures made their way toward the end of the huge antechamber that featured the ornately patterned high arching doorway carefully positioned at the rear of the cobblestoned pathway, offering only one way to approach its uniquely stylized threshold. Each figure stood silently awaiting their turn. Each harboring their own thoughts of grandeur.
Yes, for each had spent centuries in constant study. Blood, sweat, and tears expended often, and freely, in their ever-pressing efforts to learn what it meant to be counted amongst the chosen. Years spent learning through trial and error the arts that would ultimately prove them worthy of the trust that came along with such daunting responsibility. The prestige allotted to those who sought to become a member of The Order of Truth.
Priscilla Whitestone stood ready to embrace the challenge. Ready, for she knew that she was destined for greatness. She and Benjamin Arcanus Trueth were the best of their class. The strongest ever. They were rivals. They had also been lovers once. Lovers whose mutual arrogance would not allow such an emotion as benign as love to take root in their callous hearts.
No, for their one true love was power. Power that could only be had as a result of their mastering the sacred arts detailed within the Tome of Shades. Then and only then could what they both desired most be fully realized. They both would have the chance to show their mastery today. Today, all would be revealed for everyone to see.
Yes, for today, all the robed figures assembled here would take part in the Ritual of Binding. That most sacred of rituals that would forever bind them to the land of Samarq. Today they would either become one of its guardians, or they would perish. Measures had been set in place to see to that.
To each side of the robed acolytes was another group present. Those whose job it would be to ensure that none of the assembled peoples turned back. Not all those present were human. Still, the law was the same for everyone. Everyone must proceed.
Yes, for the point of no return had been reached. None of them could turn away from this. To do so now meant certain death one way or another, or worse: madness. Even if one were to survive in that debilitated state, such one could not be allowed to live. That was the law.
The throng of hard-eyed observers was here to enforce it. They would not allow any of them who had not completed their trial to live. Unless they were to exit through the door to the left. The door with the drawing of the all-seeing eye encased within the swirling crystal ball upon it.
It was well known amongst them all that once one had learned the lore necessary to become an Acolyte of Truth, that one was forever marked. Marked for either greatness or marked for death. There could not be any in-betweens. She knew this for a certainty, for two of their number had fallen already.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493124411

D.A. King

D.A./ Mr.Mrs. Dwone and April Banks. April will be 43 years old May 5th 2017. April was born in Marshall, Texas. She has 2 wonderful children, Krishnna Wallace and Kevin Wallace, ages 23 and 24. She live in the great city of Longview, Texas. She is a workaholic who balances life between. And her one true passion is writing. She enjoys watching horror movies and learning new things, people, and places. She is very spiritual person and it sometimes reflect in her writing, yet not in the conventional sense. She is very strong on the message and tries to slide one into most things that she write. 

Book preview

Prologue

Slowly the long line of robed figures made their way toward the end of the huge antechamber that featured the ornately patterned high arching doorway carefully positioned at the rear of the cobblestoned pathway, offering only one way to approach its uniquely stylized threshold. Each figure stood silently awaiting their turn. Each harboring their own thoughts of grandeur.

Yes, for each had spent centuries in constant study. Blood, sweat, and tears expended often, and freely, in their ever-pressing efforts to learn what it meant to be counted amongst the chosen. Years spent learning through trial and error the arts that would ultimately prove them worthy of the trust that came along with such daunting responsibility. The prestige allotted to those who sought to become a member of The Order of Truth.

Priscilla Whitestone stood ready to embrace the challenge. Ready, for she knew that she was destined for greatness. She and Benjamin Arcanus Trueth were the best of their class. The strongest ever. They were rivals. They had also been lovers once. Lovers whose mutual arrogance would not allow such an emotion as benign as love to take root in their callous hearts.

No, for their one true love was power. Power that could only be had as a result of their mastering the sacred arts detailed within the Tome of Shades. Then and only then could what they both desired most be fully realized. They both would have the chance to show their mastery today. Today, all would be revealed for everyone to see.

Yes, for today, all the robed figures assembled here would take part in the Ritual of Binding. That most sacred of rituals that would forever bind them to the land of Samarq. Today they would either become one of its guardians, or they would perish. Measures had been set in place to see to that.

To each side of the robed acolytes was another group present. Those whose job it would be to ensure that none of the assembled peoples turned back. Not all those present were human. Still, the law was the same for everyone. Everyone must proceed.

Yes, for the point of no return had been reached. None of them could turn away from this. To do so now meant certain death one way or another, or worse: madness. Even if one were to survive in that debilitated state, such one could not be allowed to live. That was the law.

The throng of hard-eyed observers was here to enforce it. They would not allow any of them who had not completed their trial to live. Unless they were to exit through the door to the left. The door with the drawing of the all-seeing eye encased within the swirling crystal ball upon it.

It was well known amongst them all that once one had learned the lore necessary to become an Acolyte of Truth, that one was forever marked. Marked for either greatness or marked for death. There could not be any in-betweens. She knew this for a certainty, for two of their number had fallen already.

One had fallen inside of the chamber room beyond the high arching doorway, his screams echoing eerily throughout the cathedral-like chamber. The other had been cut down by the waiting Assassinators as he burst from the chamber room doors, gibbering and screaming like a frightened child, the relentless pressure of the grueling tests inside of the magical chamber having completely destroyed his mind, deep in the bowels of the Crystal Tower. The Assassinators had put him hurriedly out of his misery.

She had not even blinked. No, for there could only be one outcome for her here today. She would succeed. She would exit the chamber an archmage, or she would not exit at all. It was as simple as that. She knew that she could not accept anything other than that even if there were an alternative solution offered to her. She had trained hard for this day. She had sweated and cried. She had nearly been killed on several occasions as she toiled hard, trying to master the sacred arts of her craft. Hurt only to rise again with renewed resolve in her quest for the power that she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was just within her grasp.

I shall succeed, she whispered to herself, confidence flaring into sudden anger as she watched the tall lithe form of Benjamin Arcanus Trueth exit from the chamber room door to the left. Pausing in the doorway for added effect, he squared his slender shoulders, head bathed in the brilliant backlight that burst from the chamber beyond. He has succeeded, she mouthed in awe, stunned by the ramifications. So must she. So must she, she knew, as the door to the chamber slid silently open in front of her.

Mouth tightening in a thin hard line of fierce determination, she stepped inside the surprisingly small chamber. Looking around at the intricate-stylized patterns etched into the smooth walls, she could not help the involuntary shiver that ran through her body as she heard the chamber door whisper shut behind her. This was it, she told herself as a voice echoed inside her head.

What is your name? it asked softly in her ear.

Priscilla Whitestone, she replied.

Why have you come? it asked.

To learn how to serve, she answered simply.

Serve whom? it asked.

The land, she said truthfully.

Good, said the voice. Then the questioning began in earnest.

*     *     *

Yes. He made it through. He had known all along that he would. He had known, for he could not accept anything other than complete success. Ever. He must prevail. Always, he would find a way to prevail. He had said as much to the voice. It was then that a new voice had spoken to him.

What do you desire? it asked.

Power, he answered truthfully.

How will you obtain it? it asked.

Carefully, he answered.

Who will help you to obtain it? it asked softly.

Instinctively, he’d known that he had reached a crossroads of sorts. As if his answer at this time would mean the difference between his life—or death. The thought of it all exhilarated him. Whet his perverse appetite in a way that he had never before experienced. It momentarily took his breath away.

Panting, he whispered his response. Hades, he answered expectantly.

Tell me of him, commanded the voice instantly. Jealously.

Why? asked Benjamin, momentarily taken aback.

Because it is I that can help you to gain that in which you seek, it whispered.

How will you do that? he asked skeptically.

By teaching you that which has been withheld from you, it promised.

Withheld from me? I do not understand, he said.

Withheld from you, but not of I. I of whom have the knowledge. The key to the power that you desire. I can teach you how to take it for yourself, how to make it your own, it whispered softly.

What will you teach me? he asked, his interest aroused.

A ritual that will strengthen you, it said.

What ritual is that? he asked.

The Ritual of Passing, it said.

What do you want in return? he asked the voice with abject interest.

Freedom, it said.

I am listening, he said. And so he had. He had listened, and he had understood immediately what must be done. It wanted for him to let it roam free in the land of Samarq. In return for this, it promised him power. Pure unbridled power if only he would aid it in its escape from its place of captivity. It could not enter freely. No. It must be let through. It must be accepted.

He had accepted its offer. He had listened intently as it had described to him what must be done. Committed it all to his incredible memory as it taught him how to perform the complex Ritual of Passing. He listened, for he had long ago made his choice. It had been his to make. He had spoken the truth.

The truth, he realized, is what set one free once inside the chamber, he’d realized in an instant. It did not matter what that truth consisted of at all just so long as it was the truth in which was spoken. He smiled then. It would be a momentous occasion when he informed Hades of what he had done. Yes, for Hades too desired power. Benjamin would tell his dear friend how it could be had.

THE BLOOD

Chapter 1

The first indication of an alien presence, as always, was preceded by a numbing, roaring sensation in the ears. It was followed closely by the smell. A cloying smell. Sulfurous. It was an altogether overpowering smell. One of fire and brimstone. Overpowering indeed. So was the presence. The presence was a thing so strong that it could crush the psyche of the weak. It could literally destroy life itself. Totally and completely without any provocation. Nor did it give any warnings. No, for the presence was the essence of pure evil. A primal evil. A creature whose being was so twisted by its chaotic hatred that it desired nothing more than discord—and destruction. An ancient evil, it was the bane of all of mankind.

Cunningly, it pierced one’s consciousness. Thrusted at one’s being. Always whispering. Always promising. Promising power. Promising ecstasy. It could be had. It promised that it could.

Has there been any news from the supernaturals? Is there anyone with the competence to scout the elven forest? boomed an enormous man, voice as deep and powerful as an avalanche. A voice as cold as ice.

Nine feet in height, he was a five-hundred-pound behemoth of solid muscle. An impressive physical specimen. So was the thing to whom he spoke.

Equal to the man in height, the thing was far more daunting to the eye. Never did it reveal its true physical form. No, for it was far too horrible a sight to behold. Instead it hid its true form. Appearing yet not really appearing at all. A constantly shifting void, it was a virtual mass of empty space. A flowing mass of nothingness, yet it was so much more. It was an abomination. One that emitted a cacophonous sound of multihued voices. Male and female all mixed up into one. Always probing. Always hungry.

Patience, it whispered. Word comes.

"Patience, you say? I have been patient with you for well over three thousand years. Since first you came to me with your scheme. With your promises. Still I have not obtained that which I seek, yet you continue to feed. Patience? Humph! What is it that you insinuate, foul demon?

Osirus and his legions stand ready to march upon my orders! he shouted, vehemently punching the air with a huge index finger. They await that order now. An order that I cannot give, demon, for I do not know the whereabouts of the orbs. You promised me the orbs, demon. I shall hold you to that of which you have promised me, he said menacingly.

"A promise that I shall keep. Word . . . word comes," whispered the demon presence.

Word comes, thought the priest in irritation. Always, word comes, he grumbled as, flexing huge muscles, he rose to his full height. Looking out of one of the many tower windows, he frowned in disbelief.

In the distance, a dust cloud rose lazily into the morning sky. Someone or something was approaching the Citadel. Someone capable of moving across the landscape with incredible speed. What could it be? Who, for that matter, would even dare to trespass? There had to be some sort of mistake, for no one was allowed to visit the Citadel without his permission. Not under any circumstances.

Frowning, he gazed out the window at the wide expanse. It was plainly obvious that nothing else moved with such intent or purpose as the figure fastly approaching in his direction. So disturbed was he by this that he almost missed the thing’s sudden swerve to the left. As it bore down on a small bush, a lone prairie wolf burst from its cover. It didn’t stand a chance against the beast, that the priest recognized as an argonycc, as the huge four-armed monstrosity easily ran the poor creature down in the wide-open space. There were not many things that would stand a chance against it. No. Not in this setting.

The Citadel sat in the middle of the Mirror Lake. The legendary magical lake located in the Province of Naqsui. There were some who claimed that the lake possessed the ability to reflect the soul of the beholder. This was an amusing thought to Hades Coldstone, high priest of the Order of Dread; for whenever he looked into the lake, all he ever saw was darkness.

Darkness, he thought wryly. Imagine that! That the lake had a strong enchantment on it he knew well. It was an abjuration far more ancient than his five thousand years. More powerful as well. Yes, for he’d long ago realized that his spells were somehow greatly magnified whenever he cast them from within the Citadel’s walls.

Millenniums ago, Hades Coldstone had had the surrounding countryside bordering the lake stripped of all vegetation in a five-mile radius. Remembering how he’d come to be in possession of the famed tower, he’d immediately assumed measures that would discourage any would-be copycat attempts. He now had a clear field of vision on all sides. No one approached without being seen or heard. He was fully obsessed with the need to monitor all movement in the vicinity of his tower. Murderously so.

As a result of this mania, only a light smattering of young trees and foliage remained. A stark contrast to the once-majestic forest that had marked the approach to the much visited Citadel so long ago. It, like the once proud Order of Truth, had fallen victim to the tyrannical Hades Coldstone. The land now was nearly barren. Just as his heart was devoid of any emotion except for his anger. A thorough and meticulously careful man, the priest suffered no one to visit unannounced. No one.

What then brought one of his son’s minions here? Its mere size alone rendered the boat useless to it while swimming the lake was unthinkable. Already, he could hear the denizens of the lake chirping their warning at the monster’s approach. Frown deepening, he looked around. The beast was still nearly a mile off yet coming on fast. He’d forgotten just how fast the creatures could move. He wouldn’t do so again, he vowed tightly.

Supreme hunters, the warriorlike beasts lived only to hunt, desired only to kill and to mate. They feared nothing except strength greater than their own. They had met their match and then some in his youngest son, Osirus. Soon after defeating the argonycc leader in single combat, he’d given the beast a choice. Death, or conquest, and good hunting. Looking into the cold eyes of its new master, it had readily agreed to abandon the Dimension of Oppression, its homeworld for the fresh virgin lands of Samarq.

They now comprised the fast-attack division of his army. Efficient, ruthless killers, just like their master. Watching the beast as it neared the dock, he could not help marveling at the creature’s apparent speed and agility. What was it Osirus had said? That they were able to jump and leap in great bounds? Was it able to leap from the landing to the island platform below as well? Hmmm. I must remedy that, he muttered. Now, however, he had more pressing matters to attend to. Someone would soon learn to conduct their affairs in a far more uniform fashion ere this day drew to an end.

Muttering an incantation, the priest strode from the room and descended the long spiral staircase. What, he wondered, sort of news did the thing have to relay? More importantly, was it worth foregoing well established protocol for? Why, for that matter had there been no word from his oldest son Benjamin? What of the supernaturals?

Six of them total, they were weird-looking creatures that communicated telepathically. Evil creatures. They did not cast a shadow, nor could any mirror reflect their image. They too were from another dimension. The Dimension of Strife. With their ability to assume the form of anything in a heartbeat, they were useful tools in his army. Very useful. The ultimate spies. Lone rangers, they were completely dependable. Until now.

Thrummph! The priest’s musings were cut abruptly short by what could only be the argonycc landing on the platform below. It had jumped well over four hundred yards. Four hundred yards, mumbled a furious Hades Coldstone Scowling fiercely, he descended the last flight of stairs. So angry was he that he hardly noticed passing through the old guardroom door and into the large octagonal-shaped room beyond. This room had once been the Citadel’s first line of defense. That, however, had been a long time ago. A very long time ago, thought the priest nostalgically as he caught sight of the argonycc’s hideous features through one of the triangular windows. He could smell him too.

How does Osirus put up with it? With his nose wrinkling up of its own accord, the priest shook his head in wonder at the musky stench pervading the spacious interior of the room even though the beast had yet to enter the tower proper. Six score of them no less, all closeted inside the Helm. The boy is insane, he concluded, once again shaking his head as he cleared the thoughts from his mind.

Rounding a corner, he came abruptly face-to-face with the huge monster. It stood squarely inside the Citadel’s entranceway, gruesome countenance screwed up in a pain-filled grimace. Understanding immediately, he waved a hand, lowering the immobilization spell that prevented all from entering the tower unnoticed.

Released from the grips of the spell, the beast made its fluid, but cautious, approach toward the scowling priest. Watching it, he once again marveled at the thing’s evident agility despite its massive form. Standing tall and silent, he stared malevolently at the beast as it paused, looking at him with unconcealed curiosity reflected in its intelligent gaze. Then without warning, its mouth split open, revealing row upon row of needle-sharp teeth. Haltingly, it uttered what sounded to the priest like, Shoosh with message for priest. Master find way in trees. Capture elves.

Not fully understanding, the dark priest waited patiently for the thing to make itself clear. Meanwhile, the huge four-armed monstrosity, also not fully understanding, stood eyeing the huge great sword strapped across the priest’s back. A long uncomfortable silence ensued.

Several minutes passed in which Hades Coldstone stood staring coldly at the beast. Then, with anger flaring at the monster’s seemingly insolent behavior, the priest snapped. What of the elves? How are they relevant to my plans? he asked through the telepathy spell he’d cast prior to descending the stairs, taking a menacing step toward the stunned creature.

Master say, growled the monstrosity, awestruck. Master send Shoosh, it explained quickly, through the bond, cringing in the face of the overbearing priest. No one had ever spoken inside its head before.

Having heard enough, Hades Coldstone, his face dark with rage, spoke a single word of power. In an instant, he and the cowering argonycc vanished in a blue-green flash of light. Someone, he promised, would learn to act a whole lot better in the very near future.

The sounds of someone in excruciating pain could be heard coming from behind the big wooden door, leading to the archmage’s private chambers. A short time later, the screams were replaced by great wracking sobs of relief. Soon thereafter, even they had ceased. The silence grew deafening. Exchanging glances, the guardsmen stationed outside the door began to breathe easier. Experience had taught them that silence heralded an end to the screaming. It had also taught them that it was the harbinger of death. Someone had just left this plane of existence. Forever.

Nevertheless, they both knew their jobs well. Standing ever ready to crash the doors and rush swiftly to their master’s aid should the need ever arise. So far so good, thought the shorter of the two. So far so good.

Tobar Strongheart was a realist. The truth of the matter, the way he saw it was quite clear. Anything that was strong enough to overcome the archmage of Arcanusis, would surely be far beyond their power to control. Yes, he assured himself, it surely would.

Suddenly, the sounds of someone running in their direction caught his attention. Turning, he recognized the hurried step of the archmage’s personal handservant, Sol Quickspeak. Sliding to a stop in front of them, the anxious little man began talking and gesturing wildly.

Sires! he cried. There are reports of a planned uprising in the city. Lidia, the baker girl, says her grandma has ordered her to stay out of the city. It’s the food shortage, you know, he explained, leaning close in a conspiratorial tone. I must inform the master.

Sol Quickspeak was a slightly built, nervous sort of fellow. Extremely nosey, he spied and eavesdropped on any conversation that he encountered. A fount of information, he was usually fairly accurate in his tellings. The problem that now faced the guardsmen was whether or not the information was worth disturbing the archmage over. Surely, an uprising was serious business and could not be tolerated, thought Reginald Dimweed, the taller of the two.

Tobar, thinking along the same lines, had a sudden brainstorm. Sol, he snapped. Go and fetch Captain Rodan. Tell him to come quickly. Oh, and Sol, be certain, absolutely sure, that you don’t mention a word of this to anyone. Do I make myself clear? he growled ominously.

Yes, yes, sir, stammered a thoroughly intimidated Sol Quickspeak as he turned and sprinted off down the long corridor.

Rodan? asked Dimweed when the little man had disappeared from sight. What do we need that dullard for? Surely, Celphus Rodan can’t be of any assistance to us in this matter, he blurted incredulously.

Staring at his fellow guardsman thoughtfully, Tobar shook his head slowly. Dullard no less, he muttered. Speak of the campfire calling the cookfire ashy, will you? he snorted.

What? asked Dimweed, looking confused. Don’t you think that we should tell the archmage? Get instructions on how to deal with this problem?

Be my guest, quipped Tobar. Please feel free to knock your longwear off. As for me, I’m not going to be the fool who disturbs my lord while he’s at his work. As for you? You, my large-limbed friend, would be wise to think along those same lines. Unless of course you believe that you can outsing that poor lump beyond yon door there, he said, gesturing with barely suppressed anger.

The man is a fool, he fumed, walking away. Had to be. All he knew for sure was that come floodwaters, or an army of hobgoblin regulars for that matter, under no circumstances short of a full-scale storming of the Crystal Tower itself was he doing anything in regard to yon door except guard it. So if this fool of a man decided to knock on it and angered its occupant, a quick swing of his shiny war axe should serve to reduce Dimweed’s size enough to equal his wits. Dimweed indeed, growled Tobar, eyes flashing dangerously. More like dumb-ass.

So you think that we should handle it ourselves? asked a suddenly very perplexed Reginald Dimweed. Without asking the archmage what we should do?

Shaking his head once more, Tobar, muffling a curse, strode away. Walking a short distance, he gave thought to the situation that he was faced with. The food shortage was a thing that could no longer be ignored. There had been many reports of unrest amongst the commoners throughout Arcanusis.

Port Cyder was a bustling port city that thrived off its imported commerce. Commerce that had become increasingly more scarce as of late. Caravans, the city’s lifeblood, that had once stretched far out into the plains had all but ceased to show. Ships that had once docked at the cities ports were few and far between.

A rise in banditry as well as the fleet of pirate ships that patrolled the outer coasts of Samarq played a crucial role in the ongoing food shortage. Travellers were no longer safe. Many had been found dead beside the road or hastily buried in shallow graves, their wares and purses missing. The situation was a simple one. Since the merchant caravans and ships were no longer safe, they no longer visited the capital city. The result? A food shortage.

Now children and the elderly had begun to sicken and die. If reports were accurate, over three hundred people had already died. More than enough to start frightened tongues to waggle. Add to that the strange rumors being circulated of dark deeds being done in the Crystal Tower, and you had fuel for a very large bonfire. Superstition was at an all-time high. There were many stories being bandied about of the end-times. Fear, Tobar knew, could be a powerful motivator. A very powerful motivator. Was there any wonder that crime was continually on the rise? How much longer could things go on this way?

It was said that even the Province of Jaquarii had been affected. The cities there experiencing the same manner of occurrences. The same as elsewhere in Arcanusis. People missing. Mysterious disappearances. Whole villages found slaughtered. They were no longer isolated incidents. Not anymore. To what or whom could the blame be given? How long could it go unchecked? More importantly, was there any relief in sight?

Tobar’s musings were cut short by the sound of heavy footfalls and Sol Quickspeak’s insistent whiny voice. Honestly, Captain Rodan, it is of the utmost importance. The archmage’s very own personal guard sent me, he whined.

Turning, he saw an amusing sight. Captain Celphus Rodan, fist clenched around Quickspeak’s shirt front, dragged the poor soul bodily down the long corridor. What’s the meaning of this? he boomed. There’s news of a riot in the town square. I must squash the rabble before it gains momentum! he said hotly.

That is exactly why you were sent for. Be sure that when you put down the resistance that you root out all of the instigators. Examples must be made in order to ensure that any future troublemakers will think twice before committing to such a course of action. Rioting is not conducive to civilized living. It must be deterred immediately, replied Tobar adamantly. There are troubled times ahead of us, Celphus. My lord has more important things to attend to these days. We would do well not to anger him with such foolishness as small as this, he explained.

Anger whom? asked the soft-spoken voice from behind them. Is there something that I should know? asked the archmage, smiling a blood-tinged smile.

Stark terror was mirrored in the faces of all present. Tobar was certain that he’d seen what appeared to be long sharp fangs protruding from the mouth of the archmage. Bloodstained fangs. Long ones.

In horror, he realized that all the stories about the sinister-looking sorcerer being a cannibalistic fiend were true. Unbidden, a vision of the archmage feeding on live, screaming prey filled his mind. I could be next, he realized. Trembling uncontrollably, Tobar, taking a shaky step backward, dropped to one knee. Master, he said quickly. We did not wish to disturb you, my lord.

So you have everything under control, yes? asked the sorcerer, skin glowing noticeably. And you shall not disappoint me, yes? he smiled wickedly.

Ν-n-n-nο, my lord! stammered Tobar. Never! he exclaimed, bounding to his feet. Turning to Captain Rodan, he began barking out orders. Proceed, Captain. Use all force. Bring those troublemakers to heel. Immediately. Quickspeak, tell the headsman to start laying out his tools. We need answers quick, snapped Tobar Strongheart, turning slightly toward the little man. Our lives depend on it, he thought nervously.

They most certainly do, yes? spoke a presence in the frightened man’s mind.

Blanching visibly, he looked up to see the swiftly diminishing figures of Captain Celphus Rodan and Sol Quickspeak as they turned a corner down the hall. Tracking their movements by the sound of their hurried footsteps, Tobar let out a long sigh of relief. He did not need this stress.

Turning at last to the archmage’s private chambers, he started when he found that the door was firmly closed. Spinning around in a complete circle, he thought it quite peculiar that he saw no sign whatsoever of his fellow guardsman. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

Genuinely disturbed, he began to wonder if he were going daft. Crazy as an old stallion horse during breeding season no doubt, he muttered, shaking his head uneasily. Ma Strongheart’s boy has himself an imagination he does, he said, chuckling softly.

It was then that Reginald Dimweed began to scream.

*     *     *

As far back as he could remember, Maligomar had never been placed in such a situation as that created by the ancient-looking creature—enshrouded within the confines of the shimmering robes, and cloak—that fateful day not so long ago. Even now, thirty-eight years later, he could not fully recall if he’d actually saw the thing’s features clearly.

The more he pondered, it the stranger the whole scene became. Appearing out of nowhere, the creature had taken him completely by surprise. One moment he was alone, and the next, he was staring at a ten-foot-tall, greenish-brown-tinged creature wrapped tightly in a shimmering cloak. This in itself was not so strange. Maligomar had witnessed many things in his long life. Therefore not even the nine-foot-long tail that identified the creature as one of the legendary reptile men of lore was enough to give the warlock much of a pause.

The thing that it carried in its claws, however, was another thing altogether. Rising to his full height, he saw that the thing stood poised as if awaiting some sort of signal. Then as he looked on, it laid an infant boy at his feet, and hissed, Raise’ss the’ss boy’ss. Train’ss him’ss, and’ss when’ss he’ss attain’ss his’ss full’ss strength’ss his’ss destiny’ss shall’ss he’ss seek’ss.

Whose boy is it? he asked in shock. Whose child is it?

The’ss land’ss, it hissed. As’ss are’ss we’ss all’ss, it said before turning and disappearing back into the wilderness just as suddenly as it had come.

Thinking back on it now, he was still forced to admit that it had been one of the most profound moments of his life. Nothing came close to matching it. Not this experience. No, not the one that had brought Sabirun into his life. Nor, for that matter, had any heralded such happiness either.

No, for with the introduction of the child into his life, Maligomar’s life had taken on new meaning. He had come into a whole new understanding. That understanding giving him a newfound respect for the rigors of parenthood. He also fully understood the nature of the responsibility in which he had been entrusted.

Understood only too well actually, for the boy was of the Blood. They both were. The only two of their kind born with the blood in their veins in well over seven hundred years to be exact. Yes, they were of the Blood. The last of a dying breed.

Still he had welcomed such a trust, the duty, for right away he could tell that the boy was special. Very special. In fact he often glowed, skin pulsating with the power that coursed through his veins pure and untainted. The blood ran true in him. Much more truer than did the blood in his own veins.

Yes, for in the veins of the boy he had named Sabirun Quickstrike ran the unbridled power of the ancients. A pureblood. And he had been entrusted with the duty of raising him. A momentous occasion indeed, for he had done just that. Trained him as well.

But today, he felt somehow troubled. Something did not seem right to him. Call it intuition, but Maligomar had been alive long enough to understand the undercurrents of his power. He had begun to see the way the land and his very existence were intermingled. He understood what had not been told to him by those whose duty it had been to teach.

The thing that he could not get a full grasp on was why now at this time? Had something been set in place that was irreversible? Was it somehow triggered by some unforeseen event? An anomaly?

Shaking his head, he tried to rid himself of the ever-increasing sense of foreboding that had gripped him since the morning that Sabirun had left their village. The day that he had left in search of his soul weapon. A search that Maligomar knew that every village warrior must make. What Maligomar failed to tell him was that his search would not be as simple as that of the others.

The Village of Magree was the largest of several found in the remote jungle area of Samarq known as the Margonaut Reaches. Magree, being larger than any of its neighboring villages, was the center of commerce. It lay sprawled along the eastern bank of Lookout Creek. The last vestige of civilization, this was the boundary that separated one from the wilderness beyond. This was the home of the infamous wild men.

Their name being attributed to their savage nature in the heat of battle, these highly skilled and ferocious warriors were unequalled in all of Samarq. Armed with this insight, Maligomar entrusted Sabirun’s martial training to these daunted warriors at age five. Standing silent sentry, he watched as the boy put his all into the highly disciplined battle art secretly known as the Art of the Teflinosha. It was an ancient discipline that taught one the mastery of mind, body, and spirit, fusing them into one. The result, a highly trained combat brute. A battle master.

By his fifteenth spring, Sabirun had attained full mastery. His mastery of the art coupled with his birthright made the boy the mightiest warrior amongst them. He had never lost a battle.

Still deeply engrossed in the past, the Warlock Lord was brought back to the present by the sound of excited cries coming from outside of his tent. What was it all about? Danger?

Exiting his tent, he came face-to-face with the object of his recent thoughts. I have completed my mission, Father, said Sabirun softly. I now have my soul weapon. I know the truth, he announced, handing the warlock an oilcloth-wrapped package.

Thank you, my son, and congratulations, replied Maligomar, accepting the package. Please come inside, there is much that I would like to know of your journey, he said turning back toward his tent. Much indeed, he muttered. And then some.

Yes, he told himself, for rumors from abroad spoke of horrors having been sighted. Horrors never before heard of in the land of Samarq. Whole villages had gone missing without a trace, well-armed patrols attacked and slaughtered. Death had even visited the elves in the midst of their well-guarded forest home. There were rumors of discord in every province and township throughout the land. Not even their dwarven allies had been spared. Grief had even visited them in their stronghold inside the Wattsburgh Mountains. Several of their patrols had been attacked.

Now there had spawned a new dilemma. A sickness has developed deep within their under-mountain home—in the rocks as well as the people. King Ramhammer Sledge, in an effort to discourage any trespassers, had begun to double his patrols. He warned all his neighbors to be ever vigilant, for according to the message he’d sent to the Warlock Lord, the prophecies of old were coming true. He’d read one such prophecy. It went,

When the night counsel of Bloods comes to light

Death shall soon follow a wilting blight

Abominations feeding on the land and its tokens

Bartered souls crying out, the results of households broken

Guardian orbs true, wards of damnation

Doomed world imminent unless one blood creation

One blood creation, pondered the warlock. Tall and dark with a wiry build, Maligomar had counseled the Villagers of Magree for well over eighty years. The ageless one, he was secretly called. The ancient one. Ancient indeed, if they only knew.

Maligomar was over seven hundred years old. He alone amongst the people knew of their once-noble origins. Knew what they once were. Knew of the horrors that had caused them to flee their homelands in the east. That had caused them to flee to the land in which they now dwelled.

Yes, for there were others like him. There were others whose blood sang. Some who could still control the power. Wield it and shape it at their command. Those that could still control the orbs. Yet many still fled west. Even after so long a time. Further upsetting the balance. This time, however, they fled for a different reason.

Two thousand plus years of breeding with the common wild men and women of the Margonaut Reaches had all but destroyed the Blood of the Ancients. At least that’s the story that they told. Maligomar had his own ideas when it came to that. Something else was the cause of the blood dying out. There had to be another reason.

The Warlock Lord was well aware of the power manifest in the Blood of the Ancients. No mere, weak bloodline could destroy such power. No, the blame had to lie elsewhere. Deep down inside, many of the others knew this as well. They who had formed the alliance of the wild men of the Margonaut Reaches and the dwarven tribes of Wattsburgh would not be so easily fooled.

Many had stayed, and lived amongst the wild race of men, even after the generally accepted conclusion. Trained them, taught them that which they knew not. Gradually, however, all but a few had faded into the wilderness beyond Lookout Creek.

Finally unable to deal with what they had created, they had fled once again. Fled the horror of their shameful deed. Their children born without their birthright. Children that they watched grow old and die while they aged seemingly not at all. While they maintained their near immortality. Of the few who remained, they had journeyed back beyond the mountain range. Acting as sentries, they stood vigilant watch for that which had caused them to flee from the east. Ever watchful for their signs. Always listening for news of their coming.

Father. Father, the Ancient Ones say that the Blood have begun to die, spoke Sabirun from behind him, grabbing his full attention. The taint in the land runs too deep, Father. It is too strong. The people were never meant to be this far west. Each race had its place. Each had its duty to the land, he explained. Their presence here has upset the balance. They should never have fled. Now the darkness has begun to overshadow the light, he finished angrily.

So now you know? asked the warlock. Did they tell you what must be done?

Yes, Father. I have it with me. Still, I must convince the others to cooperate, or else, all is lost.

You will need help. In fact, I shall journey with you as far as the Wattsburgh Mountains. There is much that I must speak to King Ramhammer Sledge about. We will leave two days hence, declared the Warlock Lord.

I will be ready, Father, promised Sabirun, turning and exiting the tent.

Two days. The way through the mountains would be rough but should be relatively safe, for the dwarves were their sworn allies. As for the elves? Now that was another matter altogether. Too many rumors spoke of the elf king Constantine having gone insane soon after the death of the elf queen Belquis. It was whispered that in an effort to bring her back that he’d begun to delve into dark necromantic practices. Supposedly, it had blackened his