The Black Wizard's Spire - Daylan Ephitis (pocket ebook reader .TXT) 📗

“What do I want? What does He want?” Vile laughter filled the chamber, making Narthak’s ears ring and teeth grind. “Well children . . . He wants you. Yes, you both; the strongest and most worthy of the Mastodorians. . . . You’ve proved it by completing my challenge and making it to this very room. You both live for the kill; that is why He wants you. You would both be great assets to His grand army; you could both become Children of The Dark.”
“I refuse this vile offer,” barked Stelnor, “That is all that was? A . . . challenge? You slaughtered a whole camp to find the ones who would survive, so you could recruit them as tools of destruction?”
“Yes. I knew that Narthak would survive, I even helped him a little.” Narthak looked sick at that last statement. “I knew he would come to your camp and recruit the finest of you to assault my spire, conveniently located so near to your encampment. If you accept my offer, willingly, you shall become more than human, total grasp on black magic shall be yours. You shall be rulers of kingdoms – eventually the world – and you will bow to no one but Him.
“I deny you, filthy scum!” shouted Stelnor. As he spoke, the invisible hands weakened their grasp around his ankles. “I shall never bow to you!”
“If you do not serve Him in life, you shall serve him in death,” said the purple sphere.
“Feel the pain of sharpened steel, cur!” screamed Stelnor as he ran towards the sphere, twin shortswords drawn. Before he could move two steps, a purple blast erupted from the sphere, it entered Stelnor and he fell down, limp. A ghostly energy rose out of his mouth then got sucked into the sphere. It looked as though the purple orb had sucked out his soul. Stelnor looked dry as a raisin and completely motionless. Suddenly, he disappeared, as if dematerialized.
“You, I hope, will not choose the same fate as your friend. I think you will make the smart choice and join Him in life, rather than in death, like your friend,” said the sphere.
I deny him, I deny him, I deny him, thought Narthak I will not be his puppet, I will not be his tool of destruction, I will not join him in life or death . . . but how . . . how do I escape?
“What say you, barbarian? Do you join Him willingly? Or must I use force? You are worthy of Him, He wants you and He will not stop until you are His.” The sphere sounded as if it was getting impatient.
Suddenly, Narthak could feel magic pulsing in his gut, it was his own, and it did not make him feel sick or ill at all, but rather, peaceful and calm. He concentrated as hard as he could on trying to channel the energy he now possessed. He could feel it creep up through his veins then down into his arm. When it reached his hand, a faint yellow light pulsed around his palm. Without thinking any more, he threw up his arms, icy blue fire shot out of his hands. “I DENY YOU!” he shouted, as the fire came into contact with the purple sphere. It shattered like stressed glass then the whole room erupted in flames. A light as pure and bright as the sun formed in the center of the room where the purple sphere had been. It grew bigger and bigger, soon it engulfed Narthak and he lost his grip on consciousness.
He awoke on a circular platform of earth. It was barren and seemed to drop off at the edges. Milk white clouds floated across the bright blue sky. It felt . . . wrong, somehow, like a twisted version of reality. The air seemed thinner and he felt light as a feather. He stood up and walked to the edge, he gasped as he looked down. The platform was floating. He could not believe it. He was standing on a floating platform of dirt and stone, soaring high above the earth. He turned back; Stelnor was standing in the center of the platform – though he was not there before – fully armed and armored, just as he was.
“Brother, what is this strange place?” asked Narthak, “Where are we?” He approached Stelnor and saw his eyes; they were as white and blank as the clouds floating overhead.
In an instant, Stelnor was running towards Narthak, drawing his twin shortswords. He let out a feral scream as he swung the shortswords at Narthak. Narthak was barely able to bring his claymore up to intercept the blow. Sparks flew and Narthak staggered back. Stelnor’s white eyes burned with a fiery light. Narthak brought his claymore down on Stelnor with an overhead swing, but Stelnor parried the blow with his left shortsword then sunk his right shortsword deep into Narthak’s leg. He let out a short yelp as Stelnor yanked the shortsword out. Narthak staggered back.
“Brother . . . what are you doing? What madness has overtaken you?” stammered Narthak as he saw fresh blood pour out of his leg.
“Join us,” whispered Stelnor, hoarsely, “Join Him.” He looked sick; his skin took on a greenish hue and his hair was falling off in limp strands.
“What . . . happened to you, Stelnor?” asked Narthak, shakily. He took another step back, both hands white knuckle gripping his claymore in an iron lock.
Stelnor did not answer, instead, he charged towards Narthak, letting out another spine-tingling shriek, shortswords raised in the air. Narthak swung at his exposed gut but Stelnor intercepted the blow with lightning quick reflexes. In one swift motion, he swung both shortswords at Narthak’s neck, but he ducked just in time and plunged his claymore into Stelnor’s solar plexus. As the blade sunk deeper and deeper, Stelnor coughed up thick, viscous blood. The blade eventually exited through Stelnor’s back, but he still stood strong, as if not feeling any pain. Narthak snarled and brought the blade out Stelnor’s side. He was now almost half torn in two, but he still stood as if nothing had happened. Narthak’s eyes widened in disbelief as he watched Stelnor’s side begin to close. In less than five seconds, Stelnor’s body was completely healed as if the claymore had never touched it at all.
“You cannot win . . . I am one with Him, now. Join Him, Narthak, join Him and you shall never suffer again.” Stelnor’s voice quivered as if he had not spoken in years. “Life or death . . . the choice is yours.”
Stelnor swung his shortswords around in a blur of motion. They struck Narthak’s claymore with such force that he was instantly disarmed. The claymore flew through the air and was lost over the edge of the infernal platform. Narthak looked fierce, his eyes blazed with rage as he stared death straight in the eye.
“No, I deny you, I deny the Black Wizard. I deny the Lord of Darkness, and I shall not be his puppet!” shouted Narthak. He could fell the energy there again, pulsing through his veins. He concentrated, and brought up to his palms once more. Instantly, another blinding white blast of pure energy shot out of his hands. Everything around him went white and he fell into a state of unconsciousness.
He awoke lying on a pile of snow, back on the highland plain. The wound in his leg was gone. He stood up and looked around, confused; everything that happened in the last twenty minutes was hazy, as if part of a fading dream seen through stained glass. He was presently standing in the center of a dark, circular imprint in the snow. This is where the tower had been, he thought, but where did it go? He suddenly remembered the magic pulsing through his veins, manifesting itself in his palms. He remembered the whole party getting slaughtered. He remembered Stelnor, and everything seemed to come back to him at once. Stelnor . . . serving the Black Wizard? No, no, no, what has happened?
He looked around at the vast tundra surrounding him, then started walking south, with the setting sun by his side. The Black Wizard would never find him. Never.

The End

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Publication Date: 05-31-2010

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