Shifting Stars by Gary Stringer (best fiction books of all time txt) 📗

Chapter 13

The Black Tower was situated in its own grounds on the border between the human port town of Gaggleswick, and Ainderbury – a province of the lands of the Faery known as Sylfrania. More than three hundred years ago, it had been the home of the infamous Black wizard, Ulvarius. Widely regarded as the most powerful and dangerous renegade in history, he terrorised the continent, humans and Faery alike, routinely abducting innocent people and subjecting them to the most horrific and torturous of magical experiments. Vast, powerful forces of might and magic assailed him, but he brushed them aside. His power consumed vast acres of land, burning whole towns if but one person defied his will.

It is even said, gentle reader, that Lake Quernhow was formed when a baby dared to cry in the middle of Ulvarius’ speech to the people of a town that existed there in his time. In response, he used his magic to make everybody cry.

Now, that may not sound so bad, but let me clarify: every human and Faery, every adult and child, every animal and plant within the boundaries of that town cried. Water poured out of every living creature until they were nothing but dried up husks and the ground sank under the weight of the water, forming the lake.

Whether that story is true or exaggerated, I can’t be sure. It’s another Temporal Black Spot, off-limits to even observation-only Time travel. Good thing, too, for if the legend is accurate, and I bore witness to it, then I fear that I too would cry and never stop. Except perhaps to tear apart the fabric of reality to stop the bastard that did it, plunging the universe into the maelstrom of chaos.

By the end of his time, Ulvarius’ influence had expanded until he had virtually the whole of Elvaria in his grasp, and it was only a matter of time before he conquered the world. That is, until one day he did the world a favour and took his own life by jumping off the roof of his tower. No-one knew – or cared – exactly why. Perhaps he was simply consumed by his own power, going the way of so many powerful Dark mages before and since. But there was another legend that said he had learned a prophecy saying that no matter how powerful he became, there would be one other, yet to be born, who would be more powerful still. That brought him both figuratively and literally to the edge, or so the story went.

Whatever the truth of it, in the process of taking his own life, even as he fell, he cast out his magic, cursing the tower and its land. All life within his grounds became twisted under his power, forming devastating defences against any future intruder and casting the Tower under a thick blanket of darkness that had never once abated in more than three centuries since.

Adventurers and knights, wizards and clerics tried to enter the grounds over the years, but none got very far before they were struck down and killed, or worse: absorbed into the very defences that had defeated them.

*****

The red-robed figure materialised in the centre of the town of Gaggleswick, teleporting from Xarnas’ home, and gazed at the Black Tower in the distance. It was an impressive, imposing sight. Enshrouded in her hood, Dreya breathed deeply and allowed herself a small smile at the sweet caress of magic all around her. All the power at her command, under her control.

She began to walk, unhurriedly, along the streets of the town, pausing along the way to buy a juicy red apple from a stall along the way. Eating it calmly, she threw away the core just as she reached the gate. Typically, people stayed well away from the border of the Black Tower’s gardens of torture, so the sight of this lone red-robed young woman heading for it with purpose and intent attracted a good deal of attention. Many called out to her, warning her, even begging her to go no further, not to throw her life away.

Her only response was, “If I die, I die in the magic. Magic is all.”

Taking one more breath, she opened the gate and entered the grounds.

Immediately, she was assailed by spells of fire, ice and lightning, but they bounced harmlessly off her shields. She was sprayed with poison and disease, but none of it could touch her. Animated skeletal warriors attacked her by the dozen, but they were soon dust beneath her feet as she walked. Her pace never wavered, as she encountered animated corpses containing the twisted, tortured souls of former champions who had tried and failed to approach the Black Tower. They wanted to drain her of life and magic, but instead, she drained them, restoring whatever power she had so far expended, freeing their souls in the process. And all the time she drew closer to the tower.

Hellhounds beset her with their teeth, werecats with their claws. A single piercing of her skin would mean the end of her life, but she held out a hand, and all cowered, whimpering before her. Demons that had been trapped there for three hundred years, came at her, desperately. Jealous of her sweet life, shining like a beacon, they sought to snuff it out. Half of them she destroyed, while the other half fled back to the lower planes in terror.

Ulvarius had been a master of the True Undead, in his day. Autonomous creatures with sufficient intelligence to follow complex instructions, yet still enslaved to their creator’s will and equiped with regenerative magic. Those that still guarded his tower were the most powerful ever created. Rather than waste her energy trying to kill them – most likely impossible without the use of Holy Water – she focussed her power on the control magic and wrested it from the long-deceased tyrant. From now on, they would serve her, instead.

None of Ulvarius’ defences could stop her or