(( Author’s Note: This story was written in 2001 while I played the MMORPG Asheron’s Call as a collaborative effort with Amina of Amun and Ariq. The characters Amina of Amun and Ariq are not mine and are referenced here with the creator’s permission. I have since lost track of these two fine writers and hope they’ve realized the success that has, so far, eluded me. The place, item, and certain character names are content within the game and are a copyright of Turbine Entertainment. ))
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Inhale. Deeper. Hold. Exhale.
Trying to slow his breathing.
Keep low.
Leaning against a cypress tree.
Stay quiet.
A dog alerted nearby and startled the haggard warrior.
Inhale.
He heard the angry voices of his pursuers drawing close.
Run.
Not tuned. Must flee.
He emerged from the Blackmire Swamp, headed west. Looking to the heavens to get his bearings, he was momentarily confused. The stars in the western sky were blotted out, as though some cosmic child had erased only the bottom fourth of a blackboard. A flash of lightning between clouds explained the starless horizon.
Keep moving. Keep running.
A voice from behind him and he bolted. Then on open ground he was able to put some distance between him and his hunters. Desperately he sought a much needed place to rest, some secluded place so he could pause to think.
Feeling a tug in his soul he turned towards the storm. Even as he did so, he thought better of his action. Already in flight for his life, he didn’t need to battle nature as well. Then, he redoubled his sprint to the west. A storm could promptly cover tracks and sluice away scents.
Before he knew it, the tempest had snatched him up, though it seemed unwilling to do more. The winds split their course to make room for him, carrying the stinging sand from his eyes and muting their unremitting howl to a contented kitten’s purr. Lightning flared, arrogantly claiming the sky, affirming its clout with a deafening thunderbolt. His protective confinement soothed these offenses to the merest twinkling of a star and water on riverbank. Only rain breeched the cordon and it was gentle as a wedding tear. From behind a dune he watched the hunters be turned back, the spiteful sand and ruthless rain buffeting them like toy boats on the open seas. For the moment, it appeared he was safe.
Finally able to rest, he sat and marveled over the protective cocoon that enveloped him. Extending his hand caused the rampart to expand, keeping his extremity within the defending confines. Drawing his elemental sword and repeating this action resulted in the same broadening of the encasement. Looking overhead he saw stars, brightly glimmering against the pall of night. Raindrops touched his lips, pure and clean, without taint from the desert sand. Cupping his hands to pool what rainwater he could, he drank deeply, for his thirst was great.
For a time he sat reclined on the sand, and allowed the cool rain to succor his fatigue. He did not understand the magic of the cocoon, but was nonetheless grateful for its safety. Once rested, he stood and stretched new vigor into his flesh. He picked up his sword thinking that Yanshi would be his best haven. His pursuers chased him westward into the storm, and he hoped they would assume his persistence for that direction. Being to the north, he thought they would overlook Yanshi and leave it unguarded.
Moving that direction put him directly into the jaws of the storm. Immediately, he was accosted by the elements, the sand stinging his exposed flesh, the rain against his armor sounding like a thousand marching soldiers on a cobblestone street. Stumbling back from this unexpected onslaught brought him once again within the protective cocoon he had unwittingly exited.
Clearing the sand from his eyes and mouth, he thought that perhaps he had moved too quickly. He took a half-step towards the motionless barriers of the cocoon. Taking a full step put his leg in the storm again. Withdrawing completely within, he puzzled.
Upon entering the boundaries of the storm, the barrier appeared, insulating him from the fury that rained down on his pursuers. It had moved with him then, so why would it not do the same now?
Carefully, he began testing the confines of the magic again. He noted this time the only expansion to be found was on his left, to the west, towards the center of the storm.
Gingerly, he stepped to his left and the cocoon moved with him. Again he tried, and again, it moved. So, he would be corralled west with protection, or move freely in any other without.
=====
“What make you of this damnable storm?”
Outside, a gust of wind battered against the door, threatening to tear it from its hinges.
Like sand between a cog and its gear Thrum’s voice grated heavily upon nearby ears, and Jar’red hated it. Oblivious to its effect, or caring little about it, Thrum spoke loudly and without apology. Jar’red tolerated Thrum in his bar so long as the steady flow of pyreals from he and his vassals remained generous.
” ‘Tis foul and unnatural. Surely Asheron has forgotten this place,” Jar’red replied, consciously avoiding glancing at Ariq and his smoldering, crimson eyes. Thrum nodded to his empty mug in concurrence. “Foul, indeed. Wicked things are coming, friend,” he rasped in a disembodied voice, “Evil is approaching, though its herald not yet arrived.”
The drunk were sometimes amusing when they waxed as an oracle. ” ‘Nother ale?” Jar’red refilled Thrum’s mug.
For a fortnight the storm raged, mauling Uziz with a fury not remembered since the opening of the portals. The squall gusted from the west, stirring up a vicious sandstorm that blotted the sun from the sky. Mighty thunderheads arose under this concealment, bloated with hail and rain and boiling with lightning. As one did they accost Uziz, the biting sand driving all desert folk eastward, or underground. Jar’red was as apprehensive about the preternatural strength of the storm as his clientele, but privately, he rejoiced. Because most travelers and locals decided to shelter within his tavern, his coffers were nearly filled to capacity. Thrum and his three vassals, as did countless others, preceded the initial onslaught by moments, cursing and cowering as they scurried inside. There by the dartboard was Gersan the Sureshot, challenging Gerloc the Defender’s championship title. At a small table towards the front of the room, Gervena the Oblique and the Ivory Crafter seemed to be sharing in a rather intimate conversation. Returning to his work, Jar’red questioned why he could never recall the Ivory Crafter’s given name.
He took it as a small measure of pride that, considering the allowances all had to make, neither did they leave, nor grumble about the necessity to remain. To be certain, the warriors boasted their talents to survive in any climate, yet within this haven they took sanctuary. Not to be outdone, the maji bragged of their abilities to control and concoct such weather, yet none scryed that which could quell the unwavering squall. Tradesman, Vagabond, Bowman, all kinds represented and each seeking the same; a dry place to sleep, warm meals thrice daily, cool drinks to ease the swelter of confined spaces, and lively entertainment to wile away the tedium. Jar’red, of course, dutifully provided these services to varying degrees — so long as pyreal burdened his palm.
Came then dusk, and with it dread.
=====
Huddled tightly together underneath an easement and around a weakly burning fire, three sentinels grumbled their frustration and tried to keep warm.
“A pox on Sarge,” said the crooked nosed one, swaying from side to side in his irritation, “No one should be out in - this.”
“Careful what you call down,” warned the second, he with a gap in his teeth, “there be magic in these winds. Wretched magic.”
“Bah!” answered Crookednose, “Petty superstitions. Ain’t nothing in these winds but sand!”
“Superstitions? Have you not seen the skies to the north? The winged daemon in the lightning? Only an -”
“Shh!” declared the third, a bald man with a thick graying beard, “I just saw something.”
Crookednose snorted with contempt. “You saw your goat, you did.”
“Shhh!!” Graybeard declared again, “I’m not - there it was again!”
The two looked east, in the direction Graybeard was facing, and tried to penetrate the veil of sand, rain, and hail. After a brief, half-hearted scan, Crookednose turned back to the fire.
“Ain’t nothing out here. Not in this -”
“There!”
“I saw it,” declared Gaptooth, “Looks like an electrically enchanted weapon. A sword or a staff.”
“Someone out in this madness?” marveled Crookednose.
Another flash of light pierced the torrent. “There!” pointed Gaptooth, “did you see that?”
Crookednose nodded. “By the Stones of the Third Path, who in their right mind would be -”
“It’s a man!” declared Graybeard.
Amazed, the sentinels watched the shadowy figure make his way towards town. He didn’t stumble or stagger, as one should when buffeted by the elements of a storm. He seemed untouched by it, encumbered as one would be in the brightness of day. As he drew to pass them, the man stopped briefly, surveying the stunned sentinels. They could make out nothing about him, other than he was built like a man, and carried an elemental sword. He drew himself up and executed a perfect salute with his weapon before moving on. So dumbfounded were they, the sentinels didn’t return his salute. In moments, he was reclaimed by the storm.
“Where d’ya think he’s headed?” asked Crookednose.
Replying, Graybeard said, “Jar’red’s tavern is in that direction, as is the bowyer.”
Turning again to the fire, Gaptooth remarked, “We should go down to Jar’red’s in a few minutes. Just to see if everything’s all right.”
In silence, musing over the bizarre figure in the stormy night, Graybeard grunted his agreement when Crookednose said, “Double-pox on Sarge.”
=====
He was comfortable in the hush of a crowd. Every moment of his life was filled by either the orchestra of his sword against weapon of his persecutors, or the deadly silence of understanding when his identity was revealed. The silence that pervaded this tavern was for an altogether different reason. Apparently, these people had remained within for some time, none daring to venture into the fume for anything but the direst of necessities. His presence was therefore unexpected, and caught all unawares.
The newcomer glanced around the room surreptitiously as he removed his helm and stomped the mud from his boots. He ignored the fact that he was drenched and filthy, and let the rainwater form tiny rivulets through the grime on his face and armor. With an internal sigh of relief, he didn’t recognize any who were now staring, still puzzling over his appearance. One, the crimson-eyed disciple of Bael’Zharon was undoubtedly confused by the mark of his master upon the newcomer’s right cheek. Another, seated in front of the bartender, a middle-aged warrior, face scarred and chewed by the events of his life, hastily glanced away as the stranger’s eyes drew near. He noted a robed Gharu’ndim woman, seated on the small dais, an Impious Staff resting across her lap. Blood-red robe with hood thrown back, her brow furrowed as she gazed at him. She was undoubtedly one of the fabled desert witches of A’mun.
A woman’s face flashed before his mind’s eye, one he hadn’t seen with mortal vision in many heartbeats. When last he saw her, she was attired similarly, armed too with an Impious Staff.
Rei.
The newcomer shook his head to flip long, unkempt hair back from his eyes. Clearing the dust from his throat, he said unto the witch, “I have interrupted you.”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. A long blink later, as if to clear her vision and calm her breathing, she answered, “Only to retreat into the sanctuary graciously provided by our proprietor. Be welcome.”
The newcomer started to remove his gauntlets, but thought better of it at the last moment. Instead, he removed his left to hold in his right. “I sincerely beg your pardon,” he offered, “I will cause you no more distraction.”
The witch nodded and the newcomer drew near the bar, keeping his head down and avoiding the others. Only he with the crimson eyes continued to stare at him as the witch resumed her performance.
“What’ll it be, stranger? Supper is past by three turns of the glass, but I still have some stew in the pot,” the bartender whispered so as not to disturb those listening to the witch and the story she told.
“Have you any coffee?”
“Aye.”
“Stew and coffee, then.”
The bartender leaned closer to the newcomer, one hand gripping a dagger beneath the bar, the other holding a dirty rag. “I see your coin, you eat and drink. 12 p. for supper, 5p. a room.”
“There is a storm raging outside, barkeep,” protested the newcomer, “are you charging all your patrons in this manner, or are they served on account?”
“These are all known to me, by person or deed, or by association this last fortnight. I do not know you, stranger, and will not have my graciousness abused by the thankless.”
Nodding, he reached into a hidden pocket inside his armor and withdrew a large gemstone. “Will this peridot satisfy your graciousness until the abating of the storm?”
Swiftly pocketing the proffered stone, the bartender smiled broadly and extended his hand. “I’m Jar’red ibn Ja’heed ibn J’abien ibn Jar’hey; Jar’red will do.”
He clasped arms with Jar’red and answered with his name.
The middle-aged, scar-faced warrior at the bar snapped his head towards the men upon hearing the newcomer speak his name. Eyes wide and cheeks pallid, he hastily gulped at his ale, suddenly fearful and frightened.
Jar’red pushed a key across the bar and indicated which stairwell to use. “When you’re settled, help yourself to the stew and coffee,” he said, pointing to an oven-pit built into the side of the room, “and there’s a vat of fresh rainwater upstairs, should you wish a bath.”
The newcomer nodded his thanks and disappeared up the stairs.
Thrum called Jar’red over. “More ale, friend?”
Grabbing a hold of Jar’red’s vest, Thrum pulled him close. “I told you evil was comin’! I warned you about this storm! His herald ‘as come! He’s sent us ‘is dragon to swallow us down and eat us alive!”
“Thrum, be calm,” Jar’red replied, motioning the man with the crimson eyes closer. “I don’t want to turn anyone out on nights such as this, but will if you don’t settle down. You know Ariq, don’t you?”
“Thrum,” spake a voice from behind, “what troubles you?”
Thrum turned and took hold of Ariq’s cloak. “Did you not see, Ariq? The Hopeslayer’s dragon is among us! He’ll kill us all!”
Ariq nodded to Jar’red then turned his blazing, crimson eyes on Thrum, flashing them in response. “I trust you are not referring to me.”
Loosing Ariq hastily, Thrum sat down, visibly calming. “No-no-no!”
Ariq smiled, knowingly. “Perhaps you should retire to your room, Thrum. Get some rest. Being cooped up sometimes affects people’s judgment,” reaching over Thrum’s shoulder, Ariq slid his mug towards Jar’red, “and alcohol only exacerbates the problem.”
Cowed, Thrum nodded and stood. He turned to Jar’red and apologized for his outburst. Quickly, he made for his room. ‘At least,’ he thought to himself, ‘my vassals did not bear witness.’
Jar’red nodded to Ariq, “Seems your services might be needed after all.”
“My services are better than pyreal, barkeep,” Ariq grinned, returning to his seat, and the witch carried on.
=====
“So,” opened Gaptooth, “d’ya think we should head down to Jar’red’s to see if everything’s all right?”
“What? Try to get through that?” countered Crookednose, skeptically, “If there were trouble, someone would have sent word.”
“Through that?” replied Gaptooth, aping the tone of the first, “Only daemons would be found in the midst of that.”
“That was not a daemon!” insisted Crookednose, “he was mad or dull-witted, I’ll wager, but no daemon!”
“Shh!” declared Graybeard, “I just saw something.”
A moment of incredulous silence, then said Crookednose, “That’s not a’tall funny!”
When the three looked into the storm this time, they saw a shadowed figure hunched and struggling against the torrent.
“What a fool! Does he not know to seek shelter?” said Gaptooth.
Every few steps, the fool would stumble or be pushed to the ground. When he was able to walk, he did as though he were blind.
“I’m going out to help him,” announced Graybeard.
“You didn’t seem to be in a hurry to help the last one,” noticed Crookednose.
“The last one was a daemon,” answered Graybeard, “look how this one struggles as a man should. The last walked like there was no storm at all. Keep my back.”
Hunching his head and shoulders against the wind, Graybeard stepped out of the relative safety of the easement and fought his way to the struggling man.
“Pox on pox for Sarge,” whispered Crookednose, watching alongside Gaptooth as their compatriot tried to assist.
“You’re just saying that so you can have a turn with his wife.”
“You dog!” Crookednose sputtered, “I would do no - “
Gaptooth stepped to the edge of the easement and pulled Graybeard and the stranger inside, cutting off Crookednose’s protestations.
Gaptooth and Graybeard helped the traveler to a spot beside the fire, seating him near to get warm.
The traveler had wrapped himself in burlap to protect against the sand, which he stripped in order to move closer to the fire. “Can’t see a damn thing with this over your eyes,” said he.
It was then the three sentinels realized their new guest had made sacrifice at Bael’Zharon’s altar.
“No doubt,” said Crookednose, warily, “welcome to Uziz.”
The traveler smiled, rubbing his hands together over the dying embers, “I’ve made it! Excellent.”
“You made it, all right,” stated Graybeard flatly, “question is, what is of such import that you would risk your life in this madness?”
Glancing at the three of them in turn with his burning red eyes, the traveler nodded. “I am of the Order of Magistrati, here to apprehend a murderer.”
“Not in Uziz, you’re not,” challenged Gaptooth, “this is our jurisdiction.”
The Magistrate grinned, “I was hoping you would see it that way, Sentinel. I will require your assistance.”
Graybeard responded, “Well, you ain’t getting nothing from us until after this storm is over.”
“I cannot wait that long. This murderer needs to be apprehended immediately.”
“You’re in our town now, Magistrate,” countered Gaptooth, “you will wait.”
The Magistrate nodded, a deep frown on his face. “I did not want to do it this way, but you leave me no choice. I declare ‘Jurisdicium Equatim’ under the ‘Magistratum of Retribution for the Just’ rule of law, which, I believe, Uziz not only signed, but co-founded.”
It was the sentinel’s turn to frown. ‘Jurisdicium Equatim’ translated, literally, to ‘equal jurisdiction’. The spirit of the declaration empowered the officer so stating to temporarily merge his jurisdiction with that of the one he suspected a fugitive within. The vocabulary in the declaration was such that he so stating, wielded absolute authority over the jurisdictions affected during its period of enforcement.
“This is highly unusual,” protested Graybeard.
“But not without precedent,” countered the Magistrate. “If there are no further questions, we’ll begin our search for my fugitive at the north end of town.”
“May Sarge lay with a Poor-Witch,” mumbled Crookednose.
The Magistrate looked up from the flames, confused. “What did you say?”
Wordlessly, the three sentinels looked to each other for a moment. Then Gaptooth lied, “He said, ‘Perhaps we should start with Jar’red’s tavern’.”
=====
Shortly, the newcomer returned to the main room of the tavern having bathed and donned clean clothes. With him, he carried a small backpack. In the far corner of the room, where the candlelight shone the least, was a small, unoccupied booth. Out of sight of the main door, it was somewhat removed from the rest of the tables. He was most comfortable where he could see the entire room, and except for not being able to see the door, the booth was situated perfectly. There, the newcomer deposited his backpack while he quietly went about preparing a bowl of stew and mug of coffee.
Sitting with his back to the wall, he watched the crowd attempt to ignore him and dined. As he ate, and while smoking an after supper cigar, he took note of the witch. She was exceptionally creative, rather skilled in oration, and possessed a precise wit that entertained this motley bunch. But he could feel it pulling him, compelling him to defile virgin parchment with quill and ink; its siren song was, again, immutable.
He pulled a tome from his bag and reverently placed it on the table in front of him. Black, leather bound, it bore the ragged mark of time. Quill and inkwell came next, followed by a sharp knife. Withdrawing a small healing kit from his bag, the newcomer began to skillfully prepare a poultice. His prepatory tasks complete, he proceeded to fill the inkwell.
Under the table, so none could see, the newcomer removed his left glove and sliced the flesh of his palm with the knife. Quickly, he placed the inkwell under his wounded hand, allowing the blood to flow within. The inkwell full, he returned it to the table and bound his lesion with the poultice. He had repeated this ritual so many times - sometimes thrice in a day! - that his palm now permanently bore a scar. Lifestone magic did more in a resurrection than provide a mortal vessel for one’s essence. Minor wounds and injuries were also undone. Chipped teeth were made whole and most wounds did not scar. Scars from wounds of a certain nature, or timing, did leave their mark, although. The scar on the newcomer’s face, for instance, inflicted before arriving in Dereth, returned for each incarnation. He had sliced his palm so often to fill the inkwell that the Lifestone’s magic was no longer able to correct his disfigurement.
While he waited for the poultice to work, he leafed through the tome. Carefully he turned each page, glancing over what had been written before, here and there tracing the script with his finger. The poultice had done its work about the time the newcomer turned to a blank parchment. Dipping the quill in the ink of his blood, he began to write.
=====
Harvestgain 16, 21 PY // Uziz
I am Sorba the Cursed, and I bid thee, good day.
As luck or Asheron would have it, I have found my way back to the village of Uziz. I cannot adequately describe how I made it here through the maelstrom that rages. I was guided here by an intelligence not my own, one that possesses and wields great majicks that I do not comprehend. I pray it was not my Curse.
Uziz is an oasis found at the southeastern edge of the A’mun desert, northeast of Yushad ridge, and west of Blackmire Swamp. In my wanderings and exile, I have oft found solace here, but never before under these circumstances. I am a hunted man, my Curse discharging flawlessly against me once more.
You may recall when last I wrote I was in and about Sawato, making what pyreal I could clearing beasts and monsters from the swamplands bordering the properties of a farmer with better than average means. During my patrol, I happened upon a fellow ensnared and sinking in quicksand, nearly engulfed by the unforgiving earth. As I extended my hand to help him, his eyes fell upon my ring of the peridot stone; the same bequeathed to me, that is to say, branded to my flesh, the night of my Curse. It is by this and Bael’Zharon’s mark upon my face that I am recognizable to those who know the signs of the damned. For those that do not, my name doth suffice, which I am compelled to surrender. To ensure I can never conceal myself or my Curse from others, I am made to answer my true name when asked. The Witches of the A’mun believe there is power in the knowledge of one’s true name. I say, instead, there is greater power in supposition and hate, and I speak as the man who endures both. But I stray.
The fellow, identifying me by my ring, refused my assistance, saying that it was better to awaken a thousand times at a Lifestone than be touched once by me. I pleaded with him to accept my aid and did everything I could to rescue him, but his revulsion from my touch overruled apprehension for a resurrection penalty. Needlessly, he died, drowning in the muck of the swamp.
After he was dead, I reached under the mud and blindly groped for his body. My hand alighted on his helm, which I pulled off and threw to solid ground. Reaching in again, I knotted my fingers in his hair, in this manner extracting his carcass from the quicksand. It was muddy, bloody work, but he could now be attended to properly. Placing all his accoutrements in a spare pack, I looted his corpse and buried it. Albeit was a pauper’s grave, but it was sanctified with the appropriate prayers and petitions to the Dark Lady.
Had I let the fellow’s body remain in the quicksand, you see, he would not have been able to retrieve his equipment. By the time he had returned from the Lifestone, his corpse would be too far under the mire, lost forever. I had it in mind to save him that loss, which is why I acted as I did. In haste, I returned to Sawato, and found the Magistrate. After explaining what happened and surrendering the pack containing the looted equipment, I returned to the Blackmire Swamp to continue with the business of my employ.
I was relaxing, high in the limbs of a tree, as I am prone to do, enjoying my dinner and song of the Miredove when a hunting party paused directly beneath me. Among them was the fellow who had earlier refused my assistance, outfitted with the equipment I had salvaged from his corpse. He was speaking angrily and directing the efforts of the party.
“It is him,” spat the ungrateful knave, “he is Sorba the Cursed, I am sure of it. We must kill him before he has a chance to tune with another Lifestone.”
“You have broken his Lifestone?” gasped one in the party.
“I have. There is no other way to rid ourselves of he and his foulness. Quickly, he can’t be far. Find him. Slay him.”
Until that moment, it never occurred to me that a broken Lifestone would contradict the resurrection magic of this accursed realm. It seems to me the logic is sound. After centuries, have I finally an answer to escape my Curse?
In different directions they hunted, me as their prey. With much care and stealth, I returned to the farmer who retained my services in order to restore his pyreal. I could not, in good conscious, keep his coin when my tasks were not yet completed. Upon seeing me emerge from the swamp, he hurriedly ushered me into his barn.
“Did anyone see you?” I shook my head ‘no’. “Entris believes you are Sorba the Cursed and has taken a bounty on your head. A ‘D’ note in the town of choice and three Dark Specs to he that brings your head. He’s smashed your Lifestone and incited a vicious mob to search for you.”
“You do not believe I am he they seek?” I asked.
“No, of course not!” replied the farmer, glancing through the crack between the double-doors of the barn, “He is said to be in the north, spreading what woe he can up there, and may Asheron protect them. Besides, Sorba the Cursed would have come with death for my family and me. You came and accepted the menial task of clearing the swamps around my land with humility and honour. No, friend, you are, most assuredly, not he!”
The smile I replied with did not touch my eyes. “This much is certain.”
“Here,” he said, pressing a peridot gem into my hand, “when comes the night, flee into the swamp and make haste to a Lifestone. Yanshi and Uziz are about the same distance from here, Yanshi to the north, Uziz to the west. Soushi is closest to the southeast.”
“You have my thanks,” I answered, placing the gemstone within a hidden pocket of my armour.
Just after dusk, I was preparing to slink into the night when I heard a commotion from the direction of the farmer’s house. Peering through the crack in the double-doors, I saw the knave, Entris, and several others accosting the farmer, his wife, and children. I could not hear what was being said, but was certain the conversation was not polite. If I became involved, I ran the risk of the True Death, as my Lifestone lay shattered. If I crept into the swamp, my chances for survival would be greater. Quickly, I inscribed the date and my location into the hilt of a dagger, in so doing, indelibly marking it with my proper name, and stepped into the night.
I don’t think Entris knew he was dead until his eyes opened at the Lifestone. From my concealment in the shrubs near the skirmish, I waited patiently for the right moment to strike. I pounced, slitting his throat with the inscribed dagger. Taken by such surprise, the remaining fiends who were assaulting the farmer’s family fled into the night.
After freeing the farmer from his bonds, we clasped arms. “You saved my life.”
I grinned and replied, “Sorba the Cursed would not have saved your life.” The farmer nodded and smiled, not understanding the reference to my real name. “Here,” I said handing him my dagger, “loose your family.”
When he turned from me to do so, I evaporated into the night, leaving him with my dagger, and proof of my identity.
That was three nights ago and I have yet to tune to a Lifestone. So hounded have I been that I dared not stray in my flight, in fact -
=====
For the second time that night, the door to Jar’red’s tavern opened, and the witch’s story was interrupted. This time, though, four men entered. All four were drenched and shivering from the cold, and took a couple of minutes to compose themselves.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention. I am of the Order of Magistrati, attached to Sawato. I’m looking for a man.”
Sorba stopped writing in his Journal mid-sentence, wishing he had not talked himself out of equipping a sword.
Jar’red quipped, “This ain’t that kind of place, copper” which was met with chuckles and giggles from his patrons, “so order a beer or begone.”
“Let me be more specific,” the Magistrate continued. He motioned to his three men who began to fan out, two into the crowd, one up the stairs. “I must apologize for my intrusion and the inconvenience of my needs. The man I am seeking twice killed a mage, and slaughtered a wealthy farmer and his family at the edge of my village. The mage has already expired his resurrection penalty, but the farmer and his family were not so fortunate. He destroyed their Lifestone before dicing them to pieces.”
Terrified mumbling broke out all around the tavern and people rose from their seats angrily, calling for vengeance. Breaking a Lifestone was the only blasphemy in a realm without regard for the rule of law, or guidance from moral doctrines. No one person was tuned to a given Lifestone, even in the deserted corners of the wilderness. A shattered Lifestone doomed all those tuned to it, not just this murderer. There could be hundreds, or thousands, believing the warm blanket of Lifestone magic held them securely when, in fact, they were as naked and vulnerable as in Ispar.
“Bastard left this calling card.” The Magistrate held a bloodied dagger in the air as Thrum was escorted into the main room.
“There’s no one else upstairs,” said the Magistrate’s man.
“I am looking for Sorba,” said the Magistrate, “him called ‘the Cursed.’ “
Thrum looked around anxiously, knowing of whom the Magistrate was speaking. “I told you evil was comin’ Jar’red, but you wouldn’t listen!”
Gesturing towards Thrum with the dagger, the Magistrate asked sharply, “What do you know of Sorba?”
Thrum’s eyes widened, his fear evident. “I don’t know nothin’.”
The Magistrate took a step towards Thrum. “You tell me what I want to know or -”
Sorba rose from the table and stepped into the candlelight. “It is I. I am the one you seek.”
Instantly, the Magistrate’s men descended on Sorba, one on each arm, the third with his arm around Sorba’s throat from behind. Calmly, Sorba stood. Neither did he strain against those holding him, nor did he struggle.
“I am he that you seek,” Sorba repeated, then amended, “though I am guiltless in these crimes.”
“You did not twice kill the mage, Entris, in cold blood?” the Magistrate asked.
“I did not,” Sorba replied. “I killed him once to defend the farmer and his family from Entris and his men. Nor did I break their Lifestone. I was tuned to the same one as the farmer. We did so simultaneously while discussing the specifics for my retainer.”
“Retainer?” the Magistrate interrupted, “His death makes you Patron now, eh? Or is it ‘Monarch’?”
Sorba replied, “Neither, though I have been both in the past. I was employed to clear the beasts from the swamps surrounding his property. Why would I put my own life at risk to slay he that maintained me? Point of fact, it was Entris who shattered mine, thus the farmer and his family’s. In him, you have your perpetrator.”
Mumbling erupted in the tavern again which was cut off by a terse and loud, “Quiet!” from the Magistrate.
“Be very careful, swine. Your Lifestone still lay splintered in a thousand pieces and we’ve hunted you close to make certain you have not tuned to another.”
Again, the room erupted into mumbles and gasps. What evil could one man do to put the fate of innumerable innocents at risk? Undoubtedly, butchering a family was a heinous crime and it should be punished. Such a drastic measure was uncalled for, even in this circumstance, and belied a more sinister motivation.
“I said quiet!” boomed the Magistrate.
“What was taken from the property? Pyreal? Gems? Perhaps a sword or suit of armor?” Sorba asked, when the room had again silenced. The Magistrate glared at Sorba, knowing that only the herb garden and scarab store had been ravaged. For a moment, Sorba’s words made sense. Why would he, indeed, do these things? ‘But’, a tiny, foreign voice reminded him, ‘this is Sorba the Cursed that stands before you. There’s no telling what spell he weaves, even now.’
The Magistrate accused, “Entris tells quite a different tale, one that contradicts yours in every point.”
“Entris wants me dead and will do whatever it takes to make it thus. His charges are false and I am being framed. Review the facts and the deception will be made clear.” Sorba then related the events surrounding his introduction to Entris, there in the quicksand of the Blackmire Swamp. Too, he reminded the Magistrate that he had collected and returned all of Entris’ equipment, asking, “Why would I do this, only to murder him later?”
Enraged, the Magistrate shouted, “You would call the greatest citizen of Sawato a liar?”
Sorba’s eyes hardened, not in contempt, but in recognition. He had suffered through events similar to this many times and was resigned to its conclusion.
“I name no man ‘liar’. I have only stated what happened from my vantage.” The one holding Sorba by the neck tightened his grip in annoyance, uncomfortable with a prisoner standing calmly within his grasp.
The Magistrate approached Sorba, waving the bloody dagger back and forth spouting accusations with each step. “With this dagger, you killed Entris, and remanded a farmer and his family to the Divine Creator — “
On one level, Sorba was quite aware of the position he was in, on another he remembered the significance of the ‘Divine Creator’ to the Sho. While the Magistrate blathered on with a trumped list of atrocities, Sorba recalled Rei’s instruction.
Rei.
The ‘Divine Creator’ was a tenet in the Sho dogma, thought to be the deity that created three ‘Elder Spirits’, the Dragon of Power, Unicorn of Grace, and Firebird of Splendor. Revered amongst the orthodox, the Divine Creator was quite contrary to the Jojiists, who believed the path to heaven was traversed via the Four Stones; Stone of Man (Humility), Stone of the Dragon (Discipline), Stone of the Firebird (Detachment), and Stone of the Unicorn (Compassion). Orthodox Sho believed in death, one’s soul was snatched from the bleak aether to be rejoined with the Divine Creator.
The Magistrate stopped in front of Sorba and said, “What say you?”
“This much is true: I killed Entris to defend the innocent. They -”
“Twice?” the Magistrate interrupted.
“Once,” Sorba insisted, “For cause.”
The Magistrate spat on Sorba in response. Moving so swiftly his arm was a blur, he plunged the bloody dagger into Sorba’s heart.
Silence. Even the storm held its breath.
He stood alone, the Magistrate’s men loosing him to fall. Brimstone coursed through his veins and pain exploded behind his eyes. In the recesses of his mind, Sorba could hear Bael’Zharon’s echoing laughter and Alfrega’s blood soaked cackle as it was on the night of his Curse. He coughed deeply, blood and spittle escaping his mouth, dying. Reaching up, he grasped the hilt of the dagger.
From his right, he heard Rei’s disembodied voice, pleading, “Don’t!”
Looking towards the dais, Sorba tried to see her through the crimson haze that obscured his vision. Mistaking the witch on the dais for Rei’s visage, he held his free hand up to her. “Stay with me,” she begged.
Blood leaking from his lips, he choked, “It is well.”
With a grunt and mighty thrust, Sorba pushed the dagger further into his breast. His heart burst, sending his corpse falling to the floor.
One of the serving wenches screamed her anguish and several more of the patrons rose to their feet in shock. Turning, the Magistrate drew his sword, menacing the crowd with it. His smoldering eyes briefly met their mirror in Ariq. The mage raised a single eyebrow and shook his head, as if amused. The Magistrate took courage from Ariq’s apparent indifference, and turned his attention back to the crowd.
“I have done what needed to be done,” he said, “Justice is swift in Sawato, even if it is not in Uziz. We’re leaving now, but will do the same to any who pursue.”
Jar’red was the first to find his voice. “What am I supposed to do with - with - him?”
“Not my problem, barkeep,” replied the Magistrate. As he opened the front door, he bellowed over the wind, “But I would burn the swine if I were you. And I’d do it soon. There’s no telling what spell he wrought before he died.”
With that, the four were gone.
Jar’red cursed and threw his rag on the bar. He cursed again, this time throwing the rag on Sorba’s corpse.
From the dais, the witch whispered, “I’ll take care of him.”
Ariq amended, “As will I.”
Jar’red snapped, “Get it done!”
Ariq moved to Sorba’s still bleeding corpse while the witch moved to collect the things from his table. The rest in the tavern milled about in a state of mass shock, not sure what to feel about the events just transpired. As the witch drew near Sorba’s table, her eyes were magnetically drawn to the tome in which he had been writing. It was a journal of some kind, tattered from repeated use and apparently quite old. Stepping around the table, she leaned over the tome and examined the text. This Sorba wrote in a language not yet come to Dereth, a mix of Silveran and Souian that was not readily translatable. She noticed then the bloody knife, the used poultice and inkwell. Sorba evidently wrote in his own blood!
“Witch, we must make haste,” Ariq stated without looking up from his task. Nodding she gathered Sorba’s things into the pack. Quickly, she retrieved his equipment from his room and rejoined Ariq in the rear of the common room. Gesturing with her staff, she called a dull-eyed youth from the shadows near Sorba’s table to her side. He had sheltered in Jar’red’s tavern before the Poor-Witch’s arrival, so no one had taken him to be in her company.
Most had recovered from the events just passed, but all were still feeling a bit out of sorts. Thrum nodded and gestured arrogantly, forgetting his prior terror, damning the fallen hero to whatever fate befell beyond the Lifestone. None noticed when Ariq, bearing Sorba’s corpse, the witch and her companion, slipped into the night.
=====
Harvestgain 29, 21 PY // Poor-Witch Convent
I am Sorba the Cursed, and I bid thee, good day.
“Come,” she spake unto me, “Let’s go home.”
Home we have come, though I did not know it was to this place that Amina referred.
The events immediately following my death are lost to me. My soul was thickly blistered from the great majicks that were bent to the task of my resurrection and I was disoriented by the intensity of them. The Poor-Witch, Amina of A’mun, forced the turn of my soul’s escape, preventing an arbitrary resurrecting by placing it in a vessel of her design. The brooding wizard, Ariq, ensured I would continue to be identified as I have always been, replacing the peridot ring upon my hand. Though set this time by a mortal, it has again branded itself to my flesh. For whatever this body looked like before my soul took possession, it now appears as mine did, including Bael’Zharon’s febrile mark upon my right cheek. Still I am Sorba, forever ‘the Cursed’.
Leaning on each other for support against the storm, we made our way to the nearby Poor-Witch convent. The rituals and sacraments I observed therein will forever remain locked within my recollection, as I have been sworn to keep their faith. Upon arrival, Amina had a brief conversation with another Witch whose face I did not see and name I did not hear. Shortly after, we were placed on a small hill, within a ring of low stones. A spell of great magnitude was called down, potent tendrils of power encircling Amina and I, throwing off gusts of hot wind. As we stood, red lightning struck in ever closing proximity, the leader of their Order approached as near as she was able.
“Sorba the Cursed,” she called, shouting above the roar of their spells, “It is I, Rei Burden of the Poor Witches, formerly your consort and betrothed.”
“I could not forget you,” said I, though my shock, then recognizing my former lover. “I - I am comforted to see you well.
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head as though my apology weren’t necessary. It was not one stitch in the tapestry of my debt to her. “It doens’t matter. I still lo —
“Do you also remember that which I said? That which can never be said while this geis holds you captive?”
“I do.”
“Know that my confession remains strong.”
“As does mine,” I answered, choking on my heart.
Rei took a step towards me, coming dangerously close to the aura surrounding Amina and I, the wind causing her robe to billow violently, her red hair to fly. “Don’t!” shouted Amina.
If Rei heard, she ignored Amina’s warning. Reaching through the tendrils, she pulled my head down to hers. Though she tried to conceal the pain on her face, I could see the power in their magic was killing her. I moved to push her from me, but she closed the distance between us, pressing her lips to mine.
There was no Curse then, no Poor-Witches, no desert, no daemons, no death. There was nothing but Rei and I. The magic swirled through her, kicking up dust and enveloping me in immense power. Her lips pliant and soft, thirsty for my taste, doing with her mouth what she could not speak with it. The years stripped away, she was again an innocent scribe, I a younger Blademaster who loved - who loves - her. Time then stood still, allowing us to live a life within the expanse of a moment. Too soon, though, time reclaimed its bounty.
Rei, shrieking in agony, was torn from me by the power of the spells. I saw her body disintegrate before my eyes and I wept.
Her trembling hand on my shoulder, Amina shouted above the thunder, “She’s resurrected at her Lifestone. It’s time.”
Before I could respond, Amina lifted her Impious Staff to the clouds and received the bolt of lightning that sent us into oblivion. I closed my eyes on the familiar ramparts of my realm, and opened them here, in Bael’Zharon’s sanctum, the realm called ‘Darktide’.
I do not remember much from those first days here as I awakened near death. Though I did not know it at the time, Amina was in a similar state. The majick of the Poor-Witches comes at a horrendous cost, it seems. We both have been cared for and coaxed back from the grave by the Witches of her coven. To them, I owe more than my thanks, but this is only a little of what they require from me.
On my fourth day here, I was introduced to Rei Burden, Poor-Witch Librarian and echo of my Rei Burden’s former self. I am still disquieted by a familiarity that is not shared between us. This embodiment of Rei does not wear the blood-red faran of a Poor-Witch. She wears the greenish-yellow of a Poor-Witch layman, having never sworn the Witch’s vows. Apparently, in this realm, she was not driven to that extreme, as my Rei Burden was.
I am worthy of neither.
Our introduction was at the behest of Amina in order for Rei to become familiar with history, as I am privy to it. In the short time Amina was in possession of my Journal, she surmised that I am many turns of the glass older than could be conceived, were it not for my Curse. Because of this, Amina feels I could fill certain voids in the Witch’s library. Too, Amina has asked that I teach Rei the language in which I write. This is in order to be better prepared should any other than Aluv, Sho, or Gharu’n answer Asheron’s call.
In spite of these harrowing events, I am not unaware of the souls who were lost after my Lifestone was shattered. I have no measure of the quantity but am assured by Amina that there were many, and that I alone survive. It could be argued that my Curse had been fouled, that somehow, I had a brief respite from its torment. If it had been accurate, I would now be doomed to drift aimlessly in the cavity between sleep and dreams. However, there is greater burden in living with the knowledge that plagues me now; I am responsible for every innocent who died the True Death. I alone am left to shoulder this yoke, and I am damned evermore. Lo there, my Curse doth carry me on.
After twelve nights and this, my thirteenth day, I must move on. My Curse, mighty and dreadful, is made more so by my presence in this realm. Here is Bael’Zharon’s domain, Asheron but a spectre of himself, unable to drive back the malevolent authority that presides over us all, and I am thusly burdened anew.
Soon, I will wage war against Bael’Zharon’s sway. Come that dusk, only one will remain, and my Curse shall be no more.
