Morlac: The Quest of the Green Magician

BOOK ONE:

THE STRANGER’S TALE

PROLOGUE

Aye, ‘tis a fine night for ghost stories and tall tales, said the old wayfarer. He pulled his cloak closer about him against the chill and stretched his other hand toward the fire to feel its warmth.

Thirteen men circled that fire, sitting on the sand or upon their packs or the smooth rocks that dotted the beach. Their pack animals were tethered nearby, and the small caravan of merchants and their guards had made camp for the evening. The flames sent shadows dancing around the circle of men, enlivening their tired faces.

You, there—stranger— said the old wayfarer —‘tis a long trip we’ve made, and we’ve grown weary of each others’ stories. We’re sharing our fire and our company with you, not to mention our ale! Give us a tale in return. Something we’ve not heard before.

The stranger seemed not to hear at first. His features hidden by his hooded cloak, he stared at the jutting rocks set like monstrous teeth along the southwest coast of Shola. The wind-lashed surf broke angrily over those rocks, sending salt spray flying. The stranger listened to the roar of the surf and breathed in the tang of the spray, immersed in thought.

Stranger—? repeated the wayfarer, a bit louder.

I hear you, he said at last, turning toward the man but still keeping his face in shadow, and I acknowledge my debt. If it is a tale you wish, a tale you shall have. I do not know many, but I know one that is new, and you may judge for yourselves if it is worth the hearing.

The circle of men settled in a bit more, making themselves as comfortable as they could upon that night-drenched, mist-shrouded beach. Though tired they were, they were still eager to be entertained, and there was something in this stranger’s manner that suggested he might be good at spinning tales.

The story I have to tell is a tale of magic, said the stranger, "of vile sorcery and unnatural spells. It is also a tale of greed and treachery. But I must start at the beginning, and this tale begins in the sea, at a time and place not far from here and now.

"It was a morning like many mornings, and the sunlight was glimmering coolly upon the ocean. A creature, a great green sea turtle, was swimming in that ocean, just off the coast. He was young and strong, and full of the force of life. He was approaching a boat full of fishermen, but he did not see it. He was enjoying his freedom too much, cleaving the water as he swam in pursuit of an elusive gray fish. He was reaching out for it, almost tasting it, when their net caught and entangled him, and the fishermen pulled him struggling from the sea.

"They were too strong for him to overcome and he sank heavily into the hollow of their boat. They secured him with more netting and ropes, and made for shore as swiftly as their oars would take them.

"A man was waiting at the dock, a man the creature would come to know as Sordros—tall, thin, cloaked in robes dark green in hue, a matching length of cloth wrapped thrice about his neck, then brought up over the top of his head in a kind of hood. He seemed a statue at first, no sound or movement betraying his stillness.

"He studied the creature, brought struggling before him by the fishermen. Discerning eyes missed nothing of the captive’s form—eyes that narrowed slightly as the hint of a smile touched the corners of his wrinkled mouth. Sordros nodded his approval, then beckoned for the men to follow.

They carried him, still fighting for his freedom, along timber walkways worn and weathered, flanked on both sides by moored fishing craft. Then on through the village of merchants and farmers and plain fisherfolk until at last they reached their destination—a castle whose crude walls reared high into the awakening sky, and which stood perched upon a rocky pinnacle overlooking the sea. The castle’s form was bizarre and twisted. It seemed made of dripped sand, congealed into rock walls. All of it was strange to the creature. Understanding would come later.

Wait, interrupted one of the men in the circle, a guard by his appearance. You speak as if this turtle could think, and we all know they are but dumb beasts, fit only for the stewpot! The last few words came out with the gusto of a hearty laugh.

The stranger was silent, and though his face was still in shadow, his eyes seemed to glimmer with something more intense than mere annoyance at being interrupted... something more dangerous.

Please— interceded the old wayfarer —allow our guest to tell his story.

The stranger paused a moment more, then continued. "Hours passed, while the creature could only lay bound and helpless within the castle’s lower dungeon. Sordros moved about him purposefully, assembling an assortment of odd liquids in crystalline vessels and arranging them with care upon the surface of an ornately decorated table. The magician, for a magician he was, never let his attention waver from his task, not even for a brief glimpse of his captive.

"The creature watched Sordros closely as he moved next to the center of the large subterranean room. A great domed cover of bronze glistened dully in the torches’ fiery glow—a cover bigger yet than the span of Sordros’s arms.

"Twisting away latches that held the cover in place, the magician strode back to the edge of the room to take up a long, stout staff that was propped against the wall. Sordros returned and slipped the staff through a handle in the center of the bulging lid, rested one end against the floor, and used the other to lever up the cover. He swiveled it around to one side, away from that which it had hidden.

A gaping pit loomed beneath, the stranger said, emphasizing the words, "boring down through the odd stone to unimaginable depths. Darkness seemed to well up within that pit. An evil darkness, with substance and form, that threatened to blot out the torches’ meager light.

"The creature struggled again. And again he could not free himself.

"Sordros took one last look at everything to satisfy himself. He unwound the length of rich-green cloth that wrapped his throat and the top of his head, laying it aside upon a stand carved like many serpents twining. His outer robe followed, leaving him bare-armed.

"His head was smooth-shaven save for a tuft of hair at the crown, jet-black instead of the gray one would expect from his wizened look. A gold ornament bound the tuft, and both the markings etched upon its surface and those tattooed upon his arms were symbols of occult power.

"At the magician’s command, his menials came forward to man a winch on the far side of the pit. Straining with the effort, they began to turn the great pegged wheel, one notch at a time, and each click of its progress was answered with a grating moan from the depths of the pit.

"A rushing roar of sound followed, cascading, spilling, rumbling within the darkness. Spray rose up to the level of the opening, then fell back, biting the air with its salt.

"When the pit was almost filled with seawater, Sordros ordered the floodgate lowered back into place. It settled with a dull clang, muffled by the great volume of water, and then all was deadly still.

"Standing by his table of implements, the magician took up the first vessel of fluid and slowly poured its greenish contents into the pit. The second liquid was amber in hue, the third a blood-red; the fourth was an inky-black substance that oozed forth from its container and stretched down into the pit ever so slowly. With the addition of the fifth vial’s deep-blue liquid, the pit’s water began to churn and froth, as if tormented by the presence of the evil potions. Last to be emptied into the waiting pit was an urn of chalk-colored ashes, settling like snow upon the water.

"His eyes closed, Sordros stood at the edge of the pit, a steady droning sound issuing from his lips. The sound changed, modulated, became an incantation—a beseechment to allied spirits, a beckoning to forces dark and menacing.

"Instantly, the torches along the walls began to flicker, each flame leaning in the same direction, as if stirred by the touch of a circular wind coursing around the room. From the pit itself came a muffled roar, as of a thousand kettles boiling. And indeed, the water was boiling, though with an eerie green glow that dispelled the darkness of the pit and cast new illumination about the interior of the dungeon.

"Sordros was in his glory now, arms outstretched over the tumultuous water, reveling in the raw power he held within his grasp. A power feared by his castle slaves, for they pressed low against the walls for shelter, and were slow in answering Sordros’s call for assistance in the next stage of his occult operation.

"Reluctantly, they obeyed him, bringing down the end of a rope suspended from an overhead swing-arm. Fastening its hook into the open weave of the capture net, they hoisted the turtle up into the air.

"The inner storm of occult energy still raged within the dungeon as the net was swung around to a point just over the gaping hole. With Sordros’s nod, the slaves began to feed out the rope, slowly lowering their captive into the pit.

"Down, down... first into contact with the stinging mist that swirled just within the opening, and then plunging into the roiling liquid itself. Confined within the net, the turtle strained every muscle in an effort for freedom as the awful liquid closed in around him.

"As he sank into its depths, futilely biting at the heavy strands of netting, he felt the full torment of the green fire that Sordros had called into being. It seemed to burn through him, reaching to his core with its fury. A wrenching pain seized him... a feeling that he was being torn asunder, limb from limb, flesh from bone, body from soul.

The pain persisted for an eternity of seconds, then was dulled by a blackness that settled over him. A blackness that he almost hoped was death....

CHAPTER 1

The Magician’s Daughter

Morlac awoke, remembering nothing at first, then slowly remembering everything. The pain was gone now—a blessing in itself—but in its place was another feeling, one that was perhaps even more disquieting in its strangeness. Every nerve, every fiber of his body, seemed newly awakened... newly formed. He felt oddly naked, as if the green fire had burned away his skin and left only raw flesh unprotected from the elements.

He opened his eyes, and was surprised to find he was no longer in the dungeon. This was another room, above ground, with a window that opened out onto darkness. Window? Room? Dungeon? He did not know how he understood these words, yet somehow he did. They sprang into his mind unbidden, cold and alien things that had no place in the world he had known. And yet... somehow... these strange words and the meanings behind them now seemed vaguely familiar. How? Why?

His memories of life in the sea were still fresh and warm in his mind, his blood and bones, his very soul. The feel of the ocean flowing around him, caressing him, buoying him up. The tang of the salt within his beaklike mouth, the soft flesh of the fish that were his sustenance. The sun’s harsh glare at water’s surface. The cool, murky tints of greens and grays far below. The feeling of strength in his muscles, overcoming the water’s resistance as his flippers made their strong, rhythmic swimming strokes.

But now, in addition to all these familiar things, new feelings and memories impinged, frightening in their complexity. Their very presence in his mind was an unwanted intrusion, an affront. And worse, this new part of his mind seemed to be growing stronger, and trying to gain control.

The darkness beyond the window told him that it was night, so he knew he must have been unconscious for hours at least. Perhaps days. He could not guess, nor even comprehend the confusion of thoughts within his own mind.

Awakening more fully, he tried to orient himself. He saw he was at the far end of the room. He was upright, his eyes staring straight ahead, yet his back was flat against the stone wall. That seemed strange and awkward, and impossibly wrong. How could it be? Morlac did not know, and attempting to think about it only brought the wrenching pain of the pit flooding back into his mind.

His arms were bound somehow, each held out to the side. Morlac twisted his head around to see, carefully at first, then with more assurance. Not only his arms, but also his legs were bound, wrists and ankles held in place against the stone by crystal shackles of pale translucent green.

He felt detached, as if looking at some creature other than himself. For he had changed, even though the manner of the change was not yet clear to him.

His gaze went suddenly to the other side of the room, where a slight movement had caught his attention. Beyond the long table where candles burned in gilt holders, curtains hung along the wall. Those curtains had stirred, and there was no breeze sufficient to move them. What a strange place this was, with unnatural textures and shapes. Part of his mind recognized and accepted them, even though they were like nothing he’d ever seen before.

His vision focused sharply on a narrow gap between two of the heavy draperies. He thought he glimpsed an eye peering back. An eye that disappeared into darkness in an instant.

Morlac tensed and waited, expecting some new threat... some new torture. But as he continued to watch the draperies, what emerged from the darkness behind them seemed less threatening than he expected.

The young woman, barely an adult from the look of her, entered the chamber with caution. Her eyes studied Morlac appraisingly, coldly, taking in everything about him. As Sordros had been, she also was clothed in green. Slender and pretty, her hair was a cascade of black ringlets that reached down to her young, firm breasts. Sea-green eyes peered out from beneath long and shadowy lashes, burning through him like the green fire of the magician’s pit.

She stopped, less than an arm’s reach away from him. Her mouth opened, a mouth with lips that were full and sweet-looking, but with a cruel twist to them. She began to utter sounds that were strange and yet not strange. They were words and phrases, and Morlac understood them, even though they buzzed in his ears like bothersome insects.

A fine specimen, she was saying. The best one yet! Sordros has his captain now, I am sure.

Morlac tested his own voice, sensing he could speak. His throat tightened with the effort and the words came out thick and raspy

"Sss—Sor-dros...?"

Your new lord and master, she said smoothly, in a way that irritated Morlac. His memory was still clouded, but of one thing he was certain—there had never been a master in his old life, and he did not relish having one now. Still, the name Sordros echoed oddly in his mind. From where did he know it? Why did it seem to tug at him? The young woman stepped to his right, studying his profile. I am Kadrana, daughter of Sordros. You will find him to be a most beneficent master, as long as you please him... and me.

Please him? Morlac said, the words coming with less difficulty now. What... does he want of me?

Your strength. To kill an enemy.

Enemy? Whose enemy?

Sordros’s enemy, of course, Kadrana said. And your enemy, too, now.

Why?

"There are reasons, Morlac... you are Morlac, you know, henceforth, and for as long as we desire it. Your destiny is your name, and your name is your destiny."

What have you done to me?

Sordros has worked a wondrous spell, Kadrana said, going to the table and returning with a hand mirror. She held it up for him to see. You should be pleased with the results.

Morlac studied the image reflected there. A stranger stared back at him, a young man strong and healthy, perhaps even handsome, but a stranger all the same. His skin was coolly pale, the color of milky jade. His hair was light blond, like sea froth, and cut straight around as if by the aid of an inverted wide bowl tilted from forehead to nape of neck. His proud eyes stared beneath arched devil-brows; intense green eyes, probing and distrustful of all he saw. This was not a face he knew from either his old memories or his new ones.

The girl continued to look approvingly at him, studying the rock-hard muscles of his arms and upper torso. Indeed, the finest specimen. With a sword in your hand you will be Death himself! Her own small hand reached out suddenly, impulsively, and gripped the muscles of his upper arm.

Her touch was unexpectedly warm, and alien to him. He recoiled, inadvertently.

Kadrana released her grip in a flash, frowning at his swift reaction. But then that frown changed to a look of wicked humor.

You shall grow used to my touch—I promise. She laughed lightly, enjoying her own self-confidence. You amuse me, Morlac. After you have slain Drygo, I think I shall have Sordros give you to me as a pet.

He watched her dispassionately as she put the mirror down and started to walk toward his left. You are so sure I will win?

She continued to slink in an arc around him, her cruel eyes always on his bound form. She tilted her head slightly, smiling.

Sordros’s powers are great. He is a clever and cunning man. If he has placed his trust in you and your sword, then you will win. He does not like uncertainties.

And I, Morlac replied, do not like being held captive.

Kadrana shrugged, sending soft ripples through her black hair. A necessary measure. The specimens do not always react perfectly to the enchantment. Some awake as raging beasts, and could wreak much damage before they are destroyed. I am glad to see that in your case the spell is flawless. Very glad, indeed. She stepped closer. So, since such precautions are no longer needed, I think it is time you met the others.

With a graceful movement she reached out and touched the crystal shackle at Morlac’s wrist with the jeweled finger ring on her right hand. Instantly, the device that had held him split open, releasing his arm.

She moved to his right and repeated the action with the second shackle, then stooped to undo the lower ones about his ankles. Watching her, it occurred to Morlac that she was placing undue trust in him, since in her bent position she could not watch his hands—could not see a blow directed at the exposed and vulnerable back of her delicate neck. He waited, massaging the tender marks left on his wrists.

Kadrana straightened, and as her eyes again burned through him she seemed to read his very thoughts. You are wise to save your violence, Morlac. If you harmed me, you would not get ten paces from this chamber. The Watch-Devil would see to that.

Her sea green eyes blinked upward for a second, and Morlac followed the direction of her glance. Up there, near the rafters of the high ceiling, something small and dark swam through air currents with a soft, slow, rippling motion. Morlac had not noticed it before and even now as he looked it seemed almost ghostlike... without substance. It was a manta, no bigger than an outstretched hand, and on its gray, fleshy underbelly was a single, protruding eye, blood-red and glistening. As the thing circled the room in its steady progress, that eye was always directed upon Morlac, neither wavering nor blinking. And, watching it, Morlac could suddenly smell the poison at the end of its sharply barbed tail.

And one other thing....

Kadrana’s words called his attention back. The woman reached into a fold of her gown, bringing forth a sparkling oval amulet suspended from a loop of heavy golden chain. She did not give him a chance to study it, quickly reaching up to place it over his head. Carefully settling it about his neck, she allowed her warm hands to linger there.

She was very close to him now. Ringlets of her black hair brushed his chest, and her breath was a warm, sweet-scented breeze against his skin. As strange and dangerous as she seemed, she was also undeniably seductive, and Morlac felt strange stirrings he was reluctant to acknowledge. He also felt that, like Sordros, he knew this creature from somewhere. Her image, her manner, even her touch seemed to echo through his newly acquired memories.

She smiled, again seeming to know his thoughts, but merely indicated the amulet with a cautionary gesture. Guard this well, Morlac... as well as you can. For if you lose the amulet, you also lose any hope of freedom from Sordros’s spell. She paused a moment longer, then turned abruptly and started for the door. Now come, for it is time you join your compatriots....

CHAPTER 2

The Sea-Warriors

Despite her imperious command, Kadrana did not force Morlac to hurry as they walked. Though he doubted it was an act of kindness, she did at least seem to sense the difficulty he was having. Initially, there was the stiffness from having been bound to the wall for many hours, not to mention the lingering aftereffects of muscles and tendons and bones having been radically altered and reformed.

Some of that was fading now, diminishing with each new step. But there was the additional problem of a creature that had never been physically adept on land now having to walk erect on two legs. All of the needed equipment was there, but there was an aching lack of coordination and experience. A sea turt1e’s rear limbs are weak compared to its foreflippers, and used for little more than steering. Now Morlac had long, supple legs that were forced not only to take striding steps to propel him forward, but also to help keep the rest of his body balanced above them.

It was impossibly awkward. Or should have been. But somehow, amazingly, Morlac found that he was able to walk, and as the minutes passed, to do it with increasingly more skill. The new pathways in his mind, the new feelings, the new voices, were taking over. Showing him how, guiding him, making the muscles work in their proper way. And gradually, as he relaxed and quit fighting against these new feelings, Morlac found that the steps were coming without effort. There was even a growing sense of exhilaration as he felt the old burdens of moving on land slipping away. But what a price he had paid for that freedom. There was a deep twinge of pain in the very thought.

The Watch-Devil followed them every step of the way through the twisting torchlit corridors of Sordros’s strange castle, staying always just above and behind them. Morlac had almost become accustomed to its eerie presence when he spied a second one, slowly circling ahead.

They had reached the far side of the castle, the corridor ending in a larger one running crossways to it. Facing them in the far wall was a massive oaken door, and although it bore no locks or bars, one look at the Watch-Devil patrolling above it convinced Morlac that the room beyond was as much a cell as any in Sordros’s deepest dungeons. Odd, Morlac thought, bringing a hand to his head abruptly as an image flashed through his mind. He had never seen this place before, but he seemed to recall it from some time earlier. An image of the door standing open, yielding entrance to a place that was comfortable and familiar. That was the way it was then. Then? When? Who? I... am of the sea. Not this place. Not human.

Kadrana crossed to the door and released the latch. Morlac followed, hesitantly, wondering whether to risk an escape attempt. With the ever-watchful demons floating overhead, any attempt seemed doomed to failure and death. Besides, Morlac knew his fate was bound to the green magician. For now at least. Even if he could escape the castle, he could not escape the prison his new form represented. And he was even mildly curious to learn more about this new world he had unwillingly entered. For now, he would play along, and watch for a more favorable opportunity.

The door opened into a lofty chamber, ill-lighted by a few scattered torches and a small fire at the hearth. Crude wooden cots were arranged along one side, and above each hung a sword and shield. A separate rack held a variety of other weapons, and by the opposite wall a table with benches still bore traces of the evening meal. There. That flash... that thought... dare he call it a memory?... returned again. A sense of having been here before. A sense of homecoming. But the feeling was part of that alien new mind, intruding, unreal... not born of his own natural memories.

There were at least two dozen men in the chamber, and they all eyed Morlac with curiosity as he entered. Why the girl had called them his compatriots Morlac could not even guess, for they all were strange to him.

Ho! A new one, one of the men exclaimed. He approached Morlac, and the others followed his lead, forming a half-circle around him. Shall this be the one we take orders from?

Morlac studied their faces in the faint golden light of the torches. Their looks were mildly threatening, openly contemptuous.

The door closed behind him and, turning, Morlac saw that Kadrana had gone. But he did not have time to ponder on that matter long, for as he again faced the others, he discovered that they had closed the half-circle still smaller.

One of them, a giant of a man a full head taller than Morlac, stepped before him. Luminous yellow eyes were wide-set in his broad hairless head, and his form was well cloaked in dark fabric. He looked down at Morlac with grim amusement.

Orders from this one? I see nothing special in him!

With that, the stranger reached out suddenly with both hands, pushing Morlac off balance. Stumbling back, Morlac regained his footing just before he would have smashed into the oaken panel behind him. He straightened, hesitated, then stepped back to the spot where he had stood.

Ho! He has spirit at least, even if he has not brains. The giant shoved his hands out again, seeking to knock Morlac off his feet.

But this time Morlac anticipated the move. With greater speed than his antagonist, he caught the man’s wrists and held them in his steely grip, stopping the blow before it reached him. He was pleased to find that the natural strength of his old forelimbs was still just as great in his new form.

The giant smiled oddly, and did not resist. But then to Morlac’s horror, two more hands reached out from under the cloak, seizing his own wrists.

"Now who is the captive!"

Morlac struggled in the giant’s grasp, but could not break loose. His own hold on the giant’s wrists hampered his movements, but he knew if he released that hold, he would only find four hands gripping him instead of two. Finally, tensing, he tried the only thing that seemed left.

Quickly shifting his weight onto his left foot, he kicked out with his right, aiming at the giant’s cloaked midsection with all the strength he could muster.

His opponent let out a surprised grunt, doubling with the force of the blow, but still keeping his hold. And to make matters worse, yet a third set of hands appeared from under the cloak and seized hold of Morlac’s ankle.

Holding him thus off balance, the giant laughed with a wicked mirth. You are running out of limbs, little man! I think I would need two of you for an even match.

The giant seemed only to be toying with him, and enjoying it, which made Morlac all the angrier. Sordros and the others all seemed intent on making him bend to their will. This was one time he would not bend. He would not!

Despite the considerable strength in his own two arms, he realized those limbs were well outnumbered. But however many more hands might lurk beneath the giant’s cloak, one thing was certain. There were but two legs reaching down to the floor... two feet on which to stand.

Anger and frustration welled up within him, escaping in a bellow of outrage that surprised even him. With his free foot—his last remaining free limb—he stamped down hard on the man’s toes and instep.

Bellowing in pain and surprise, the giant lifted the foot in reflex action. But he could not stand on one foot and hold Morlac’s sudden weight as well, and when he began to tip forward, losing his balance, he had to release his hold. The action came too late to prevent his falling, and the two of them pitched over into a frantic tangle of arms.

Morlac scrambled out from under the giant and, putting a knee well into his back, twisted one of the man’s arms around behind him. His opponent struggled briefly, but ceased all efforts the moment Morlac forced his arm up another few painful inches. It was a tactic that came automatically to him, and one that he felt he had used before, though obviously never as a creature of the sea.

So, Morlac said, even with all those arms, it still takes but one to defeat you.

Enough! the other called out. You have made your point.

Morlac hesitated a moment, waiting to see what the others would do. A brief glance told him, for they all remained where they stood, only watching, and with amused looks at that.

Releasing his hold, Morlac got to his feet. He watched alertly as the giant also rose, half-expecting a renewed attack. But the fight was obviously over for all concerned. The giant beamed with a respectful smile, slapping Morlac’s shoulders in a friendly gesture.

You are a wily one, you are, he said, dusting himself off. But don’t expect that trick to work the next time!

There’d best be no next time, Morlac told him, anger still simmering beneath his calm.

The giant quickly sobered. Aye... you’re right, but not for the reason you mean. We’ll have enough to do just fighting Sordros’s enemies. He pulled his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it across a bench. It could now be seen that there was indeed a limit to the number of arms he could call forth to do battle. There were three pairs in all, growing out of multiple shoulder joints like the spokes of a wheel. The giant faced Morlac again, folding the top set of arms. I am Broct. I was Sordros‘s first capture, so I have been in this prison they call a castle the longest of all.

If names matter, they call me Morlac. They brought me here in the morning, but whether it be this day or another I cannot say.

Well, whatever your past may have been, Broct said with grim comradeship, if you’ve come from the pit of green fire, then you be a brother to us all.

Aye! said another of the men, and the rest echoed the sentiment.

Morlac relaxed somewhat, sensing among them a friendship forged of mutual frustration and anger. They had tested him, as they might any stranger thrust into their midst, but clearly they did not consider him an enemy. And, knowing this, he wanted to question them. There were so many things he did not yet understand... so very many things. But before the words could even form, there came a sound at the great oaken door behind them.

All turned their attention to the portal as it opened, but the looks of alertness on the others’ faces eased at the sight of the one who entered. A small man, square-shouldered yet slightly stooped, pushed his way into the room. He carried a large bulky object, loosely wrapped in some coarse material, along with a sword in its scabbard. Morlac took him to be one of Sordros’s menials, and yet there was about the man an air of wisdom and strength lacking in the others who so fearfully did their evil master’s bidding.

Ha—it is only Ardo! Broct said with mock humor.

"Only Ardo—indeed, the small man replied, as if insulted. If your swordsmanship falters in battle, then curse your own poor learning! If it were up to me, I would not be wasting my skills on the likes of you. He lowered his burden to the table, still muttering. Only Ardo...."

But it is not up to you, Broct said. And so you teach us... and teach us well. He turned. Do not mind the small one’s sour look, Morlac. Of all Sordros’s foul servants, this one is the only decent and trustworthy man. It would pain him to admit it, but I think he worries about our wretched souls.

Ardo snorted his disapproval, but did not correct the statement. Since I see you are all acquainted now, you may as well meet your other friends. Friends your life will no doubt depend upon.

He took up the sword from the table and handed it to Morlac with a certain reverence. Morlac held it awkwardly in both hands for a long moment, reluctant to fully accept the deadly responsibility it suggested.

At last, grasping the hilt, which was bound in some tough gray hide, he loosed it from the scabbard and pulled the blade free. He frowned at the sight of it, for the sword glistened oddly in the torchlight. He had expected, after seeing the others’ weapons, to find another blade of cold iron. He found instead a thing of blanched whiteness, like shiny bone or cartilage. Its edge was razor-sharp, and the base of the blade, just before the hilt, was serrated, with sharp prongs sticking out.

Take care, Morlac, Ardo cautioned, his voice softer and deadly serious. When once the sword belt is fastened about you, do not unsheathe the blade casually. It is one of Sordros magicked implements, and it is said that it has a ravenous appetite for the blood of men.

Morlac looked upon it a moment more, then quickly slipped it back into its hidebound scabbard. It made him feel uncomfortable, in more ways than one. This man Sordros wishes dead—this Drygo—who is he? Why does the magician fear him?

He be a dark mercenary from the Eastern Lands. A dog of a man, really, but thanks to Sordros’s own magic, an unbeatable warrior.

‘Thanks to Sordros—?"

Ardo’s voice grew softer still, as if fearful his words might he overheard by his wicked master. Yes, Morlac, due to a chance encounter seven years ago. Drygo was a mere cutthroat and robber then, and his band of thieves happened upon Sordros as he journeyed back here after making a mystic pilgrimage south. They captured Sordros at a moment when his guard was down, and he would have died had he not granted Drygo an enchantment—a spell making him invincible.

And the wizard cannot change this spell?

Not without the sword of Drygo in his possession. And the only way he’s likely to have it is through his heart, by Drygo’s own hand!

If Drygo is invincible, then how can I hope to beat him?

Sordros says there is a way. I suspect it is part of the spell which changed you.

Enchantments, Morlac said, shaking his head in disgust. But why should Drygo wish to harm his benefactor, if it is by Sordros’s spell that he conquers?

He would do it for the golden coins of L’Dron Kerr, Master of the North Kingdom and Sordros’s sworn enemy. The rumors have it that Drygo and his raiders are in Kerr’s hire, to lead the army of the North Kingdom in an invasion of this domain. Sordros is an ally of the wizards who rule the South Kingdom, across the Yellow Sea, and it is no secret that L’Dron Kerr wishes to purge Shola of their influence.

I wonder... which ruler is the greater villain?

Ardo shrugged. There is little good in either. But there is no doubt that if Drygo should prevail here, there will not be enough of a village left to rule.

Besides, Broct added sullenly, if we are ever to be free of Sordros, then we must do his bidding and fight for him.

Ardo