Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure (11 page)

BOOK: Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure
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Within a few moments, it was over.

The outlaws were mice.

Jan moved from one to another, stomping his boots. The mice could not flee; his magic held them in place.
Squeak! Squeak!
His boots kept stomping, making mice pancakes.

He raised his boot over the last mouse—Sir Morno, the outlaws' leader—then paused when he heard Baumgartner hiss.

"You're right, Baumgartner," Jan said and patted the snake. "You deserve a treat."

He lifted the mouse and held it up. Baumgartner slithered down Jan's arm, gulped down the mouse, and sighed contentedly.

"Yum yum," Jan said and patted the snake.
You don't find fun like this in the Coven.

He kept walking. Soon he saw Burrfield ahead.

* * * * *

As he walked down Burrfield's streets, Jan saw that the town had barely changed. Iron lanterns still lined the cobbled roads, smelling of the oil that would light them at nights. Fort Rosethorn still frowned upon a hill in the south, crumbly and overrun with roses. The church still towered behind old pines, spires scratching the sky. Down the road, patrons were entering the Porcupine's Quills, the town's busiest tavern. There were a few more houses, and some of the side streets were now cobbled, but otherwise it was the same old Burrfield, the same old town where Jan had spent his first sixteen years.

Will Amabel be the same too?

Jan walked toward the Porcupine's Quills, which Amabel's father owned. He knew he'd find her there. It was a large tavern, three stories of waddle-and-daub, green tiles covering its roof. Its stained-glass windows sparkled, and its five chimneys pumped smoke into the winter sky. The smell of ale, fresh bread, and beef stew wafted into the street, making Jan's stomach rumble.

He paused outside the tavern to steady himself. More than it ached with hunger, his stomach ached with nervousness, and his fingers trembled.
This is stupid,
he thought.
I'm a warlock now, not an awkward youth; there's no reason to be nervous.
And yet his stomach still whirled and his breath was shaky. For years at the Coven, Amabel had filled his dreams. All that time, he'd been waiting for this moment, the moment he'd return to see the only girl he'd ever loved.

She's twenty now,
a voice in his mind whispered.
She's probably married. She probably forgot you.

And yet he dared to hope, to dream she's run into his arms, that she'd be his wife.

Jan approached the tavern's doors, heavy cherry doors engraved with pomegranates. Once this place had been Jan's home away from home, the place where he spent his happiest hours—his only happy hours.

With a deep breath, Jan stepped inside.

Indoors, the Porcupine's Quills hadn't changed. Fires crackled in two towering fireplaces, lighting the room, casting out the winter cold. The firelight glinted against the stained-glass windows, which depicted scenes of frolicking spiderlings. The smell of beef, bread, and beer filled the room, making Jan's mouth water.

Old Jon Brewer—Amabel's father—stood upon a barrel, a crowd surrounding him. He was speaking to the crowd, a mug of ale in hand, his cheeks rosy.

"Thank you, my friends, for joining us here. The ceremony this morning was beautiful, just beautiful." The beefy man wiped a tear from his eye. "When the happy couple read their vows, I knew it was the happiest day of my life. Now let's drink and celebrate the marriage of Amabel, my beloved daughter!"

The crowd cheered.

Jan stared, mouth opening.

As men and women raised their mugs in blessing, Jan caught sight of his love. Amabel stood among the crowd, wearing an azure gown, her hair strewn with flowers. She held the arm of her new husband, a tall man with a handlebar mustache. The man looked familiar, but Jan did not spare him a second glance; he could think of nothing but his pain.

His heart felt like hellfire, crackling and flaming. He took quick breaths, feeling faint. Head spinning, he marched forward, pushing aside drinking patrons. He wanted to cry, and every breath ached in his lungs. Amabel—married? He had spent years away, and she got married this day of all days? His eyes stung. Had God cursed him? Was this punishment for weaving his dark spells?

Knees shaky, breathing heavily, Jan reached Amabel and stood before her. She looked at him with a smile. At first she did not recognize him, and Jan's head spun. He had dreamed of seeing her for so long, and she looked so much the same. The girl had become a woman, but still had those sparkling gray eyes, that impish nose, that curly hair.
She's so beautiful, more than I remembered, a million times more.
Jan's chest ached.

Slowly Amabel's smile vanished, and her eyes narrowed."Jan," she whispered, paling.

"Amabel," he said, love for her filling him, flowing through his bones like electricity.
God, I love her, more than ever.

She still held her husband's arm, and finally Jan recognized him. The tall, mustached man was Sam Thistle, the son of a knight, probably himself now a knight. He and Jan were the same age, and would play chess as children. Jan had always been a loner, and Sam had been his only childhood friend.

"Amabel," Jan said, voice soft, lips barely moving. "I...."

He could say no more. He saw tears in her eyes. Tears filling his own eyes, Jan fled the tavern, shoving revelers aside.

He walked through the snowy streets, not knowing where he went, tears on his cheeks. Some townsfolk stared, while others pretended not to notice. Those who remembered him from years past knew of his love for Amabel, and they averted their eyes, nodding sadly.
Let them see me cry, let them mock me. I don't care. I'm a warlock now. Nothing can hurt me anymore. Nothing.

Yet still his tears fell.

When he could take it no longer, he rushed into an alley, fell to his knees, and wept.
Pathetic,
he knew, but he could not curb his tears. Shame filled him. The mighty warlock, the youngest of his kind, sobbing in an alley like a child! He clenched his fists.
No. No! If I want her, I'll have her. I always get what I want. Always. I won't let her go.

Wiping his eyes, he stood up, fire burning through him. The old anger flared, the anger that could always drive him, the anger that led him to become a warlock, the youngest warlock in the world, maybe the most powerful, too.
I will have her. Sam Thistle will not stand in my way.
When they had been children, Sam had been a worthy adversary in their chess games, but Jan always ended up defeating him.
I will defeat you now too. You have placed me in check, old friend, but you have not yet won the game.

That night, Jan walked up Friar Hill, the grassy knoll in north Burrfield where wandering friars sometimes preached. There he spread ashes around him and lit a ring of fire. Clouds gathering over the stars above, Jan raised his hands, and the ring of fire crackled around him, burning black. Demon ghosts danced around him, eyes red, smiles drooling. Tears on his cheeks, rage burning through him like the fire, Jan Rasmussen reached downward, deep into the hill, deep into the earth, down and down into the pits of Hell.

"Issa!" he shouted, his words shaking the world. "Answer my call."

Around him, Friar Hill disappeared, Burrfield disappeared, the entire world vanished. He could see only the caverns of the underworld, burning with columns of flame and rivers of lava, reverberating with the screams of sinners and the screeches of demons. He sent his power into the bowels of the Ninth Circle, the deepest and hottest level of Hell where demons whipped sinners and pain dwelt.

"Issa!" he cried. "Do you hear me?"

He had discovered the demon Issa three years ago. She was the most powerful demon he'd ever contacted, chief of the torturers of Hell. She oversaw a demon army of fire and malice, an army bred to torment the souls of sinners. Issa was cruel and mighty, a deadly combination.

She was also, Jan knew, madly in love with him.

He could use that now.

As in a feverish dream, he flew through the fire. Jan's spirit roamed the tunnels of Hell, passing over sinners on racks, flying over pools of lava where demons dunked screaming souls, and flew toward the greatest demon there, the cruelest entity of fire.

Issa.

She opened her eyes, irises woven of fire, and they were all Jan could see, two flames gazing into his soul.

"My love," she whispered and licked her lips.

Sam Thistle, spoke whispers around town, was a great knight, a warrior who fought in the Crusades, a deadly enemy. He could be tough to kill, even for a warlock, but Issa knew no bounds. No knight could harm her, not even Sam Thistle. She would do this for him.

"Issa," Jan said, voice traveling from miles away. "I need you to kill someone."

She blazed, unfurling her bat wings. "For you, anyone."

Someone grabbed his shoulder.

Jan screamed in pain.

His physical body, roused from the dream, yanked his soul back in, sucking it up like a noodle. Jan's spirit was pulled away from Issa, shooting up through the tunnels, up through the earth, flying back into his body with a thud. He opened his eyes, his spirit back on Friar Hill, once more inhabiting his physical form. He opened his eyes, enraged, pain filling him. Who had broken his trance, interrupted his spell?

For a moment, he only saw the afterimage of fire. Then his mind cleared, and he saw Sam Thistle.

The man was clutching his shoulder.

"Sam!" Jan whispered. He felt like his own eyes could blaze with fire like the eyes of a demon. "Those who interrupt me during a spell die."

Jan was a tall man, but Sam Thistle was even taller. A scar ran along his cheek, probably acquired during his battles in the Holy Land. But today this knight, the old friend who'd stolen Amabel, did not look fierce, only sad. There was pity in his eyes, and that made Jan even madder.

"Jan," the knight said, "old friend, you cannot cast these spells in Burrfield. We allow no black magic here. Return to your Coven. You will not summon your demons here, not in my town."

Jan barked a laugh. "Your town? Burrfield is as much mine as yours, Thistle. I will summon all the demons I want, and if I want to turn this town into a hive of devilry, I will. Leave now, before I make you bow before me and worship me." He laughed again. "You might have fought barbarians on your Crusades, but you can't intimidate a warlock."

Sam's eyes narrowed, all pity leaving them. "Maybe," he said, eyes cold. "But what is a warlock without his spells?"

As fast as Baumgartner after a mouse, Sam Thistle reached out, grabbed Jan's spellbook, and tossed it into the fire.

For an instant, Jan stared in horror. His heart froze like the moment he saw Amabel married to his old friend. For that instant, pure horror filled him.

"Damn you!" he screamed, shoving Sam back.
Not my spells. Not this spellbook. My life's work is in those pages.
Tears of fury in his eyes, fingers trembling, Jan had no second to think. He reached into the fire with his bare hand, screamed, and grabbed the book.

He pulled the spellbook out, pain overflowing him. His hand was burnt, badly, and Jan had never felt such agony. He could see nothing but red, and had never imagined pain could be so powerful.

Then he smelled smoke, squinted, and saw that his sleeve had caught fire.

"Jan, roll on the ground!" came Sam's voice, but it sounded miles away, and the pain roared in Jan's ears. His pockets were full of ashes, powders, flammable potions. They caught fire, and the pain bloomed across his body. Jan fell down, screaming. The fire engulfed him. He rolled around, but the fire grew.
I'm burning. I'm burning away.

He could no longer hear Sam shouting, and all he heard was the flames.

I'm going to die.

His life ended here.

No.

No!

I will not give up. I will not let Sam Thistle beat me. I will live!

He still knew some magic, even without his spellbook. His body burning, he summoned his power, weaved the strands around him, forcing the pain away. He removed his soul from his body, no longer feeling the pain. His spirit hovered above his physical form, and he watched his body burn. He spun the magic around his body with black crackling power, feverishly creating, inventing this spell on the spot. It was magic no one had ever tried.
But I'll make it work. I won't die now. Not now. Never. I won't give up.

With tendrils of magic, he grabbed his life force, pulled it back into his body, kept it there, wrapped it around his bones.
I won't let my life escape.
His flesh kept burning, smoke flew, fires crackled, and soon Jan Rasmussen was nothing but bones.

But he kept his life.

With his black magic, he clung to his soul, imbuing his bones with its power.

Time passed.

The stars moved.

The sun rose.

They came to bury him, but could not find his bones. Maybe they thought that his bones burned away. But they had not. His skeleton, blackened and ashy, had risen to its feet. It walked now through the forest, still smoking, still hot as fire.

Jan had no lips left to smile with, but his jaw opened.

I'm still alive.

A charred skeleton, he moved between the trees, a trail of ash spreading behind him.

He returned to the Coven. He moved into the deepest tunnels. When he saw himself in a mirror—an animated skeleton, still very much alive—he couldn't help but laugh.

Look at me now. Look at these dry bones.

He grinned at the mirror, his eye sockets empty, black caverns. His laughter echoed through the dark chamber, this chamber miles underground. "Do you see, Sam Thistle? I am still alive. I am still here. I will still kill you." His voice rose, maniacal. He clenched his skeleton fists. "But Sam... now I will do more. I will kill you, and I will kill your wife, I will kill Amabel who betrayed me, Amabel whom you love. I will destroy your town. I will hunt down your children and kill them. Live your life for a few years, Sam Thistle. Raise a family. Pretend that I am dead, pretend that you are happy. And just when you think you've forgotten about me... just when you think your life is good, that you are happy... I will return, Sam Thistle. I will find you at the height of your joy, and then you will realize how much you will lose."

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