Regret's Shadow (Sins of Earth Trilogy) (6 page)

Morning crept in on Mord’s Casting, bringing with it rain and wind.  The sky was slate grey and bloated disgorging a continued downpour.  The fisher folk were out and about regardless; working their trade as best they could in howling wind and choppy waters. 

The majority of them stayed at dock, tying lines, repairing nets
, and seeing to the myriad of other tasks that required attention, even if one was not at sea.
                 From a room on the third floor of Leodyne Falkshire’s tower, Reynolt looked out upon the choppy bay and the boats moored there, bobbing like children’s toys.  Most of the window was of stained glass, but a central portion was clear and allowed a view.  It was also completely sealed in all ways, as Reynolt had found out earlier.  No spells he knew or amount of prying would open or break the glass.  Not that he had suspected differently.

He was sure that he lac
ked the raw power to overcome any magic that Leodyne would have in place to stop him, or would be able to summon at a moment’s notice. 

Besides, he didn’t want to escape.  He had been given a job by the
lord mages, and he’d finish it, or die trying.

Closing his eyes, he steadied himself.  He could feel more than hear the hum of some power coursing down through the stones of the tower.  Above him, something was pulsing with raw arcane energy.

Reynolt’s gaze was drawn out beyond the pillars of rock that dotted the sea to the north of the bay. 

Had it been somewhere out there, upon the reefs, that the ship containing Leodyne’s looted
ARC engine went aground?  He supposed it didn’t matter, but imagining how the lych had obtained the artifact helped to pass the time.

Turning, he surveyed once again the room in which he’d been deposited
, without word, that morning.  It was small, though not uncomfortably so.  The furnishings were rich by most standards; the people of the ‘Casting would have gawked at the drapery alone.

There was a large and comfortable-looking bed set against a wall, dressed in fine comforters.
  A round table made of polished mahogany stood next to the stone hearth, which was throwing a small amount of heat. 

For some reason, the air still held som
e chill, despite the flames.

Another clue to the goings-on around here
, Reynolt told himself.  His suspicions were getting stronger by the minute and being led here under captivity, as well as the atmosphere of the tower, were facts that only bolstered them.  He had yet to meet the man of the tower, but he felt as though he knew all he needed to know about the mysterious Leodyne Falkshire.

That
knowledge cast the mage in a most unfavorable light.  It would be unfortunate if the old wizard was practicing forbidden magics, but it mattered little.  Reynolt had been given a task, and he felt as though he were more than up to it.

He stepped over to the table and examined the bottle and glasses set upon it.
  For not the first time he regarded the liquor with some suspicion. 

Had the old man somehow guessed at the true nature of Reynolt’s visit?
  And if so, would he simply poison the young upstart and be done with it? 

Deciding not to chance it, he once again set down the decanter and started as the heavy door swung open.

One of his grim-faced captors took a step in and regarded him without expression.  He wore the same deep crimson robes that they all had been wearing, but now had the hood cast back.  A clean-shaven head adorned with mystical tattoos framed a cold and somehow lifeless face.

His markings told Reynolt that he hailed from the south, Iniklus, or some such marsh city.
  His craggy face made his age indeterminate, but the eyes showed neither the luster of youth nor the wisdom of age.  They were simply dead. 

Suppressing a shudder, Reynolt returned his gaze, even managing a frown.

“You gentlemen have something to learn about manners,” he half-heartedly chided. 

The man said nothing.
 

“Yes, well…” the young wizard stammered.

“The master wishes to see you now,” came the eventual monotone.  With that, the man turned and left Reynolt standing alone, bewildered.  Apparently they’d lost their concern that he might try to escape.
   And why not?
he thought to himself. 
It doesn’t seem likely that I could get out if I tried. 
The entirety of the tower was sealed effectively from the inside and no amount of spellwork or physical force would set him free.

Shrugging, the yo
ung wizard went after the man, sighting him as he ascended the stairs to the right.  Reynolt followed close behind.  It was not wise to get lost in a mage’s tower.

Decay, cloying and oppressive began to assault his nostrils as he closed
with the man.  How had he not noticed the smell before? 

As they ascended the stench became more forceful, making Reynolt gag slightly.
  If his escort noticed, he did not react.  The young wizard regarded the back of his companion with interest.

His cloak was tattered and moth-eaten, whereas before it seemed clean and well made.
  The back of the man’s head displayed a grayish hue, as though the blood had left his scalp. 

Around them, the stones of the stairway seemed to get more and more decrepit as they progressed.
  The tapestries rotted and faded with age and neglect.  It seemed that whatever glamour Falkshire used to hide his true nature was irrelevant this close to his inner sanctum.

All doubts cast away, Reynolt prepared himself.
  He was being led into the heart of the tower, the very lair of evil.  Leodyne Falkshire had cast away his teachings and delved too deeply into Drejth magic.  He’d become a lych.

The thought both excited and saddened the young wizard.
  Lyches were beings of incredible power, having drawn upon the power of negative energy to defeat death itself and continue on in a magical existence. It was a delicate balance, as too much of the hungry power would consume them, too little and the transformation would fail.  Lyches invariably gazed too long into the abyss, and such things as can be seen there taint them irrevocably.

Unlike living mages, lyches used the energy of living souls to power their magic; their access to the Arcane having been cut off at the moment of death.  They were constantly in search of souls to power their sorcery, and it had been the disappearance of so man
y “apprentices” that clued the lord mages into Leodyne’s activities.  Undead mages were a threat that needed to be dealt with quickly and discreetly.

Reynolt braced himself as the thing that led him reached a landing next to an ornate door.
  Without preamble the creature opened it, and motioned with a now-desiccated hand for him to enter.  Casting a final glance at the thrall, the young wizard stepped into Leodyne Falkshire’s laboratory.

It was impossible for Reynolt to take in all of the calliope of madness that assaulted his senses upon entry to the lyche’s sanctum.  The standard trappings of a powerful mage adorned the large, circular room, but all was tinged with corruption.

Bookshelves crammed with moldy tomes and cobwebs sat at angles which strained the eye.  Candelabras of ornate and mostly profane design were spaced about the room, the pallid light cast by their greenish stalks did little to disperse the pervasive shadows. 

Obscure corners seemed to give refuge to a blackness from beyond, rather than a mere
absence of light.  The noise coming from the elaborate machine that dominated the center of the room, the ARC engine, set the young wizard’s teeth on edge.  The odor of rot, incense and metals permeated the air.

Standing next to the large contraption was the the old mage himself, Leodyne.  From behind, he seemed almost normal.  His red robes were frayed a little, but not woefully so.  His stringy hair fell about sloped shoulders, but there was no indication that this was anyone but an extremely wizened old man.  That was, until the lych turned.

It was the eyes that cut straight to the fear that lay dormant in Reynolt’s heart; the fear of madness, of never-ending torment.  Black pits which contained the faintest speck of light, as if each hollow was actually a window into the fathomless depths of space. 

The fact that the face was
desiccated and savaged by rot was inconsequential next to the horror of those eyes.  Reynolt was in danger of losing control of his faculties, mental and physical and nearly went over the brink.   Just then, the lych spoke.

At last.  The final fly comes to the spider’s feast.

The voice, if it was actually a voice and not something that Reynolt only experienced in his head, was enough to wrest his attention from his horror.  It bore a passing resemblance to what would probably have been the old man’s natural timbre, but was infused with some resonance that caused the hairs on the young man’s neck to stir.

The undead thing motioned to its minions, and cold hands with grips of iron clasped Reynolt’s biceps and began to usher him toward the contraption.  The young mage’s heart was fluttering in his chest. 

Everything the lord mages suspected about Falkshire had been true.  He was using the ARC engine from a scuttled seafaring vessel to channel the life-force from his “apprentices” into him, hoping to enhance his twisted immortality.

Of course, this also meant that Reynolt could play a pivotal role in the lyche’s downfall, and so he steadied himself for action.  As the zombies were strapping him down to the humming machine, he engaged their master.

“You are in violation of the edicts of the lord mages, Master Falkshire,” he almost injected some authority into his shaking voice. 

Almost.

There came a sensation similar to the sound of someone chuckling, before he “heard” the thing chide him. 
Oh, I am aware.  I would assume that, at this point, it would also be irrelevant to your situation, would it not?

Reynolt had to quietly agree as the lyche’s henchmen tightened the restraints and
then moved to flanking positions, utterly devoid of emotion.  The moment he had been prepped for was fast approaching, but he had to keep the fiend talking, to decrease the chance that it would somehow notice what Reynolt was doing, and try to thwart him.  Timing was everything.

“Good point,” he admitted.

The fools in Freehold finally sent me the morsel I’d been hoping for
, Falkshire intoned.

These
apprentices
, it gestured to the thralls,
were sufficient to further my experiments, but I needed a full-fledged mage to complete my ascension.

The lych leaned close to leer at Reynolt, forcing the young wizard to look away,
I’ll have to thank them when I storm their keep
.

“Don’t you mean, when
we
storm their keep, Falkshire?”

Both lych and living wizard whipped their heads to find the source of the unexpected voice. 

One of the thralls, previously resembling a shambling corpse, began to take on the appearance of a man in his mid-thirties, with black hair, depthless eyes, and a goatee.  The ratty robes shimmered and became resplendent.  The slouching posture straitened.

Leodyne immediately went to
its bony knees.

My lord Drejth
, it pleaded,
I meant no disrespect
.

Reynolt
’s eyes bulged as the shade of Malavarious grinned.  Drejth, returned?  Even as he stared in disbelief, Reynolt sought to use the distraction to begin enacting his plan.  The lord mages would need to hear of this.  Survival was the only option.

“Of course not,” Drejth mused.  “I see you’re ready to complete your transformation.”

With that, Drejth moved to stand beside the trapped Reynolt.  The young man met his gaze for a scant second, before turning away with a shudder.  Grinning to himself, Drejth whirled to face the lych.

“Hurry up,” he spat.  “Events are proceeding as I’ve planned.  Soon the book-worshiping dolts at the Temple of the Sacred Scroll will deliver the…
artifact to Galloway.”

Even as he struggled to pay attention to the monologue, Reynolt searched within himself for the unique power he’d discovered as a teen.  Feeling
-out the energy of the ARC engine, he began to bring his gift in line with its resonance.

And the monk
, Leodyne said,
he’ll be delivered as well?

Drejth waved his hand, “Of course.  It would be impossible for a wench like Emberlock to activate the device. 

“The boy has been given the tools to do so, although I’m sure he’s unaware of it.  His gift allows him to understand any text, language, or symbol…it’s quite amazing.”

Malavarius assumed a pensive expression, “The fools at the temple have no idea what they have in him…”

He snapped out of his thoughts and pointed at the lych.

“Finish the ritual. 
Before the moon turns my forces will be in Galloway.  I want you at full power when the Breaching begins.”