The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1) Page 19

  The old man glanced over at Rowen, who had somehow produced a hidden dagger from the sleeve of his robe and with meticulous effort was running his thumb along its outer edge. The man bit his trembling lip. His entire body shook with anger, his eyes were drowning in it, but he kept silent all the same.

  “Do we understand each other?” The vagrant nodded. Valtor smiled. “Good.”

  Valtor glanced at Rowen, but the blade had vanished. I need to keep a closer eye on him. His brows furrowed with a slight unease as he made his way back to the podium. He was beginning to realize how little he knew about his apt pupil.

  “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s begin.”

  The nameless legate took a seat at one of the far corner desks. Pulling out his quill and ink, he readied himself to capture the evening’s activities.

  Two guards positioned themselves at the closed entrance. Their hands rested loosely on the hilt of their swords as they kept a keen, but wary, eye on the proceedings. Their posture portrayed that of battle-hardened warriors, but their faces gave all the appearance of defectors ready to cut and run at the first sign of trouble.

  Valtor pointed to the back of the metal table where the old man lay quivering. “Stabilize the collector. We don’t want to contaminate our product and be forced to start over.”

  Rowen knelt and rotated the clay pitcher directly underneath the table’s funnel. “Got it. Now what?”

  “Now, when I tell you to, I want you to start adding the ingredients from the list I gave you and place them into the stone basin.” Valtor raised a finger of warning to his assistant. “Now listen to me. This is important. You must add the elementals in the order I gave you and at the exact amounts I gave you. Nothing more. Nothing less. You understand?”

  Rowen spared him a glance from where he was busy aligning all the items in a row on the table beside the stone caldron. He nodded his understanding.

  “I mean it. At the exact amounts I’ve written.”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  The stone-carved basin looked more like a hollowed out altar than anything. It looked to be forged straight out of the floor itself. Waist high, it stood with four sides.

  “And I’ll need you to wait to add each item until I tell you. I have to match each elemental with a specific rune, and in precise succession or this isn’t going to work. Worse yet, it could kill everyone in here.”

  The room grew very quiet. Even the old man and the boy had stopped their fidgeting to twist their heads around.

  “If done improperly, the text says we could risk unleashing some kind of horror into our world.” Valtor scanned the words on the page. “Doesn’t exactly say what kind, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.”

  Rowen peered over the top of the empty basin and looked in. “This seems a bit silly. I feel like we’re making a witch’s brew.”

  “Silly or not, if this is what the book says to do, then this is exactly what we’re going to do.”

  The room remained eerily silent as they began. Valtor grabbed a piece of chalk and stepped over to the large basin where Rowen was pouring in the first ingredient. Leaning over, he took great care to see that his inscription on the flat side of the stone was accurate, capturing every line and curve and space of the first rune, precisely as it was diagramed in the book.

  Finishing the first, he stood and called out its name in the old tongue. The markings sparked to life as the first element inside the caldron ignited and bubbled. The rune on the side of the basin took on the glow of the chalk being used. As swift as it had flared, the rune faded and vanished. The chalk, as well, had disappeared completely from view, making room for the next.

  Moving along, Valtor had Rowen add the next elemental on the list, and then the next, all the while portraying each arcane symbol in both its picturesque and phonetic forms. Each new rune blazed in grandeur as its name was called forth before vanishing into the ether like all the rest.

  As the components merged within the makeshift caldron, their essence kindled an initiation of life. Sparks burst from the top, floating upwards before eventually burning out, much like cinders from an open fire.

  Rowen took a few steps back and glanced at Valtor.

  There was a distinct hum now emanating from the stone as Valtor maintained his concentration on the runes and their utterances. He had no idea if he was doing anything wrong, or if what was happening was as it should be. He could only place his trust in what was written within the ancient text.

  He paused momentarily when a low rising mist poured over the lip of the stone and rolled across the floor around them. The legate lifted his feet off the ground from where he sat scribbling his notes.

  Within the vapor Valtor could feel life, and it was far from pleasant. He guessed it was too late to turn back now, and if it took dealing with the darkness to get what he needed then that was what he intended to do. He was determined to find a way to keep magic from being exterminated as the world had tried to do so long ago. Even if it required him to lose his own soul in the process, he would never let the jun’ri win again.

  Rowen added the last of the elementals to the already bubbling amalgam, and then stoppered the empty vial before laying it alongside the other empty containers.

  Valtor could see the hunger flaring to life in his apprentice’s eyes. The nervous caution was there as well, but, much like a kettle drum to the soft resonance of a single chime, the one clearly overpowered the other. Rowen’s insatiable hunger for magic would always win out over his common sense. That is going to be his downfall one day.

  After watching the last of the runes spark to life and fade away, Valtor stepped back to the open book. Line by line he scanned the written text once more, making sure he had not forgotten some little tidbit of information that could put the entire spell into jeopardy, not to mention their lives.

  Satisfied that all was in order, he raised his head from the age-dyed pages and nodded at his assistant. “We have completed the first half.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now we add the final ingredient,” he said as he stepped around the podium toward the drainage table.

  “Please, you don’t have to do this,” the old man said. “I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt the boy. He doesn’t deserve this. Have mercy, sir.”

  Rowen snickered.

  “I assure you I have no intention of hurting the boy,” Valtor said, laying a gentle hand on the man’s trembling shoulder. “Like our young Master Tate said, I only want to make him strong so he can defend those in need.”

  The old man’s eyes were as sharp as a Kul’s blade. “You may be able to fool the child, but you won’t be foolin’ me. You’re an evil monster struttin’ around like a wolf in sheep’s skin, actin’ like you was all righteous. May the Defiler take your soul!” He spat at Valtor and caught him right in the face.

  “Ah! What the—” Valtor took a step back as he wiped the spittle with his sleeve. He barely had time to right himself before Rowen leapt on the old man and started punching him in the face, the chest, the arms, and anywhere else his fists could land a solid strike.

  Valtor had to pull his pupil off of the old beggar before he killed him. “That’s enough. We need him.”

  Hearing Valtor’s voice put an end to Rowen’s advance. If there was one thing Valtor could say about his deformed apprentice, it was that he was very protective of his master.

  After regathering his focus, Valtor continued his instruction. “There is a balance in everything. Where there is life there is death, where there is sickness there is health, rich and poor, free and bond, light and dark. Nature must hold a balance. If we are to alter the life of one, it must require the sacrifice of another.” Valtor smiled, but not quite as much as Rowen did when the slick dagger once again reappeared within his hands.

  “Blood.”

  “Yes.” Valtor agreed. “Blood.”

  “What’s going on?” Tate asked, his voice beginning to tremble. “Wh
y were you beating him?” The boy was staring wide-eyed at Valtor’s pupil as Rowen hovered near the old beggar. “I thought you were going to make me big?”

  “Don’t you worry, that is exactly what we’re going to do.”

  “Why doesn’t that man like you?” Tate asked Valtor as he worked his way over to the young boy’s table. “Why is he so mad? Why did he say those mean things about you?”

  Valtor leaned over the table and rubbed his fingers through the boy’s matted hair. “He said those things because . . .” He paused to think of a good response. “Well, because he’s a friend of Master Sil’foren, and he doesn’t want you becoming big and strong. He doesn’t want you to protect your friends, because he knows that if you do there won’t be anyone left to work in their mill.”

  Tate’s eyes grew violent. Hatred smoldered in him like a searing heat from an unquenchable fire.

  “I’ll leave it to you,” Valtor said. “You only have one of two choices. Do you want me to have mercy on him and release him so he can go back to his warehouse of urchin workers—”

  “No!”

  “Or do you want me to rid the world of such an evil man? A man who wants to hurt little kids.” Valtor could see the boy wrestling with an answer. He had put him on the spot and he knew which choice the boy would make. He just needed to see how long it would take for him to admit it.

  “I don’t want him to hurt us anymore.”

  “So just to be clear, you want me to get rid of him, is that correct?”

  The boy looked over at the old man who was now lying there with tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “Y . . . yes.”

  “Very well, if that is what our brave Master Tate wishes, then that is what he will get.” Valtor turned to Rowen and nodded.

  Rowen slid his way over to the old man and waved his blade just above the bridge of the vagrant’s nose.

  The elderly man turned his head to the boy. “Close your eyes, son. You don’t need to see this.”

  Tate tilted his head away and pinched his lids, but Valtor grabbed him by the cheeks and turned his head back around. “Nonsense! You need to watch this, Master Tate. You need to feel the victory of watching this evil man meet his end, the same way he has put an end to so many of those street kids, I’m sure.” Valtor held tight underneath the boy’s jaw and twisted his little head toward the metal table where Rowen was waving his blade.

  “Quit playing with him and get on with it!”

  “I don’t think I want to watch anymore,” Tate called out.

  Valtor held the boy’s head in place. “If you want to be brave for your friends, then you need to start now. Are you going to be brave for them?”

  “Yes,” he whimpered.

  Rowen placed his right hand over the old man’s forehead to hold him down, leaving a well-defined area to work from. With his left hand he placed the edge of the blade on the far side of the man’s neck and pressed down. Blood squirted into the air as the old man hollered for mercy, his body thrashing like a stuck cod on a fishman’s table.

  “I changed my mind!” Tate cried out. “I changed my mind! Please stop! I take it back!”

  Valtor smiled as he held the boy’s head down. “Too late. You made your choice.”

  Once Rowen finished, the old man’s body convulsed a couple times more before finally going still.

  The blood flowed freely into the thin trough underneath the body, and made its way toward the lower funnel and out into the clay pitcher.

  Valtor could feel his arm shaking and realized it was Tate’s head where his hand was still firmly gripping the side of his jaw. He released him. The boy held his eyes shut and cried.

  Draining the blood took longer than he had expected. Instead of sitting around and drinking in the sight of the old man’s bodily fluid draining from his lifeless corpse as his apprentice was, Valtor busied himself with the second half of the incantation.

  “It’s done,” Rowen said as he hefted the clay pitcher out from under the metal table and placed it on the rim of the hollow altar. Rowen’s fingers tapped impatiently on the side of the warm urn while Valtor glanced back at the open pages in front him.

  “Right.” Valtor left the podium with book in hand as he stepped alongside the stone caldron and glanced inside. The mixture continued to bubble as mist overflowed its rim. He motioned for Rowen to pour in the blood. Stepping back, they both prepared for whatever reaction might take place, but in the end nothing happened, and they both peered back over the edge.

  The concoction had now taken on a decidedly red hue as it continued to bubble and spout.

  Valtor held out his hand. “Let me see your blade.”

  Rowen, a little hesitant at first, produced the sharp instrument with a flick of his wrist. The swift feat still made Valtor a little uneasy. Grabbing hold of the handle, Valtor raised his hand out over the brewing amalgam and produced a thin slice across the inside of his palm. After handing the knife back to his assistant, he balled his fist and squeezed out a healthy amount of his own life’s blood to finalize the mix.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Valtor could see Tate’s eyes, like all the others in the room, were fixed on the stone caldron, no doubt wondering what was going to happen next.

  “Dip me out a cup.” Valtor said as he walked over to where the little street urchin lay bound and sobbing. He took a moment to spare a glance at the old vagabond. He could hear the drip, drip, drip of what remained in the metal trough as it fell through the small furrow and out onto the floor beneath. Looking at the man’s ravaged neck, he had to wonder why he had aligned himself with such a sadistic apprentice, but then he reckoned it was because only someone sadistic would be willing to follow.

  Rowen quickly returned with a steaming cup of their newly created potion.

  “Cut back his shirt,” Valtor said. “And mind you don’t cut him.”

  Rowen flicked his wrist and the knife reappeared. He slid the blade from the top of the boy’s tattered sweater to the bottom, giving access to his bare and rather dirty chest and stomach.

  “What are you doing?” Tate asked, between fits of tears and sniffles. “Why are you taking off my shirt?” He was back to his crying again.

  Valtor laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I told you I have no intention of harming you,” he lied. “I’m going to keep my word and make you big and strong.” Tate sniffed another long run from his nose. “But in order for that to happen, you will need to be strong for me. Do you think you can do that?”

  Tate shook his head no.

  “Oh, sure you can. You’ve come this far, haven’t you? I thought you wanted to protect your friends. I thought you wanted to keep Master Sil’foren from hurting them and sticking them in his mill.” Valtor shrugged. “I guess I was wrong about you. I guess they will have to go on suffering because you didn’t care enough about them to help.” He turned and started to walk away when a trembling voice reached his ears and brought him to a halt.

  “Wait. I . . . I am brave.” Valtor spun around. “I want to protect my friends. I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent. I knew you had it in you.” Returning to the table, Valtor stuck his finger inside the cup of bloody liquid. It was warm to the touch. He sketched a single Rune across the boy’s chest.

  “It tickles.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Not for long. “Alright, there is only one more thing you need to do, my boy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Drink the cup.”

  Tate’s eyes bulged. The little boy’s mouth pinched tight as he began shaking his head with an emphatic—No!

  “Come now, Tate. Don’t let something as simple as taking a drink stand between you and stopping Master Sil’foren from hurting your friends. The power is there for you to have. Just take a drink and you will be big and strong.”

  Valtor watched as the wheels in Tate’s head went to spinning. He needed the boy to do it voluntarily. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, the boy’s hea
d tilted. The nod was small, but it was a nod nonetheless.

  Tate’s fist clinched tight to his pants as he watched the cup draw near. His mouth opened and when it had reached its apex, Rowen, not wanting to take a chance on him closing it, reached over and pinched the boy’s nose shut to keep it open and poured the steaming mixture inside. Tate spat and coughed, but as long as his nose was shut off, he had no choice but to start draining the hot bloody tonic. The front of him was now splattered in crimson as the last of the cup was drained. Rowen released his nose and Tate progressed to heaving.

  By this time, the guards at the back, along with the legate, had moved forward to catch a better view of the proceedings. To Valtor’s surprise, nothing happened, except of course Tate falling back into his incessant crying. If Valtor hadn’t needed the boy so badly he was half-tempted to take Rowen’s knife and cut Tate’s throat himself, if only to stop the whining.

  Suddenly, the boy spasmed and his entire body went taut. His back completely arched off the table as his chest pushed against the leather restraints.

  “What’s happening?” Rowen asked, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

  “Wait and see,” Valtor said with a smile as he added a bit of mystery to his voice. Of course Valtor had no idea what was happening, but he wasn’t about to let his protégé know that.

  The boy’s restraints buckled under the strain of his arms until one-by-one they snapped, causing everyone in the room to back away. Valtor almost went down after tripping over his own podium. After righting himself, he grabbed his precious grimoire from its resting place and hugged it close to his body.

  Tate’s skin darkened and his hair sprouted in matted clumps.

  “What’s happening to me?” came a guttural growl of a voice, barely understandable, barely human. It was rather disturbing, more so than Valtor wanted to admit. Hearing it come from a child that was being transformed in front of him was most definitely pushing the outer limits of his own boundaries. Even still, he found it all quite fascinating.