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Fiction
--55,743 words
Copyright
©1997 by
THE WORL
MAGEWARRIOR
By
Intro
excerpt
The
pair emerged into what appeared to be a clearing of sorts, the boulders
arranged into a corridor. A sliver of perpetually gray sky lay above, beckoning
like a broken promise of daylight.
Amidst the clearing was a congregation
of souls, their helplessness as poignant as a wail. As one, the ring undulated
in a tormented dance, circling in endless loss about some dreary pivot of
despair. With spectral throats, the sad chorus moaned a song of plaintive
mourning, the words caressing a part of Tarlan’s soul that few of the living
would ever know.
____________
The
mountains of the Forbidden Continent are a severe mass of jungle-swathed peaks,
standing out against the great planet of Shalom like a brace of blue
shadows. At night, they resemble nothing
so much as a set of pickets on a fence – a fence that serves to separate the
Worldship Synnibarr from the great shining planet that dominates her sky. Accompanying the jungle-coated limestone
crags are vast underground caverns,
Tarlan’s family worked honeybees on a stretch of
steep cliffs for as long as any could remember.
The difficult and dangerous task, a source of influence – and not so
little wealth – made the family one of the more prestigious in the tiny
isolated village. Throughout the summer
and partly into the fall, the brave collectors drop down the sheer cliffs to
harvest the precious cargo.
When Tarlan was a small boy, he stood
at the base of the family cliff gazing up at his father. He seemed to float against the cerulean
brilliance on the thin ropes Tarlan had helped fashion. Tarlan half-remembered smiling as a large
black shadow lazily detached itself from the cliff – and then the bees fell on
him in a malignant wave. Within a
moment, all was white light, terror, and absolute agony. The shaman promised nothing as he packed the
boy’s swollen body in mud. Once this
process was complete, he administered what meager magical aid lay in his
power. Fortunately, the spirits saw fit
to stave off death, but little else. It
took Tarlan a year to make a complete physical recovery. His nightmares were often filled with
stingers and all consuming liquid fire.
The day dawned fresh and crisp as if
the sky had been scraped clean by the sparse clouds. Tarlan smiled at the morning for awarding
him. Today, he was ten summers old, the
age of pre-manhood for his people. Tarlan
heard the snap of the cookfire, it’s
warmth almost unnecessary even at this early hour. He emerged to find his father feeding small
twigs into the hungry blaze while his mother busily worked Melia
root into a fine mush. The noise rasped
lovingly across Tarlan heart. The thick
tubers, found only on the misty plateau, were his favorite. Tarlan managed to slip a finger onto the
scraping stone; the sweet flavors made his eyes widen with delight. As he spun wildly his father snapped him out
of his rapture.
“So, today is the day already,” he said, carefully
tending the growing flame. "Shall
we start on your ropes?" His
hopeful chuckle drove a spike into Tarlan heart. His father continued,
determination painted across his tone.
"If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow…when?” In his frustration Tarlan’s father toppled
the blazing pile of twigs. The kindling
collapsed in a heap along with the boy’s smile. Suddenly the cheerful morning threatened to
strangle him.
“My
son, I have been patient, but the seasons have no such concerns." Hajack thrust the last handful of twigs into
the wreckage of the flames as if they would consume his mounting concern. With a deep sigh he turned back for another
handful. The solemn words drove the boy
from the hut, his special day feast forgotten.
As Tarlan fled into the jungle Hajack’s voice trailed behind him, slowly
soaking into the trees, as if they too understood his father’s frustration.
“You can run now, but to ever be a man
you must face this!” The statement mixed
amongst the emotions ranting in Tarlan’s heart; the pain drove his bare feet
into the jungle.
When fully out of sight, Tarlan
stopped and prayed for safe passage. He
finished with a protection gesture plus a few words to the Spirit of the Cat
for guidance. Feet flying along root and
stone, the boy proceeded to his favorite secret place – a thick root that hung
out over a deep spring. The small
thought lightened his mood.
Tarlan had seen the village warriors use their
spirit powers of adulthood to transform into the tribe’s totem creature, the
panther. The powerful and unimaginably
beautiful beasts would roam amongst the children, eliciting laughter with their
deep-throated growls. Now, as he ran,
Tarlan imagined the cat agility was his to revel in with each leap. Tarlan hoped to pass the test of adulthood
and be a warrior, as his sister had, but he knew now that his father would
never permit it. Perhaps even the
village itself might bar his way, for they so prized the rich sweet treasure
from the cliffs and out of tradition no one but a male family member could tend
the cursed hives. If he chose not to
take his place, the cliff would fall to another family… forever. The thought stopped him in mid leap. Tarlan sagged against a stone, his mind
awhirl. It seemed that he was to learn
the work of the stinging bees, never to roam the jungle a shadow of swift power. His dismal future suddenly seemed to strangle
him. Tarlan trudged on through the
vibrant jungle, heedless of the dangers around him.
A small cloudburst found him,
relieving much of the heat. Chilled,
Tarlan was unable to contain the tears of frustration as he trudged the rest of
the way to his favorite place. In a few
steps the Sacred Wind caressed the treetops, the abrupt absence of magic a palpable
sensation. Tarlan had asked his grandma
about the Sacred Wind as a boy. She
explained that it was created to make all the people thankful for magic and the
spirits. When the people take magic for
granted, the winds come and steal it. In
this way, we are taught to be respectful and dependent upon ourselves.
Following tradition Tarlan found a
quiet place and hid, waiting for the absence to subside. When he felt the powers come alive again he
carefully remade his protection gesture and continued on the rest of the
way. The sun’s light speared down
through the trees in shafts of gold and blue, painting the surface of the
spring as it splashed across moss-covered rocks.
Crawling out onto the steaming root,
Tarlan took a long drink. The cold water
made his head ache. The feeling matched
the weight in his chest, the twin emotions forming a bittersweet harmony of
misery. The deep clear water of the
spring vanished into shadow as it curved beneath a cliff where the darkness
plunged downward in a mad rush. Tarlan
had tried once to swim down to explore against the strong current, but the
frigid water drove him out after only a few feet, frozen and breathless.
After that, whenever he came here Tarlan
imagined what lay down the dark tunnel.
Sometimes it was a monster, but more often than not it was a vast
underground city of adventure – the type filled with escapes and secret places,
and most importantly, treasures. Today, the spring called out to him with
nothing so much as a promise of freedom.
As Tarlan daydreamed, he caught sight
of a movement in the watery darkness, the motion transforming into something
coming up out of the spring. Letting out
a shout of surprise Tarlan quickly jumped behind a nearby bush, the foliage
swallowing him like a shadow.
Breathlessly, Tarlan watched as three strange figures emerged from the
cold water and into the sultry jungle morning.
The first was a white skinned man with black hair
and a long wet cloak. The multicolored
fabric was practically strangling the figure as he emerged from the water with
a large splash. The second was a white
girl with white hair, and to Tarlan’s utter amazement, coal black wings! Upon close inspection, he noted that attached
to her clothing were all sorts of strange and deadly looking objects. These two carried three large sacks, sagging
and wet as they drained springwater.
When sunlight glinted off the girl’s
wings Tarlan was amazed to see what looked like a long shiny knife in the place
of each fore-feather. The sight bolstered
Tarlan’s fear over his surprise. However, strange these two seemed to Tarlan,
it was the last figure to emerge from the spring that shook the fibers of his
heart. It was small and covered in a
thick golden fur. Its muscular frame was
topped by a panther’s face, its eyes sparkling with the colors of jade and
fire.
Gripping the still-steaming root with one hand, it
easily levered its golden form from the spring with a diminutive splash. Once
free of the water, it then magically grew to be at least three times Tarlan’s
height amidst a swirling of blue neon energy.
Tarlan’s jaw dropped as the spirit cat enlarged itself, the earth
groaning beneath its restored weight as if in testimony to the creature's
size.
For a moment Tarlan forgot where he was. Paying no attention to his footing, he snapped
a twig noisily; the tiny sound exploded in his ears. He had broken silence! The import of the act stunned him beyond what he saw. Centuries of tradition shattered in an
instant. Before he could recover, the
girl dropped before Tarlan with a flash of her wings. The act threw him back into his hiding bush,
a jumble of arms and legs. In a splash
of light, both of the others appeared by her side – as if by magic.
Terror clogged his motions. All Tarlan could do was shiver and dart his
gaze from one figure to another, the beginnings of tears in his eyes once more. The winged girl gave a warm smile of relief
at the sight of the frightened native boy. Holding the reassuring expression,
she tried to soothe Tarlan with a soft voice.
Though her words were strange, the tone was unmistakable. After a few seconds Tarlan started to relax, though
he was far from calm; the sight of the fierce wing blades, gigantic sword like
feathers as hard as steel, elicited nothing but caution.
Tasting fear Tarlan tried to swallow. “What are you?” he asked, awe catching in his
throat, “…spirit beings?” His words flowed into the wind like so much music to
the trio. As if on some unbidden signal,
the woman looked at the man in the wet cloak, her glance birdlike in manner. The man sighed and cast a wary glance at the
spring before he mumbled and made a few gestures, his damp face a mask of
practiced concentration. In his
expression Tarlan could read gentleness, stern attention to detail and, above
all, compassion. However, when the man's
hands began to glow Tarlan fell into a renewed panic. Fear strangled him despite his observations. Before the boy could move, the catman reached out with a single massive hand, deftly
grabbing Tarlan about the chest.
Struggling in vain, Tarlan was surprised into stillness when the cloaked
man spoke in a powerful voice, his words clear and unmistakable.
“I can talk to you now, do not be
afraid,” said the figure, his accent perfect.
“What are you?” Tarlan stammered while pummeling at the
furred wrist with both hands, sure now that they were spirits at the very
least. With each strike, the golden
furred creature was surprised to note that they were all attacks to pressure
points. The little boy’s fists dug,
albeit futilely, into every nerve center available. The cloaked man chuckled warmly as he wrung
water from his cape. “We’re just passing through, little one; we are nothing to
be afraid of.” His words did little to
ease the boy’s fear.
“But what are you?” repeated Tarlan. “I have never seen anyone like you.” His
eyes drifted across the trio with a wonder that threatened to blind him. “Are you gods?”
At first, Tarlan thought he saw the
giant cat man nod his head yes. The action halted when the cloaked figure cast
him a warning glance, the exchange unmistakable.
“By the fates, no, little one,” he
chuckled. “We are adventurers, weary ones at that,” said the cloaked man. His voice held a serious tone with the use of
the word that hinted at mysterious dangers.
“I am a mage and my companions are a
Winged Warrior and a Neosapien.” With care, the cat hesitantly released his
gigantic grip. His warning look told
Tarlan to stay put.
The mage continued politely as if
nothing were amiss. “We have just come from an adventure that required us to
make….uh, an escape through that spring.
Quite refreshing, actually.” He ended his
statement with a flick of water from his brow, the action almost comical. Astonished, Tarlan watched as the cloaked
figure continued to wring out his cap. A
million questions came into his mind, though all he could manage was a small, “oh".
“I am called Blackforge," said
the mage with a short, wet bow. "She is Alorius, and that is Balgar,” he
added, pointing to the gigantic cat man. The gesture was almost contemptuous but entirely
good natured.
“It is a goodness to meet you,"
said Tarlan with the traditional wrists-together greeting of his people. A slow smile crept across his face as he shook
off the grasp of the panther.
Blackforge returned the expression as
well as the gesture. “It is a goodness to meet you as well ...ah…?”
“Tarlan," said the boy.
“Tarlan is it,” replied the mage
companionably. “Well, then ...Tarlan,
since you are undoubtedly from around here, would you be so
kind as to show us the neighborhood? We
need a place to rest for the…” The mage’s
request was cut off as the air shook just as the spring erupted again. This
time it disgorged a magical force of swirling black energy. With its appearance, a cold chill smashed the
heat from the forest. In the energy’s
depths, Tarlan could read everything his grandma had ever warned him about, and
the realization of its origins hit him like a hammer.
The golden giant looked at the mage, an expression
of mild annoyance on his feline features. “Thought he was out of it?” observed
Balgar casually, his massive voice rolling to the subsonic.
“It appears that I was mistaken,” replied
Blackforge, as his hands quickly painted a magical pattern in the air; the neon
forces diminishing the daylight. "Here goes the last easy one."
With a
flick, the brilliance vanished from Blackforge's
fingertips to appear beneath the swirling mass of diseased shadow. The Hellpit ripped open the dimensions with an entropic roar,
its grip unshakable. With a silent
scream of rage, the Blackness was gone, and, as if sensing the void, the spring
erupted once more. the water disgorged a series of
smoldering gray-skinned forms. The large human-like creatures scrambled outward
like so many ashen spiders.
“Cave
demons!” shouted Alorius, a sword appearing in her hand. “Shock
troops!
Blackforge managed a shout at the
gold-skinned neosapien while casting two hex bolts. The simple spells chipped away at the last of
his life force. To his satisfaction, his
spells seared through his opponents like mystic lasers. Blackforge smiled darkly as the attack sent
the demons scurrying for cover. “Balgar,
would you be as kind as to block that spring?”
“On my way!” growled the feline giant, deftly
dodging two gray shafts of power. The trees next to him turned to dead
stone. He searched out the last
demolition concoction he had and concentrated on the big root as he snapped a
pitch-coated tesseract twig between his fingers – just
in time to avoid being petrified again. In a flash and gut-wrenching sensation
of movement, the twig’s enchantment moved him precisely to his target.
Balgar
appeared next to the spring and shouted, “Heads up!” as he slammed the
explosive into the water. Snapping his
last twig, Balgar then appeared one hundred feet straight up and with a lazy
smile…thumbed the detonator.
Enjoying the concussion against his back, the
massive Neosapien rode the dampened shock wave upwards for all it was worth
with a gigantic whoop of delight. Alorius
heard Balgar’s warning and started for Tarlan.
But her path was blocked by a slobbering cave demon, its slate skin
smoldering in the daylight. With a
smile, she dropped to her knees just as the blast went off. The concussion knocked the creature toward
her outstretched wing blades. With a
quick scissoring action, it was a cave demon-less head.
The Cave
Unable to reach the boy in time, Alorius felt her
heart drop as the Cave
To be continued…