Chapter 12
The fifth Stracombe, the rare and coveted amplifier of Saa, was the Stracombe of the Seer, a plain wooden dish about sixteen inches in diameter by four inches deep. Filled with clear water and activated with an invocation, the Stracombe gave the user the ability to see what others were doing, even over great distances. Wrought by the magic of the elves of old, its intent was a means to warn of impending danger and to communicate with loved ones far from home. The Dark Sorceress Eringaff had other uses for it.
The bowl was set upon a table in the center of a dust-layered round room, perhaps fifteen feet across, all of stone, the highest room of the highest tower of Eringaff's castle. Nobody entered the room with the exception of she. In fact, nobody ever came to the lofty reaches of this particular spire, not for a half score levels below. She looked into the waters of the Stracombe.
The dark sorceress’ gaze was unblinking. She hovered over the Stracombe of Seers, her hands palms down on the table on each side of the bowl. Her long black hair missed the water of the Stracombe by mere fractions of an inch. She spoke through clenched teeth. “Felameh su piariemah YaSamme!” (Find the traveling wizard!)
At first nothing happened. The sorceress waited impatiently, yet knew she could not rush Essaa, that such power took time to manifest. Soon the water began to glow a soft creamy color. It madly swirled within itself without distorting the unnatural mirrored surface. Illuminating her wicked face from below, the glow grew brighter, and images began to form. Two people. Yes, two. One...no, both were wizards, she could tell, by the green glow about their forms. One had a long gray beard. That fool Finnegaff! The other, a young girl. She had found them! Her smile reeked evil as she wrung her cold, sweating hands together. Her pulse quickened, her breathing intensified. She watched to be sure. The Stracombe showed the two passing a lake. She knew the lake well, knew where they were going. After she was satisfied she had retrieved the information she needed, she batted the bowl from the table, splashing water on the cold, dusty stone floor. The image had gone dark even before the bowl lost any of its contents.
She walked to the unglazed window. It was without curtain, twice as tall as its three-foot width. The window was set in the side of her stone castle and hosted a drop of several hundred feet to the many miles of dead, rocky ground that it overlooked. The windowsill was two feet thick, the rough, dark stones unpolished. It was the only window in the small room, a closed door opposite it, dry-rotted wood on rusty hinges. Eringaff extended her hand from the window. A huge black crow flew from the wastelands below to perch on her arm.
She whispered to the crow. "I must have the Book of Life! It is bound for Centauria and is now at Scheramm's lake! Find my second general. He is near there. Tell him. Be swift!" Off through the dark land flew the crow. Eringaff laughed a low, sinister growl and watched it until the black form was out of sight. She left the room, head held high with self-pride. In time she would rule, rule all, all of Morrah! Even her master, Gaff, the buffoon!, would be hers! She would deal with him when the time came. And it would come. Yes. It would come. Then she would rule as she was meant to rule.
She walked to one of the many high balconies and raised her arms skyward. "Norielle, Bridesmaid to Weather! Hear me!" she wailed into the breezy evening. The wind picked up. Some thirty yards from the balcony clouds materialized, swirling in eerie silence beneath the perpetual black ceiling of higher clouds. They formed into the ghostly face of Norielle, the Bridesmaid to Weather. Her hair was long, flowing dark clouds, her clear, silvery white face narrow, with a tiny nose dotting over wide lips. One thick eyebrow of cloud spanned her extended forehead over haunting eyes that bore no pupils. Her dress was a robe of cloud, tied with a skinny rope of fine mist that swirled around her thin midsection at impossible speed.
Norielle spoke in an echoing voice. "Erin! It has been a time whence I've last seen thee. How fare thee?" She never used titles when addressing anyone, in show of favor to none. To Norielle, all were a necessary equal; the affairs of living beings were naught to her.
"Norielle, I require your service."
"What is thy desire, Erin?"
"I want storms! Lightning and rain in torrents at Scheramm's lake!" Eringaff's smile showed teeth.
"A small rain can happen there. It is not the season for heavy rain." Norielle replied.
“I DON’T CARE!" Eringaff roared. "Make it rain HARD!!"
"It shan't be done. The weather pattern now is for spring shower."
Eringaff raged. "CURSED WEATHER!" She picked up a chair and hurtled it toward the apparition, yet it fell well short. Not that it would have done anything to Norielle had it met its target, the Bridesmaid of Weather consisting of nothing but cloud. She stormed down the parapet adjoining the balcony. Without breaking stride, she raised Maraska pon Durk at two darkhound guards standing watch. “LOK!” (Off!) she roared, holding out the 'o' in lok. Before they knew what had happened, the two guards were hurdled over the wall to the rocks below.
“I will have the Book of Life! It is mine by which to rule!” She stopped at the edge of the parapet to peer off into the distance with a cold wind blowing in her face. Her long, purple dress waved in the wind. She imagined her kingdom, imagined what she would do to Gaff. As she fantasized, to her left, next to the stony wall that reached upward into the eternal black canopy of clouds, there materialized an apparition. The ghost was that of an old elf, dressed in a shimmering layered black and purple robe. His long hair was white, his face smooth yet aged, as it is with elves. His eyes bore a peculiar combination of anger and wisdom. His entire being held the look of starvation for power. His ancient age did nothing to alter his strong, commanding physique. In his hand he held a staff as tall as his six and a half feet, a wizard’s staff named Virrolle. Deep, dull black in color was this staff, the entire length adorned with intricately carved runes. He wore the wizard's hat of office, his drab gray color that came to a tall conical point with a wide brim. An aura of black light surrounded him, which absorbed what little light there was from the darkening evening. To look upon him was in itself repulsive, for the will of evil emanating from him was one few could withstand.
He was Gaff, the legendary dark sorcerer, the most powerful wizard to ever live, trapped by the magic of old in Korr, a stasis between Morrah and the realm of the dead. Only by controlling the Book of Life would he ever be free. He hungered for his freedom so that all would suffer for what their ancestors had done to him. Vengeance, among other immoralities, was his motivator.
“Dark sorceress, my worthy bride!” He greeted Eringaff with a hollow, distant yet clear voice. “You seek the Book.”
“Yes, my lord,” she answered. Gaff knew that she was not willing to become his queen when the time came, that she would commit treason. But she mattered not to him. She would be his bride or he would kill her. He only needed her so that he might gain possession of the Book of Life. After that, what happened to her was not his concern. “I have taken all precautions. I have the Stracombe of Seers and it has found the Book of Life. It is but a matter of time now.” She smiled her most wicked smile as she thought of the day that she would feed him to her darkhounds.
Gaff was unable to hold his ghostly image for long. “Remember, sorceress: do not fail me, for the cost of error shall prove heavy upon you.” He began to fade. “I shall return soon. Have the Book of Life. Have the Book of Life.” His voice faded with his image, but a projection of the real thing. “Have the Book of Life....” His form wavered and dissipated into nothingness. Have the Book of Life, she thought. Have the Book of Life. I will have the Book, but not for you, old fool. For the time, she led him on. She falsely worshiped him; she obeyed him without question; she befriended him; he was far too dangerous to deal with now. She thought of a wizard’s proverb, something she’d not done in a long, long while: “...and that which embraces evil is but evil’s final victim.” Gaff was evil, yes, but Eringaff was much, much worse. This she knew Gaff knew. She prided herself on her mindset
. On her way to her chamber, she found herself singing a delightful old melody about a famous victorious battle.