A Wizard's Tears (24 page)

The sound of thunder pealed through the land of Mincalen. Lightning forked across the dark, blackened sky. All places on this world were not sacrosanct to the violent storm that had begun raging there. It was as if, over the last few months, the world had started to deteriorate. People wondered about the gods. Had they abandoned their once vibrant home? Storms and extreme weather had battered their shores for so long now; people could not remember what sunshine looked like.

Many cursed the name of Lorkayn for this havoc. Since he had cut a wave of pain and murder across the land, the weather had never seemed the same. Perhaps the gods were punishing them for bringing and nurturing such evil into the world. They did not know, and recently, the name of Lorkayn was only whispered. He had disappeared. All the wizards had disappeared. The great tower of magicians, the government in this land, stood empty and dusty. Where had they gone? The people could only guess, but they hated the wizards for leaving them to this terror of storms.

Rivers bulged and overflowed. Mountains and land slid into muddy rubble. Wind swept and bruised homes and farms. Nothing would grow in this detriment. The people grew hungry, and bitter. For two months now these storms had damaged their crops and lives. When would this stop? Why had the gods forsaken them so?

Lorkayn returned to the world, the gateway opening and sending him sprawling onto a muddy, tortured path. The rain lashed at him, the water mixed with hailstones, cutting into his flesh with a ferocity all of their own. The sorcerer, frowning slightly, stood, looking at his
surroundings. He did not recognise where he was.

He felt elation at returning to his homeland. Even faced with the power of the gods, he had thwarted them and returned! All he needed now was to seek out Elanakin, consume his power, and then take his war to the gods themselves. With the power of the magician surging inside of him, he knew he could threaten their power, and rule this world, take it as his own.

As he looked around, trying to determine his whereabouts and what direction he should take, his eyes focused on a bundle lying in front of him on the path. It lay horizontally, and looked like a corpse, delicately placed on the path, with a cloak covering its identity. What trickery was this? Lorkayn could not see anyone else around, did not know where he was situated, and, in the middle of nowhere, there was a body, directly before him on the path.

Snorting, Lorkayn ridiculed himself for feeling so tense. He was Lorkayn, he was master of all on this world. What matter to him another poor unfortunate soul, dead on the ground before him? With unconcealed contempt, the sorcerer kicked the bundle before him, sending the body sprawling out from its concealment and rolling across the barren earth.

As the rain streamed down, washing across his face, Lorkayn received his first real shock that something was not quite right with his triumphant return to Mincalen. Aghast, Lorkayn stared at the body before him, his mind awhirl with how this could be.

There, lying in the dirt in front of him was Elanakin, the magician he had sought to kill.
Collapsing to his knees before the magician, Lorkayn stared at the corpse, blinking, as if that simple motion was enough to make the scene in front of him disappear. He had come here to murder Elanakin, and take his power. Something or someone had already destroyed him, and now his body was nothing – a mere husk, without any power.
Lorkayn cried out in anger and defiance. Without Elanakin’s power absorbed, he could not face the majesty of the gods. The rain poured down, the deluge becoming stronger, more violent. Lorkayn sensed the gods above, laughing at him, even now, tormenting him.
“Damn them,” muttered the sorcerer in palpable fury. “Curse this soil, and all living upon it!”
A sparkle caught his eye, a glint in the eyes of the corpse before him. At first the sorcerer took it as a trick of the light, but no, there was something there. Inching forward, Lorkayn knelt over the body, his hand reaching out to investigate.
A water droplet, a lone, single tear, glinting with a hint of magick, hung, suspended, from one of Elanakin’s dead eyes. Lorkayn immediately knew it wasn’t the rain trickling off the dead man’s face. This was something, else, perhaps a token of the magick the magician once had.
Eagerly, without pausing for thought, Lorkayn snatched the tear into his hand. Any power that was left in this body was gratefully received by him! Instantly the magick within the tear shot through his palm and up his arm. Yes! He could feel the power there, coalescing with his own.
Yet, something was wrong. Instead of ebbing away, the force in his arm grew strong, until it raced upward, directly to his brain. Suddenly Lorkayn’s mind filled with images, so startling and so real it was as if he stood within the picture, watching on.
Tears flowed from his eyes. He stood in an eternal void, blackness so deep, so opaque no light or sight could be seen. He could feel the watery tears flowing down his cheek. He knew not why he was crying. Perhaps these tears were not small droplets of undisguised grief, nor trickles of ecstatic joy, but made of an emotion too complicated to understand.
Suddenly a burst of colour exploded into his vision, so blinding, so immense that he had to shield his eyes with his hand less he go blind. It was as if he was seeing a birth, a start to all things. All the colours of creation whirled around him, seething into a mass of white, intense heat.
Lorkayn’s mind came back to the corpse in front of him. His body shook, the power within him, within the tear he had taken, sending him reeling and shaking. Yet he felt imbued, stronger somehow. Look! Another tear, appearing in Elanakin’s eyes once more. There was still power in this dead man. There was still power to take. Reaching forward, Lorkayn again took the tear in his hand, and again images assaulted his brain.
The tears poured from his eyes, a warm river across his face. He stood in a tavern, the smoke around him intoxicating, somehow. Was it the smoke that made his eyes water thus? He could not tell. He looked through the smoke, and could see smiling faces, the customers of the tavern. There was a human, giggling with glee and delight with a man who was at least twice his height, a giant from the north. Behind them, sharing a joke and drinking together, were a loving couple, yet one was the skin of pure midnight, the other pale as midwinter’s snow.
Lorkayn looked, and found himself thinking that friendship and love seemed to take many forms, even blossoming between people of different cultures and races.
The image faded. Lorkayn’s body now bubbled with raw energy, enough to light a whole city aglow. Shaking, sweat suddenly pouring off him; he did not notice the flare of light behind.
Appearing in the world of Mincalen, Keldoran and Vergail were greeted with the pouring rain, and the extreme cold. Vergail rubbed her shoulders and arms, trying to hang on to a vestige of warmth despite her ruined robes. Oblivious to them, Lorkayn could see another tear welling up in Elanakin’s eyes. How many more were to come? Each one seemed to hold an image for him, and a tantalising concoction of power. He did not understand the visions he was getting, but he could feel the immense forces pumping through his veins. He dare not stop now. A few more of these tears, and the gods would quake at his strength!
Another tear and this one hurt his eyes as he wept in the vision. He reached up and touched his face, and was startled to find blood on his fingers when he looked. Yet had it been the tear that had caused his injury, or something else? He could not say.
He felt an overwhelming sense of euphoria, of delight and joy. He stood in the centre of a crowd, and everyone around him cheered and applauded. They were looking up, at a bright light in the sky, a sun, and they seemed to worship it.
The pure excitement in these people, the adrenaline rushing through them, was captivating, and the intensity of their emotion hit Lorkayn, and he could do nothing but share in their excitement. This was one of the most incredible feelings he had ever felt, and the result shook his entire body.
Jolting back to reality once more, Lorkayn cried out in pain. He felt his eyes, and his fingers drew blood. The power was almost too much to bear. It was overtaking his body, his mortal thought, transforming him
into…something. Although his body shrieked with the pain and the torment, his mind raced for another tear, another portion of Elanakin’s magicks. He could not stop now.
Another tear and this one was like lightning running down his skin, scalding and burning. His face contorted into agony as the fierce energies struck.
He felt a hand just out of his vision stroke his face, soothing all pain there. Lorkayn spun round to see who had touched him, and looked at a woman, someone he knew. The priestess, so beautiful and caring towards him, touching him and easing his pain with her healing hands. She must have such trust in him, he scoffed. She trusted him as much as she trusted her god. It was folly, to put such trust into her heart. He would betray her, and so would her gods. Yet, for an instant, was that remorse he felt towards her? A small sliver of compassion?
Lorkayn’s heart throbbed with pain, trying to calm his blood flow, the intensity of power surging through him. He found breathing difficult, laboured. He dare not take another tear from Elanakin. It would destroy him. He must contain this power, focus his will and nurture this new strength.
He could not control it! His blood pumped through him, his heart rate hit the roof. Clutching his chest, Lorkayn swayed and fell atop the body of Elanakin. He looked down in terror at the corpse, who shed tears. Many, many more tears, and, despite dribbling onto the dead man’s cheek, Lorkayn felt each segment of power splash. The images tore at his being, his very soul. He found he could not break free from his contact with Elanakin. It was as if an unseen, invisible hand pinned him down, forcing him to drink the waves of power.
Another tear raced across his cheeks, and he was crying in pain and fear. He could not stem back the flow of the water.
He stood still and silent, when all the world around him changed and evolved. One moment he stood in a cave, surrounded by bestial creatures and men, the next he was in towns, cities, structures in the sky, but, throughout all the changes, there remained one thing constant: the undying love for the gods that created all of this magnificence. The people prayed, in every culture he saw, and they prayed to the same gods.
He roared in rage, trying to shake these people out of their habit. The gods will betray you, they will cause death and pestilence! Do not worship them.
As the image spun away, Lorkayn felt a twinge of loneliness, as he seemed to stand all alone with his impure thoughts. He grew sad, and more tears flowed.
Another tear fell, and he saw the people around him helping others that had fallen. He saw them, with no gain for themselves, merely helping others in need, striving to be good people. He saw the yearning in their hearts, their ambition to constantly improve themselves.
This is lunacy, screamed Lorkayn, but his shouts fell on deaf ears. Can these people not see, not understand that they are above these simple desires? If they but snapped away from this sickly path, they could have power, and knowledge like they would not believe!
Lorkayn’s mind raced, and he again felt compassion, not just for the priestess earlier, but for all these people. They were so good natured, so loving, so trusting. How could this be wrong? He shook his head angrily. No, he resolved to himself. They are dust, microbes in a small twilight. They would soon bow to him, and pay homage to their new master.
A new tear flowed, and now he saw people more to his liking. Murderers, tyrants and thieves, burning, killing, stealing. Yes, he could feel their pleasure at taking from the poor, goodly souls. Yes, he could feel their satisfaction, their dominance over these insignificant souls. This was his life, his journey. The immense exultation at crushing other’s lives, there was nothing quite like the taste of someone else’s blood.
Yet, the image mocked him again! These brutes, these people who killed, he looked on at their lives, when alone, when all was quiet. Some cried, their feelings rapt with guilt and regret for the crimes they had caused. Others, although not regretful, were alone, outcasts, shunned by society. Some were considered psychopaths, mad lunatics. He could sense their pain, deep inside. He could sense their urge to belong somewhere, and yet they did not, could not.
He felt his own regret then, and his loneliness increased. The image faded away, and another tear fell. This time, Lorkayn was shown the kingdom of the gods, the gods he had threatened to attack and usurp.
His body peeled away, the scrutiny of the gods looking beyond flesh and bone, to the core of his being. There, they showed him what was inside of him, what made him tick.
His soul was in turmoil, anguish and pain, and a refusal to believe in the goodness of the gods. He knew the pain inside of him was due to this hatred, this malice. The gods had created him, and his body had been weak. His mind had been taunted. His younger years were brought back in flooding memories: the jeers, the fights, the children labelling him as an outcast. He had blamed the gods for all of this. He had sought revenge.
Tearing each piece of this festering hatred, the gods dug deeper, boring into the heart. There, Lorkayn could see his soul, free of all infection, in its purest, simplest form. It danced! It moved with such vigour, such excitement at being alive. It yearned for the touch of another soul, another to share such wonders with. It was not a question of power, but of love, of freedom, of simply existing! The gods had just set off the spark. It was up to him to learn, to nurture this soul, and to become great.
Only when his soul had learned sufficiently could he then be considered on the next plane, following his death, to become a god. To be one who set off the spark.
All images faded, and Lorkayn shuddered and collapsed on Elanakin’s body. The dead man’s body no longer shed tears. Lorkayn knew the purpose of the wizard, now, and why he had come to be on this path. It was a gift from the gods. It was to show him his true self, and why he could never become a god, simply because his reasons were all wrong. No amount of power could travel to their realm, he could see that now. He had become a sick, twisted, lonely man. Lorkayn began to weep, violently, his shoulders shaking in spasms of grief.
He wept for a million souls he had ravaged.