Read Online The Alterra Histories: The Fire King by C. S. Marks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. S. Marks
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evil magic for thousands of years, always in darkness, fearful of the Light. He coveted the power of Creation; hated all things positive and wholesome, despised enlightenment, tolerance, and love…love most of all. Love was the enemy of all things he valued— subjugation, fear, suppression, ignorance, loneliness, suspicion, jealousy, and pride—these things gave him power.
He knew that he could not withstand the Light of Aincor’s spirit for long. But if all went according to plan, there would be no need. He would summon forth that part of himself over which the Light had no power. This would take every scrap of skill, energy, and concentration he possessed.
Wrothgar was a creature of spirit and smoke; he only took physical form when he wished to. It was necessary in battle, as he could not wield a weapon otherwise, but it wearied him to maintain a body. It also exhilarated him—his senses were only in play as long as he maintained form—and the sights, smells, and feelings delighted him. He had learned to abandon his body if the battle turned against him; he had, in fact, done so three times before Aincor’s army in the past. But he had yet to face Aincor himself.
First, he would once again take physical form. His body slowly materialized from within the flaming house of his spirit, writhing and twisting, as bringing it into being was always painful. Wrothgar took substance from the ashes of the dead, conjuring and re-forming the flesh until it was firm and whole. Usually he would then don his fearsome armor, but not this time. There was no need. He wanted to appear vulnerable…to lure his prideful adversary within his grasp. He sat upon his throne, running his newly-formed hands over his magnificent, naked form, shivering with delight at the sensations coursing through his skin, muscles, and viscera. He lifted his terrible, horrifying face toward the heavens, snarling, and drew several deep breaths. Then he closed his eyes, dropped his strong jaw nearly to his chest, and began summoning.
Wrothgar reached into his own breast with both hands, drawing forth his beating heart. His body shuddered in agony, but did not die. Holding his own heart in his left hand, he began to conjure with his right, moving his long, powerful fingers over and around the heart, which began to beat so rapidly as to nearly burst. He was rewarded—a dark mist rose, an evil vapor that killed all light within it, swirling in malevolent ribbons and clouds. It grew larger and larger, until it enveloped Wrothgar’s entire form in darkness. There was mad, shrieking laughter, agonized moaning, and a deep, oily chuckle emanating from it. Wrothgar gasped, nearly swooning before placing his heart back into its housing.
The deed was done. The Shadow had been summoned.
~~
Aincor left Faelani in the supply wagon, along with Vathan, who had been bound to it in chains. The body of Talon, Aincor’s fallen commander, had been reverently laid there and covered with the King’s battle-flag. Aincor, who was already armored and ready to depart, spoke only a few words to Faelani. He dared not take her in his arms, nor speak of the love in his heart, for he feared his resolve would weaken.
“Stay here as you have promised, and all will be well,” he said.
Faelani tried to hold him, as she feared for him. “If the battle goes ill I may never hold you again. I don’t know if I can bear it!”
He drew back from her, but his expression softened with regret. “Do you have so little faith in me? In my decisions? I have told you before...as long as I have you, I will fear no darkness. Whatever dark fate you’re imagining will not come to pass—not as long as you are safe. I’m angry with you for putting yourself at risk, but I cannot allow you to distract me now. You must have faith in me!” He paused and looked into her eyes, waiting for an affirmation.
Faelani dropped her gaze. “I have faith in your abilities, beloved,” she said.
He knew that he could not withstand the Light of Aincor’s spirit for long. But if all went according to plan, there would be no need. He would summon forth that part of himself over which the Light had no power. This would take every scrap of skill, energy, and concentration he possessed.
Wrothgar was a creature of spirit and smoke; he only took physical form when he wished to. It was necessary in battle, as he could not wield a weapon otherwise, but it wearied him to maintain a body. It also exhilarated him—his senses were only in play as long as he maintained form—and the sights, smells, and feelings delighted him. He had learned to abandon his body if the battle turned against him; he had, in fact, done so three times before Aincor’s army in the past. But he had yet to face Aincor himself.
First, he would once again take physical form. His body slowly materialized from within the flaming house of his spirit, writhing and twisting, as bringing it into being was always painful. Wrothgar took substance from the ashes of the dead, conjuring and re-forming the flesh until it was firm and whole. Usually he would then don his fearsome armor, but not this time. There was no need. He wanted to appear vulnerable…to lure his prideful adversary within his grasp. He sat upon his throne, running his newly-formed hands over his magnificent, naked form, shivering with delight at the sensations coursing through his skin, muscles, and viscera. He lifted his terrible, horrifying face toward the heavens, snarling, and drew several deep breaths. Then he closed his eyes, dropped his strong jaw nearly to his chest, and began summoning.
Wrothgar reached into his own breast with both hands, drawing forth his beating heart. His body shuddered in agony, but did not die. Holding his own heart in his left hand, he began to conjure with his right, moving his long, powerful fingers over and around the heart, which began to beat so rapidly as to nearly burst. He was rewarded—a dark mist rose, an evil vapor that killed all light within it, swirling in malevolent ribbons and clouds. It grew larger and larger, until it enveloped Wrothgar’s entire form in darkness. There was mad, shrieking laughter, agonized moaning, and a deep, oily chuckle emanating from it. Wrothgar gasped, nearly swooning before placing his heart back into its housing.
The deed was done. The Shadow had been summoned.
~~
Aincor left Faelani in the supply wagon, along with Vathan, who had been bound to it in chains. The body of Talon, Aincor’s fallen commander, had been reverently laid there and covered with the King’s battle-flag. Aincor, who was already armored and ready to depart, spoke only a few words to Faelani. He dared not take her in his arms, nor speak of the love in his heart, for he feared his resolve would weaken.
“Stay here as you have promised, and all will be well,” he said.
Faelani tried to hold him, as she feared for him. “If the battle goes ill I may never hold you again. I don’t know if I can bear it!”
He drew back from her, but his expression softened with regret. “Do you have so little faith in me? In my decisions? I have told you before...as long as I have you, I will fear no darkness. Whatever dark fate you’re imagining will not come to pass—not as long as you are safe. I’m angry with you for putting yourself at risk, but I cannot allow you to distract me now. You must have faith in me!” He paused and looked into her eyes, waiting for an affirmation.
Faelani dropped her gaze. “I have faith in your abilities, beloved,” she said.
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