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Science Fiction and Fantasy
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| The Sorceress and the Warrior | |
| By Ane | ||||||||
| 18 July 2008 | ||||||||
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The beginning of what will hopefully be something longer. Part One Tamara ran. Physically, her body only twitched as the whip again was brought down upon her back. But in her mind, she ran. She retreated deep into herself, far from where any whip could touch her. She found the sanctuary, the place in her mind where she was safe; it was where her power came from. Falling wearily inside, Tamara was jolted back to the pain of the whip. He was there. He had found the way into her sanctuary, and the only other living sorcerer as strong as she had tainted it. He taped into her powers and, although he could not drain them completely, he did mar them; twisting her world and mangling it so even her own magic would not recognize her. The whip lashed again and Tamara began to black out, but was brought back by the other sorcerer. She could still sense his dark presence, but she couldn’t see him, couldn’t find him. Coward, she thought— he had always loved to watch his sick work from a safe vantage point. The whip stopped and the sorceress could feel the sorcerer prodding her mind and feeding off of her pain. Satisfied, he finally released his hold and let her pass out in her cell. When she awoke Tamara was laying in the same spot she had passed out in. Her body trembled from the pain pulsing through her, and her mind sobbed in agony. Searching through her powers she found that all she had collected in her years had been tainted. The way a sorceress or sorcerer became what they were was not usually through birth. When a person was born they either had the capacity to retain powers or they didn’t, but at birth there were no powers present. In the beginning of time the first generation had been given magic at birth, and when they died their magic lived on. It drifted in the form of a white mist, searching for a new body to occupy. If a soul was bad, the magic became tainted and shifted into a darker mist. The dark mist then went on to corrupt those whom it entered, giving them a greed for more power. Tamara had a great capacity for magic, and so the mists had been drawn to her. She was a rare sorceress, born with a new, clean white mist all her own. Her kind occurred only once every few centuries. Her clean mist, untouched by any other soul, was stronger than the rest. It was her secret stash, and it’s what she used when she needed the extra strength. This clean mist is what she taped into now. The other sorcerer could not touch it— he could not taint it as he had the rest of her powers, for it was too strong for him and could only reflect what she felt. She was careful to use as little as possible, for in her weakened state it would be all too easy to drain herself and tire too quickly. Closing her eyes, she expelled the tainted magics from her body, scattering then and sending them as far away as she could so that the other sorcerer would be occupied with gathering them up. Using her pure magic, Tamara closed her major wounds and wrapped them in a protective spell. Despite her attempt to remain calm, anger surged through her at the injustice. Careful not to let it get out of control Tamara recognized the adrenaline it would bring and fueled the anger, causing her remaining powers to grow stronger; if she died she would not die a prisoner. She stood, relying more on her powers than physical strength to accomplish the task. She felt the other sorcerer’s mind brush against hers, then race away after the expelled dark mist. She sent a blast of power through the wall, devastating it and exposing the outside world. Her body trembled already, but she forced the bloody images of what the enemy had done to others like her into her mind and felt another bout of strength take control. After but a moment’s pause she ran, her legs flying faster than they ever had. Even so, Tamara could already feel the hounds behind her, calling to their masters and betraying her trial. She had a good lead on them but nowhere to go. The woods she had run to were vast and his fortress was hidden deep in them. Her bare feet pounded the ground, leaving a bloody trail. The rags she wore were further torn as she fled through rough branches, not bothering to find the smoothest path. She ran until the world seemed just a blur of forestry and all sounds were covered by the pounding of her feet and her ragged breath. Finally exhausted, she stopped. She couldn’t hear the hounds, couldn’t hear the sorcerer’s hunters tracking her, but she knew they were there. The trained killers were soon to be on her, and she had nothing left to fight with. Panting, the world suddenly became still. Her mind drifted off to her sanctuary momentarily, then sharpened as it returned to reality. She pulled the last bits of magic out of storage— pieces of the mist she had never needed to use before. The hounds’ cries played in her mind’s ear, but they sounded distant and unimportant. The mist formed in front of her, leading her deeper into the trees. Calmly it led her, pulling her gently until it came to an unmarked graveyard. It vanished back inside her body as she looked down at the graves; they were old, no one would know what was there unless they probed it with magic. The people buried here were nothing more than ash now. Cautiously she touched the ashes with her mind, and felt the fiery personalities that had been. She rummaged around, searching for the right one. The people buried here were mostly outlaws, quietly executed without trial by an ancient, corrupt kingdom. Many of them were too petty to help her— thieves, assassins, rapists… but one. A warrior, a highly trained soldier who’d betrayed his nation. He had been a blood-thirsty fighter, selective at first but as time wore him down he had begun to go mad. He had fought for money in the beginning, weighing his options carefully and being bought by the good cause; however, corruption and war had led the man to lose faith in people. The warrior had become ruthless in his kills, slaying for no reason but to feed his insanity. He had died in his prime—it had taken twenty men, a betrayal, and dozens of wounds before he finally fell. The man was dangerous and mad; he scared her, but she had no other choice. The warrior was perfect. Tamara gathered her remaining strength— it was little, but enough. Not knowing whether or not she would survive, she threw her energy into the ground. The dirt exploded, and in a matter of seconds the ashes were formed back into bones as organs, muscle, and skin formed with it. The body hung suspended in the air and, feeling light-headed, Tamara dug into the deepest part of the mist and brought back the warrior’s soul. To bring back a body and puppet it around was magic a powerful sorcerer could accomplish; to actually bring back the soul was old magic that could only be done by someone with a clean mist. Even then the need must be genuine and urgent enough to pull the soul from the underworld. The man was a giant, standing over six feet tall. As her powers finally drained he fell from the air, landing as gracefully as a large cat and letting out a snarl almost as ferocious. There was a predatory look in his eyes and Tamara realized that the last thing he would remember was his dying battle. What have I done? she thought. Her vision blurred, and as she began to feint she said softly to him, “There’s no time to explain...” Then she fell deep inside her exhausted mind and was as good as dead to the world. The warrior caught the body of the woman as she fell towards him. It was instinct more than concern. He stared down at her still form with predator eyes, taking in her haggard appearance. The body had been abused, both physically and psychologically. It had been tortured— nothing as bad as he had had done to him, or had done to others, but bad enough for someone who probably wasn’t used to that sort of treatment. It also looked tortured in another way, as if she had stopped trying to take care of herself. Her body was too thin for its frame, she looked more than starved; it was as if she had lost some sort of glow, her body was only that and without a spirit. She was as cold as a corpse, but he found a faint pulse on her throat. He had killed women before, but they had been fighters like him. He had also had women ask him for help, but they had begged and pleaded and eventually called him a monster. They had no desire to help themselves, but this one had done everything she could before turning to him. She didn’t know who he was. He knew that he was literally her last option— he had been dead. Hounds bayed in the distance, no doubt tracking her scent. You don’t owe her anything, the warrior thought to himself; he hadn’t asked to be brought back and he didn’t even know if the miracle was permanent. If it was, though— the thought enticed him. He could be back; he could have a second chance. His first life had been satisfying, he smirked, but what a rub it would be to have finally been caught and executed just to return centuries later. The girl was the only way to find out if his state was permanent. She was the only one who could tell him anything about what she had done to him, so until he found out he would keep her safe. Or as safe as he could— the trackers were close by and judging by the noises they made there were about five of them, maybe more. Did she really expect him to take them all on alone? And what new weapons had been fashioned in the years past that he would have to contend with? The thought of weapons made him wonder if she had brought back his sword when she returned him to life. Looking down he snorted with mistimed amusement— apparently she hadn’t brought him back the way he had been when he died, rather she had just brought him back, in the flesh, as he had been before the fatal wounds were issued. No scars, no cuts. No weapons, no shields. No shoes, no clothes. A mad twinkle no one was around to see glistened in his eye and he grinned a grin that had caused brave men to turn and run. He’d already died once. What was the worst that could happen? Let them try. Her world was a twisted labyrinth. It was too dark— the white mist swirled lightly around, but there was so little left. It had faded so much so fast; Tamara feared it would take longer than ever to regain her strength, if it ever fully returned. If she survived. Oh, how she prayed her warrior was strong enough as she gathered her remaining powers back to her and began to heal. The dogs sniffed the ground where the sorceress had run. Their masters were trailing behind them, following their baying. They came to a field where the body of the woman laid, her scent barely there anymore. Another scent came to them, thick and musky, borrowing into their nostrils and filling them with fear. The baying stopped, and the men came to the field, shouting to one another as they saw the body of the sorceress. The hounds, however, refused to take one more step out of the trees. There were six men the sorcerer had sent after the sorceress. They ran into the clearing, never taking a second look at their surroundings. They had been ordered to bring her back alive, if possible, so the sorcerer could kill her and be there when her mist was freed. As they came upon her body, swords drawn, the realization that only five of them had made it to the girl hit the soldiers. Turning back to where the dogs waited, the form of a giant man lunged into their vision. The warrior moved quickly, barely giving them time to see their opponent— just a flash of too much skin, the glint of steel, then blood red as only four of them were left to run. They darted into a semi-circle around their fallen comrade, bodies alert and remembering their training. The warrior was posed, towering above the men and swinging the sword from the first soldier he had slain ferociously. He picked up the second fallen man’s weapon and prepared for a strike from the soldiers. Glancing at one another for reassurance, the nervous men waited for one of them to take the lead. Impatient, the warrior struck. He lunged at them with a savage growl and cut down another soldier. Terrified at what sort of creature they were dealing with, the remaining men fled. They didn’t wait to see if their comrades followed, their fight or flight instincts were screaming at them for flight; and the warrior sneered after them, disgusted by their choice. He looked around the surrounding trees, waiting for another attack. It had been too easy, he thought, but nothing stirred. The battle was over. He sighed. The fight had brought back his taste for battle, but was over quick enough to leave him feeling unsatisfied. With a growl he looked at the bodies of the soldiers he had killed— they were small men, made for traveling stealthily through the woods and tracking their unsuspecting prey. Their clothes would never fit his massive build. There was a moment of doubt in the man’s mind as to what he would do next. He had no idea how much time had passed, though judging from the scenery this was not the kingdom he had known. His attention was brought back to the unconscious girl, unaware of the events that had occurred. She was all he had, for now. The warrior leaned over her still form, taking in her features. The woman was from a darker race than he; her skin was naturally tan and her hair black. He wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but she seemed to have more color in her cheeks than when he first saw her. The soldiers he fought, too, were of a darker complexion than his, making him wonder if he were in a different territory, if they had traveled from their own territory, or if the times had changed people that much. This brought his thoughts to wondering how much time had passed since his death. His lips curled into a snarl as he thought of that event— betrayed by someone he hadn’t wanted to trust, he had learned his lesson. He may help this woman, but he would keep in mind that all women, especially enchantresses, were full of tricks and had their own agendas. Turning his attention to the dead men, the warrior found that the weapons they carried were mostly the same as the ones he had used. They were a little lighter, a little sharper, and better balanced, but the concept was the same. On the body of one he found a set of small knives he assumed were meant to be thrown. Intrigued by these, he took them and strapped them to his own arms for later experimentation. Taking a few more of the weapons he strapped them to his person. He fashioned a tattered-looking loincloth from strips of some of the men’s clothes, wrapping others around his feet for at least minimal protection. Hesitantly, the warrior picked up the sorceress— she was so frail he was afraid he might crush her thin frame— and walked into the woods away from the direction the trackers had come.
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