Dragons' Onyx (17 page)

“So you can manipulate the images separately?” guessed Fredrik.

“Exactly,” nodded Mustar. “A good illusion must be believable, not a painting that is frozen in time. The actors must move, and move naturally. My second spell created images of Podil and Niki. My third spell moved those images to my created campfire image.”

“And the fourth spell?” questioned Fredrik.

“It conjures the fourth image needed to complete the deception,” smiled Mustar. “The fourth spell hides the original campfire with an illusion of bare ground. Each of these four images is now independently controllable. I could, for example, have Podil rise and walk over to the bare ground. I could also make her disappear completely once she arrived there.”

“How could you do that?” inquired Fredrik.

“Because the fourth image obscures the real Podil from sight,” explained Mustar, “I could simply release the spell that created her likeness. It would appear as if she had simply vanished.”

“Fascinating,” smiled Fredrik. “You have much to teach me, Master Mustar.”

“Indeed,” agreed Mustar, “but that is enough for now. I have little temperament for teaching. My existence is driven by research. That is why I do not leave my home. There is little in this world that interests me.”

“As long as there is a world for you to dismiss,” retorted Fredrik. “Alutar can threaten that. I understand why you have come out of the desert to travel with Master Khatama, but why has Podil come? Surely, it is not just to teach healing spells to Niki?”

“I do not know the reason for her being here,” frowned Mustar. “I am sure that the Mage has a reason for her presence. He does not share all of his thoughts with me.”

“Do you know where we are going?” pushed Fredrik.

“I know the geography,” shrugged Mustar. “We are paralleling the Southern Mountains. There is not much up this way other than the Lanoirian town of Pog and the surrounding fishing villages. It is on the edge of the Great Sordoan Desert.”

“Why would we be going there?” questioned Fredrik.

“You should direct your questions to Master Khatama,” frowned Mustar. “I have never heard of any reason for one to visit Pog. It is a dreary place from all accounts.”

* * *

“You returned alive,” greeted Jorgel. “Must be that you couldn’t find the dragons, I guess.”

“Quite the contrary,” replied Prince Garong. “Valon spoke with the dragons at length.”

“Spoke with them?” Jorgel asked unbelievingly. “That is hard to believe. I see that he still walks.”

“He is an amazing person,” smiled the elf prince. “Ask him yourself. Here he comes.”

“How is your leg, Jorgel?” asked King Arik as he crossed the small clearing before Jorgel’s hut.

“My leg is just fine,” shrugged old man. “I told you it was just a scratch.”

“Just a scratch?” questioned the king. “I thought you would lose your leg.”

“It takes a hardy soul to live in these woods,” countered Jorgel. “I ain’t no easy going city lad. It will take more than a gash from a dragon to slow me down. The next time I will teach that dragons some manners.”

“There will not be a next time,” smiled King Arik. “The dragons will not attack you any more as long as you don’t antagonize them.”

“They won’t?” Jorgel questioned suspiciously. “And how would you know that? Don’t tell that your little band killed them all?”

“I spoke with them,” explained the king. “They promised to leave you alone.”

“That is what the elf said,” frowned Jorgel. “I didn’t believe him. Why should I believe you?”

“Garala doesn’t lie,” Prince Darok growled in a threatening voice.

Jorgel winced and backed up a step as he stared at the menacing dwarf with half of his beard missing.

“Let’s just say that we came to an understanding,” smiled King Arik. “You can choose to believe me or not, as you choose. It is good enough for me that they have promised not to eat you. We are heading back to our ship. If you would care to leave these forests behind, you are welcome to join us for the voyage.”

“This is my home,” the old man shook his head. “It is where I intend to die. In the meantime, I will enjoy it.”

“Very well,” nodded King Arik. “Allow us to have a meal with you tonight, and we will leave in the morning.”

“You are welcome here,” nodded Jorgel. “Tell me what really happened up there on the mountain.”

“I did talk with the dragons,” insisted King Arik. “Although they did not know me, they were expecting me. It is a long story and I will tell it over the meal, but I must get Prince Midge off to Tagaret first. It appears that my quest will take me back in that direction.”

“So you didn’t get what you came here for?” asked Jorgel.

“It was important for me to come here,” clarified King Arik, “but the gem that I seek is heading westward.”

“The gem is moving?” pushed Jorgel.

“It is,” nodded King Arik as he withdrew the Sword of Heavens and rotated. “It is getting farther away every moment. A dragon is carrying it. I must pursue him.”

“And kill him,” added Pioti.

“How can you hope to catch a dragon and kill him?” questioned the old man. “They are too fierce to fight, unless this one is weak.”

“He is the strongest of them all,” asserted Eltar. “His name is Gorga.”

* * *

The three stealthy figures halted outside the old abandoned factory in Tagaret. One of them quietly eased the door open and peered inside. After a moment’s hesitation, he disappeared into the dark building. The other two figures silently followed him in. They hesitated inside the building, listening to the restless movement of bodies at sleep and the occasional snore.

The tallest of the three figures moved cautiously around the factory floor examining the bodies that were sleeping. Finally, he stopped by a sleeping couple. He knelt to examine the face of the man, and nodded when he had verified that it was the one called Wylan. The man’s body began to stir, and the tall figure frowned when he noticed the staff close at hand. He quickly cast a spell on Wylan and signaled to the other two figures.

The figures moved silently across the factory floor and lifted Wylan up. With the tall figure leading the way, they carried Wylan out of the building. They furtively hurried along the streets of Tagaret to a small leather shop that was closed for the night. They eased into the building and placed Wylan on a bench in the back room. A dark curtain between the shop and the back room was slid into place and a torch was lit. The elves blinked their eyes several times as the torchlight brightened the room.

“You should hurry, Zalaharic,” prompted one of the other elves. “We must be done before dawn.”

“I am aware of the time constraints,” nodded the elven mage. “We will be out of here before the shop owner arrives for the new day.”

The tall elven mage bent over Wylan’s body. He pulled back one of Wylan’s eyelids and peered at the eye. Slowly, he repeated the procedure on the second eye.”

“What do you think?” asked one of the elves.

“It might be possible,” frowned Zalaharic. “It appears to be the result of looking into something too bright. I have had some success with that in the past, but many times there is no magic to cure it. We shall see.”

The mage continued to examine Wylan’s eyes, while the other two elves busied themselves at the leatherworker’s workbench. An hour later the mage sighed and stood erect.

“That did not sound promising,” said one of the elves.

“It is a gamble,” shrugged Zalaharic. “Are the patches complete?”

“Just as you described,” nodded the elf as he held up a pair of eye patches with a intricate painted pattern on them. “Should we carry him back to the factory now?”

“No,” Zalaharic shook his head. “I will wake him here. He must know what is happening to him. Be ready in case he reacts with typical human arrogance. Extinguish the torch.”

Zalaharic waved his hand over Wylan’s body and stepped back. Wylan moaned and fidgeted for a bit before he sat bolt upright on the bench.

“Be careful,” warned Zalaharic is a soft soothing voice. “You are not where you think you are. Quick movements can lead to injury.”

Wylan’s hands began feeling around as his head swiveled, trying to detect where the speaker was. “Who are you?” he asked, “And where am I?”

“Two excellent questions,” Zalaharic said. “You are still in Tagaret. As to who I am, I am an elf healer sent to examine your eyes. Can we talk?”

“An elf healer?” puzzled Wylan. “This place smells of leather. It certainly is not the factory that I belong in. Who sent you?”

“Prince Garong requested my services,” replied Zalaharic as he became aware that Wylan was seeking to identify his location by the sound of his voice. “I was to examine your eyes and to heal them if that was possible. I was also instructed to do so without the knowledge of anyone else. That is why we are not in the factory you live in.”

“Healers have looked at my eyes already,” frowned Wylan. “Your story fails to ring true.”

“Elven healing is much different than that of humans,” insisted Zalaharic. “In any event, I have done as my prince requested. Do you want to know what I found? Or should we deposit you back in the factory?”

“We?” Wylan questioned with alarm.

“Yes,” sighed the elven mage. “There are three of us here.”

“Tell me what I already know,” conceded Wylan. “I do not need any false hopes for restoring my vision. It makes getting on with life unbearable.”

“Then do not hold out any hope for your eyesight,” shrugged Zalaharic. “In fact, I do not know if my magic will have any effect on you, although I would be interested to know the results when you discover them.”

“You used healing magic on me, and you don’t know if it worked?” asked Wylan.

“Your case is a difficult one,” nodded the elf mage. “Let me explain what I have done.”

“Very well,” sighed Wylan.

“The magic I used on your eyes will take effect over a period of time,” explained Zalaharic. “My men have fashioned eye patches for you to wear. They are leather patches with a very elaborate design on them. The purpose of the design is more than mere art.”

“I doubt that I can appreciate the artwork,” frowned Wylan. “Why go through all of that trouble?”

“Because of the clandestine request made of me,” explained Zalaharic. “I was not able to speak to Prince Garong directly, but I assume that if you do recover your sight, you may not wish to announce it to the world. The therapy calls for wearing the patches as is, at least for now. As your eyes heal, you are to poke small holes in each patch. Very small holes at first. When your eyes become accustomed to the light through the holes, you will make the holes slightly larger. Your recovery, if it is to happen, must be gradual. Too large a hole too soon and you will return to your blindness forever. The busy pattern on the patches is to conceal the small holes that you will punch in them. Do you understand?”

“Are you saying that your magic may actually restore my sight,” Wylan asked excitedly.

“It is a possibility,” shrugged the elf healer. “Do not get your hopes up. Your case is a bad one, but what do you have to lose?”

General Mobami stood on the wall surrounding Trekum with Sergeant Musaraf, his aide. He gazed out at the massive assemblage of Lanoirian soldiers and shook his baldhead.

“So,” the general said as his fingers toyed with one of the long handles of his black mustache, “the scout reports were fairly accurate. It is hard to imagine that anyone could put together such a large army.”

“How can we hope to prevail against something so large?” asked Sergeant Musaraf.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” the general nodded. “All day they have been arriving, and still you can see them coming in the distance. Their camp will not be setup before the night takes hold. Perhaps they will still be arriving when we rise tomorrow.”

“At least we have this night to plan before they can attack,” sighed the sergeant.

“Do not be lulled into a false sense of safety,” warned the general. “There is no reason that Emperor Hanchi must wait for all of his army to arrive before attacking Trekum. In fact, his army is so large that it would be impossible for them to attack all at once. Look,” he pointed, “some of them have already begun building the siege engines. When you have that many men, you can accomplish a multitude of things at same time. The attack could begin at any time.”

“How long do you think we can hold the city?” asked the aide.

“That depends on the strategy used by the Lanoirians,” answered the general. “Using our cavalry to harass them would have helped, but I am glad that we did not, after seeing this for myself. There is something gnawing at me in the back of my mind. I would like to talk to Captain Orteka one more time. Fetch him for me.”

“He is right below us,” replied Sergeant Musaraf. “He is talking to Captain Azule, the leader of the Sarga Mercenaries. I will have him up here in a moment.”

“Invite Azule as well,” General Mobami instructed as his aide departed. “I respect his opinion.”

The general continued to gaze upon the advancing Lanoirian army as he waited for the others. Strategies and options whirled through his mind. He had spent the last month thinking of nothing but this coming conflict, yet he continued to search for answers that had evaded him.”

“General,” saluted Captain Azule. “It is an impressive sight, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” nodded the general as he turned and stared at the two long scars running down the cheeks of Captain Orteka. “I am sure that the Lanoirian’s words are still ringing in your ears, Captain Orteka. Have you thought much about their meaning?”

“I have thought of little else,” admitted Captain Orteka as his hand involuntarily felt the scar on his right cheek. “Now that I see the emperor’s army arriving here, the words puzzle me even more. I was just discussing them with Captain Azule.”

“And what do you think?” the general asked Captain Azule.

“It sounds to me as if the Lanoirians would prefer not to fight us,” answered the Sarga mercenary, “although with such an army, I do not understand why.”

“Even a great army will suffer casualties in a battle,” offered Sergeant Musaraf. “Perhaps he knows that this battle will be costly. General Mobami is not going to hand over Trekum as easily as the other Sordoan cities fell.”