Dorn retired to his bedchamber. Symian would live, but healing his contingent’s wounds had drained him. How much longer could he endure these delays-failures that kept them in this foul world.
The wind whistled along the panes like distant voices beckoning. He pressed his hands to his temple and squeezed to stay the growing pressure in his head.
Hard to think.
Dorn shot a panicked glance around the room. He was alone. At times voices spoke to him in fleeting whispers.
Dorn poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in one gulp. He gazed at the drained glass, studying it as the clear-violet film sloughed toward the bottom. Dorn ached for a refill, yet his trembling hands betrayed him. He cast the glass aside and took his wine straight from the bottle. The voices on the wind went silent; the pain and pressure subsided until only an ember of it remained-a promise of its return soon enough.
Something had happened to him in transit from Aandor to this place-barely noticeable at first, but growing more serious with time. If he had appropriate resources, he might have discerned the cause of his malady. One thing was certain, he was not getting better. The others seemed unaffected. That fact taunted Dorn-an affront in the face of his superiority over the half-breeds, dog-men, and swamp-dwellers he commanded. Even his heartless minions fared better than him. They could go on forever while his greatness faded away.
Time.
Yes, time was his enemy. If he accomplished his task soon, he could return to Farrenheil triumphant. There the knowledge to cure him of this malady awaited. Lara might even do it; she was a powerful witch, perhaps the most powerful on the continent. But if their task here took too long, he might not be in any condition to recreate the sorceries that brought them to this plane. Even in perfect health, he had concerns about his ability to execute such a transfer. Symian had talent, but Dorn did not trust him with that level of magical knowledge. It was bad enough the troll knew as much about sorcery as he did.
Rushing through that portal back in Aandor, unprepared and ignorant of the magicks being wielded, was a reckless act. The headaches reminded Dorn of this daily. He didn’t realize he’d be separated from his lover, his world, for so long.
Dorn took out the locket and gazed upon Lara’s image. Even despite the headache’s pull, the longing for her would not abate. He was bound to her. It was as though he suffered a second bane alongside the malady. The pressures came at him from all directions.
Find the boy.
He looked around the room again. Still alone. Was it his conscience speaking to him? Had it achieved some ethereal state, offering its disembodied counsel?
It was good counsel. Find the boy, return home a hero, heal what ailed him, and embrace his love again. But he had to tread carefully in this alien place.
Do we?
“What?” Dorn whispered.
Have to tread carefully?
Money kept questions and prying eyes to a minimum, but there were too many laws to transgress. The denizens were coded and catalogued-Social Security numbers; licenses for cars, weapons, the right to work, even to hunt and fish; lists to restrict denizens from flying on airplanes-one minor infraction in this paranoid kingdom could reveal that none of Dorn’s group had any measurable history. His greatness would not save him. Bernie Madoff, Martha Stewart, Michael Jackson; the populace here punished its nobility for mere bagatelles, for following human nature. This truly was a backward place.
“Too many rules,” he responded to an empty room. “Too many eyes and too many rules.”
You are great.
“Too many ways to run afoul of the powers that be. They’ll want my secrets of sorcery!”
Sorcery can subjugate your enemies.
“Too many to fight them all. Can’t find the boy if I’m in the dungeon!” Dorn spat.
The room spun. He didn’t remember how he ended up on the floor. His arms wrapped around himself. He began to rock to and fro.
“My lord?” came Oulfsan’s voice through the door.
“Let me be!” Dorn responded. Was he speaking to his lackey or his inner counselor?
Some secrets are worthier than others. Remember the satchel? The blood you spilled to claim its contents?
Dorn remembered the satchel.
Have you looked in it of late?
Dorn rushed into his bedroom closet and pulled out boxes from various clothiers in the city. He claimed the satchel that had been hidden behind the pile. He had trusted no one with its contents, so the bag had been with him the day he transferred to this world.
Dorn extracted two large scrolls from the satchel. Thick vellum parchments hung heavy over tarnished pewter rods with ornate ends prickly enough to tear careless skin.
He had “borrowed” the scrolls when they sacked the wizards’ compound on the border of Aandor and Nurvenheim at the beginning of the war. He didn’t know whether they had any practical use. No mage was idiot enough to fool around with exponential sorceries. He didn’t even have the elements he needed to fuel such spells. Dorn had intended to study them at his leisure, for academic purposes of course, once returned home from the campaign.
Twelve wax seals fastened each scroll, one for each mage of the Twelve Kingdoms of Aandor. These were the forbidden magicks; the one area every powerful wizard agreed upon regardless of loyalties to various noble patrons. He had begged his uncle’s court mage to let him study the scrolls that resided in Farrenheil. Dorn’s uncle refused to intercede on his behalf. These sorceries scared everyone who knew of them.
Dorn’s history of court mages was sketchy, but based on the seal of Farrenheil, he surmised these spells hadn’t been opened in nearly two hundred years. He was curious about what material such a diverse group of geniuses-wizards whose beliefs, morals, and ethics ran along a wide spectrum-could actually agree on. He broke the seals and opened the first scroll.
There’s much to work with here.
“Yes.”
Power beyond imagining.
If Dorn could decipher the text coda, power to smite all adversaries and bring an end to his stay in this dreadful place. Dorn would no longer tread lightly on this earth; no longer fear to do what had to be done. These magicks were dangerous indeed, but what did he care for the equilibrium between natural forces here so long as Aandor would not be affected. The detective had found the trail. Soon the boy would be dead, if he wasn’t already, and Dorn would be back in Aandor.
“My lord, news from up north,” came Oulfsan’s voice through the door again.
“Come in,” ordered Dorn.
Oulfsan entered.
“Good news or bad?” Dorn asked.
“Both, my lord. Todgarten is en route to us from the portal.”
“Why? He was ordered to patrol those woods-to keep out of sight and guard the portal.”
“His party is dead,” Oulfsan answered. “Lost in a battle with the centaur witch and Aandoran captain. Only Todgarten survived.”
Dorn was agitated. The pressure in his head increased. “Do you know what this means?” he said. “Our forces are cut in half. No more are likely to come through in time to aid us.” Dorn immediately regretted this show of emotion. Anything other than a cool demeanor broadcasted weakness. It was the damn headaches. “I should have that coward’s ugly head on a pike for surviving. He should have fought to the death with his cohorts.”
“Then we would not have the good news.”
“What is it?”
“Todgarten was adamant that I inform you he has one of the canisters you had sent K’ttan Dhourobi to retrieve from the power station. He is heading back here with it.”
Dorn waited a moment to ensure that he had heard correctly. He looked at the scrolls on his bed. They were no longer hypothetical devices. The fuel he desired was on its way.
“Maybe he can keep his head after all,” Dorn said. “Make sure he has all the help he needs to get back here safely.”
Oulfsan left.
Today started the endgame of this whole affair. The dawn of a new era.
Dorn raised a toast to his epiphany and drank heartily from the bottle. The voices in his head, pleased by his reborn commitment, laughed bravely in unison.