Into the Tower by Bruno Stella

Into the Tower

  Bruno Stella

  Copyright 2012 by Bruno Stella.

  ***

  The problem with his Masters was that they didn’t appreciate quality, mused the sallow-skinned man as he consulted a flowing powder on a silver dish. His tall, robed form was the only living thing to be seen for thousands of paces, on the desolate, dusty plain. It was a fundamental problem, because ‘gratitude’ wasn’t something that the Dark powers seemed to be acquainted with. Considering the utter idiots that he was on the nominal ‘side’ of, it was a wonder that they managed to make any headway at all. Yet they still lived, and hadn’t been pulverised as they should be.

  “No guts, that’s the problem with those fools,” said the man, watching the fine greyish powder writhe seemingly of its own accord across the blinding silver. The sun was very hot, and his lips were split through with thirst. He’d been scouring this desert for weeks now, trying to find relics from the ancient battles that had been fought here. None of the other servants of the Dark would put themselves out to risk life and limb in a wasteland like this. Their secret dungeons were far too comfortable, replete with servants and cooks and concubines and Darok alone knew what else.

  “Yet, failure holds the same fundamental problem for myself and for them. Our souls are forfeit. Failure is a rather big problem,” he muttered to himself, swaying slightly in the heat, a long-fingered hand shading a great beak of a nose. The patterns had revealed something of worth. He strode over to the spot, and pulled the remains of a breastplate from the sand. It was mangled beyond use, and its edges were scoured smooth by years of desert sand. Worthless, yet there was still some residual magic within it.

  He tossed it aside. “I should have stuck with the arts of fire and flame instead of pledging my life to Necromancy,” said the Necromancer, disgusted. The bone powder on the plate swirled again, but he had had enough. He tipped the dust into a pouch and trekked his way to a spot where two thorn trees grew together. His campsite. He sat with a sigh against one of the trees. Enough for today.

  If he didn’t do something big for his masters before dying, damnation awaited him. Yes, they were generous with their gifts. Somewhere, unseen but close, an invisible spirit lurked, a familiar of the highest power, given to him by those he served. It guarded him while he slept, and lent power to his spells.

  “That is true,” he said, holding a forefinger in the air, talking to the wind, “they are generous. But they are also merciless. Failure is not an option.” He racked his brains. Sweat crusted his brow. There had to be another option. Rummaging through this battle-site for something to fortify himself against the do-gooders running rife these days was not working out. The Order of Yanos, the Calgonites, the Nogrubian Enforcers … and more. It was a hard age to be pledged to his cause.

  “Life eternal. That is what it always comes back to. If I can live forever then I escape the contract.” He spat into the ashes of the fire, and added quickly, “Not that I would want to ‘escape’ the contract. What I mean is that I would have the time to become all I could be.” One never knew if … they were listening. But he meant it. The Dark Powers were no-nonsense. Great rewards followed great results. That he liked. But failure … ah, yes, failure had its own reward, too.

  He had last communed three years ago, and had nearly died. He tried not to think of that day. Yes, he had received power. And his familiar. But what had he done with it since then? Not much. He was not keen to try again.

  Night fell, and still he sat against his tree, thinking. There were other entities besides his masters. But which could he associate with without risking damnation from those with whom he had made his pacts? The moons slowly rose into the sky.

  The Necromancer looked into the sky, and saw that both moons were opposing, touching, sickles tonight. The answer suggested itself. The Jester. Lord Harlequin. Rolvis. Red-Face. There were many names for this fringe – god? Entity? Few ever associated themselves with him, for whatever he gave, he took in equal measure. His deals were elaborate tricks, everybody knew that. His symbol was two opposing moon-sickles, and that symbol perfectly described his nature. One looked at the gleaming silver, without noticing the hole in the middle.

  “I could do it, though. The walls are thin in this place, I can feel it. It would not take much for a mage like myself to breach them and …” His voice trailed away. Lord Harlequin was apart from the others of his kind, but for a reason. Better not. He settled down to sleep, and the howl of the desert night wind lulled him to sleep.