Morbannon began to speak his curse, an expression of hatred pulled over his face. Forazi, now clutching the bed board to stand began his own Arcane incantation. His voice was rough and full of deep breaths. Soon both were locked in Arcane battle, fighting for the last power phrase that would end the other’s life.

  As if frozen in time the two appeared to change form, the scene of two great predators replaced the two human figures. It became a psychic battle – mind against mind. They altered reality with their thoughts. Now motionless in empty space. Morbannon called upon the Arcane, transforming the space around Forazi into emptiness. Ready for the move, Forazi equaled the effort and created an atmosphere, static energy plied into the air with a report. Morbannon braced himself before the mage; in the form of an ivory cat, growing before it and it as well. Until their shoulders were equally ten feet high. The Forazi cat growled and its front claws began to glow red; Forazi lashed at Morbannon. The tiny scars meant nothing as Morbannon slapped it down. The red claws threw sparks, growing longer – more sword-like. The big cat held the heavy blades away. They reeled apart, stalemated.

  Using psychic force drained their power much faster than Arcane magic. They resorted to common techniques; the two spoke, spat, whispered and yelled their most deadly magics.

  Without warning Forazi, with a sigh of exhalation snapped his arms upward, Arcane light burning in his eyes.

  Forazi's morbid voice rang out coldly into the Void, “I remain your master, as always Morbannon!” Instantly they were back in the tent. Morbannon reeled as tears of blood began to roll down his face. Forazi was winning, soon Morbannon would loose his sight, his eyes burned from his head.

  With all his effort, Morbannon clung to his sword, drawing on its power. Forazi relaxed, confident of his success. At that moment the sword took over, the shadow of death again in Morbannon's place. Arcane lightning flashed from the sword’s tip, enclosing Morbannon's mindless form. The strength of death itself moved the sword with blinding speed, severing the hands from Forazi's arms, breaking the somatic control he commanded over Morbannon. Yet the sword remained in control, seeking the fallen Wizard's throat. A demon's spear knocked the sword from Morbannon's mindless grip, returning him to his senses.

  Forazi remained on the floor, conjuring new magic to heal himself. His blood ran in little rivers that seemed attracted to the sword, which pierced the dirt where it landed.

  A wall of demon faces breathed vomit breath into the tent and at Morbannon. Mentally staggered he barely noticed the tide, he was concentrating on regaining his sword. It stood vertical in the dirt floor vibrating, humming louder and louder, feeding on the blood of Forazi.

  A demon reached the sword first and was instantly oblivious to its surroundings. Morbannon dove for the demons spear, knowing that anything that tried to hold the sword now, would continue to kill until dead or destroyed. The scene broke into total madness as Forazi regained his hands. The demon with Morbannon's sword began to hack at anything that stood between it and Forazi. Through the mob of demons that rushed Morbannon, the possessed demon obeyed the sword's design.

  Magically crippled and unable to control the sword, Morbannon waded into battle. Weaving a deadly net with the spear, trying to reach Forazi before the possessed demon cut him to ribbons. Forazi, Morbannon knew, always carried a piece of parchment. On it was the written spell that was used to banish his soul to Zeraad.

  Morbannon reached the killer demon in time. Their eyes locked and the sword stopped for the first time since reaching the demons hands. The sword responded with a torturous lament. All at once the demon began to fall apart, rotting as if time for him was accelerated, so too did the rest of the mob, decomposing where they stood, gurgling and popping in a grotesque show of the swords unbridled power. Moments later only Morbannon, the demon’s skeleton, still clutching the sword, and the terror stricken Forazi stood. The tent was a bloody pool of boiling guts and decaying bodies.

  Now Forazi stood clutching his bloody shirt, obviously drained of magic. Like an animal Morbannon leaped for the fatigued Forazi, snapping his neck with a resounding snap. Staring into the dying eyes of Forazi his former tutor, Morbannon muttered one last word completing his curse.

  “Drachæl Forazi, your soul will remain in limbo for eternity. Weeping songs of your grief to Night Hags.”

  Drooling blood Forazi twitched then died. His body already turning to the dust it sprang from. Frantically Morbannon ravaged Forazi's clothing. Trying to find the parchment before it too turned to dust, as Forazi's flesh had already done. Now his clothing began to fade, revealing the parchment, Morbannon snatched it from the dissolving form.

  While inspecting the remains of the parchment, the rest of Forazi's body turned to dust; the only dry spot in the tent. Satisfied, Morbannon sloughed over to the demon skeleton and retrieved the sword from its bony grip and left the tent. He praised the moon for its gentle light, for only its lunar caress could abate the battle-lust of the sword.

  * * * *

  Alone again Morbannon removed the small parchment from his cloak, arranging himself so that the campfire-light graced its surface. For the first time he read the Arcane scripture, the dominating force in his life for the past ten years. As he read the first sigil the words seemed to become real, burning their images into his mind. Soon he began to speak the atonement aloud, arranging in his mind another curse for Forazi and his damned soul; long may it suffer. The written words brought power to his thoughts, once read and with reading aloud the force became stronger.

  When the Torment was completed Morbannon knew that Forazi's soul would long suffer in the depths of hell and the abyss. For all evil had been banished from his soul, hidden inside the very Amulet that helped banish his own soul to Zeraad. Morbannon had no idea where this Amulet was. It was unquestionably lost, only now the Amulet contained magic ready to command.

  The Soul Stone meant nothing, it was only a totem to the banished soul, used for Arcane rituals to represent deeds done, as a show of power. Morbannon was glad it had turned to dust with Forazi. If he had it he would cast it into the fire. To keep such a thing would mean to torment his own soul, lost in Zeraad.

  Magic was necessary to open a gate to Zeraad and it must be maintained long enough to retrieve the soul safely. Zeraad would not support life. Nothing living could enter Zeraad unaided. The Amulet would make all this possible. He needed the Amulet.

  The search would begin in the nearest town, Koroot, the intended target of Forazi's army. Without a leader the demon army returned to Hell instantly and painfully. Their freedom was a deception from the beginning, but Forazi was a convincing and powerful man, bending the wills of his demon followers with Arcane powers and promises.

  Such promises could be useful, granted, but only when honored does one truly gain a servant of the Arcane. Like the sword at his side, named in ritual as Spiritmoon. So named because the Arcane powers of the blade are derived from the lunar body and are most powerful when the moon is full. The complete powers of the sword were unknown. Only being in Morbannon's possession for nine years and he only called upon the sword rarely. If abused, the power of the sword would turn on Morbannon as it did with the demons in Forazi's tent.

  On foot, travel to Koroot would take a full two days and a night. Easy going, for there was a merchant road through the plain. He might hitch a ride in the morning for a few coins in payment. He would fly, but to draw attention to oneself in such a way would mean to bring fear into all those who would see, the commoners of this region feared the Arcane. Others, like Forazi were known and feared, as Morbannon once was.

  The pursuit of his soul had drawn him out of the game for power and riches and into the world of aliases and disguise. With a gesture Morbannon willed the fire to grow, it did so with Arcane brightness. A few dangerous beasts roamed these plains at night and the fire would keep them at bay while he slept.

  The fire continued to burn brightly until dawn. Morbannon willed it to extinguish as the sun broke the horizon, it’s spirited arms reaching out across the valley floor. He broke camp and made for the road. He traveled the grasslands until midday when the valley filled up with forest. On the other side of the mongongous ancient woods would be the farmlands of Koroot. The forest reached high into the air, casting leafy shadows on the dirt road. Travel would be cooler in the forest, shaded from the hot Peradran sun. He would not use magic, if word should spread that there was a Wizard near his search would be over before it began. The locals would be wary of strangers and not very helpful for fear of aiding a sorcerer in his evil plotting.

  Along the way he passed a few carts leaving town but none entering. All bid a good day and passed as friendly merchants. Near the center of the forest now and over half way to Koroot he noticed a myriad of trails forking off the main. The markings on the trees meant that Lalgoræ had taken residence in the forest.

  Lalgoræ were generally peaceful. Choosing to be closer to nature than humans and frequently found their homes in such woods and forests. Building networks of tree bridges high above the ground for their towns. Lalgoræ also thrived on magic, cherishing its Arcane Nature. He would have to meet those Lalgoræ, they might have knowledge of the Amulet. For now they would wait.

  The town was a few more hours away. A nice room at an inn and a meal was what he needed tonight. Tomorrow he would buy new boots, he'd been following Forazi's army for many days. Waiting for them to camp on the full moon. Living in the hills off the main trails, feeding on the occasional wild Targha. Targha were something like monkeys but fatter and smaller. Targha meat was stringy and dry when cooked but it was the only viable nurishment in the region that did not require special preparation.

  The fields of Koroot consisted mainly of cereal products indigenous to Peradra. Small orchards dotted the fields. Other gardens were hidden from view by trellises that would keep out the targha.

  Workers made their way back to town on carts full of produce. Morbannon walked behind as they joined together in songs of prosperous days come and gone. He would also buy a new cloak. The bottom of his was frayed and stained with demon blood which was slowly burning away the cloth. He'd get a haircut too. Ah, civilization.

  Inside the city he walked the cobblestone streets in search of a worthy inn. He wandered in after dark, easily locating the center of town, which was well lit by oil lamps. A large garden was centered by an intricate fountain of stone in the form of a maiden holding a large urn on her shoulder, from which flowed water. A tall building faced the fountain, nestled along with stately townhouses two and three stories tall. The large building was apparently for public offices. Other business would be there, also available to the public. Such buildings closed at sunset as did most businesses of the region.

  One of the three story townhouses was an inn; The Mossy Rock. A gentle melody drifted out of the windows, played on the flute, a welcome scene indeed. Morbannon approached the front and opened the door, the smell of beer and food filled the room. The barkeep was humbly wiping the spots off a bronze goblet. The room was well lit by a large chandelier over the bar. Stairs to the far left led to the second floor through a stone arch. Also in the left wall there stood a great hearth, a hearty blaze burned within, adding to the ample lighting.

  Morbannon sat at the nearest table and waited for the barmaid, who carried with great skill, four goblets in each hand to a table of laborers waiting to drink.

  While waiting, he noticed other travelers. At one table there was a couple of merchants, talking trade rates. Sitting at the bar was a Warrior Maiden, proudly wearing her polished Chain Armor, drinking a mug of beer. At another table was a Lalgorè, eating a salad and drinking a glass of wine.

  When the barmaid arrived, Morbannon spoke, “I would like a room for the night, maybe longer. Also, I would like your finest wine, and a bowl of stew with bread.”

  The barmaid responded. “The room costs twenty a night, and the wine you wish is sold only by the bottle, for twenty also.”

  She smiled when he said, “Bring me the key, and the wine.” He placed fifty on the table.

  The barmaid took the money and returned presently with a small bottle of red wine, corked and sealed with wax. There was dust on the bottle, which the maid wiped off as she presented the bottle to Morbannon.

  “Enjoy, that's our finest right there. Your food will be just a minute and here is the key for room two, at the top of the stairs.”

  She put the key in Morbannon's hand when he held it out to her. He drew back quickly, avoiding touching the barmaids fingers for more than an instant. His touch was too cold. Without a soul his flesh had grown unnaturally frigid, enough that it might draw attention to his true nature as a wielder of the Arcane.

  The food arrived quickly, along with steaming hot bread. Morbannon cut the wax from the bottle with a dagger, with which he judiciously removed the cork and poured himself a glass. He noticed the Lalgorè was watching him over his own glass of wine.

  Knowing the nature of Lalgoræ, Morbannon motioned for the Lalgorè to join him, holding his goblet before his nose and admiring the aroma. The Lalgorè eagerly rose, revealing a fine sword at his side, tied to his leg without a scabbard. In the same fashion as Morbannon's. That meant he was an experienced warrior. He sat across from Morbannon, leaving the unfinished salad at the table behind him.

  “Greetings, my name is Makad – and yours?” The Lalgorè offered his hand.

  Morbannon returned the gesture with the wine bottle, which he tipped as if to pour a glassful.

  “I am Kagen, a traveler. You must be from the forest, outside of town?” Morbannon frequently used the name Kagen, it was a common name in Peradra. The Lalgorè answered with a nod, casting the contents of his goblet onto the floor and holding it out to the neck of the bottle; Morbannon filled the bronze vessel without spilling a drop.

  “What brings you out of the forest Makad?” Morbannon inquired between mouthfuls of stew.

  Makad tasted the wine, rolling it over his tongue for a moment before swallowing. “We Lalgoræ are outsiders to Koroot, I was chosen to come into town to establish trade with the local merchants. We need rare metals and other things the forest does not offer. Koroot is only a few hours travel on foot and we have a lot to bargain with in exchange; fine cloth, expert blacksmithing, master hunters, and trappers. Things have been going well for the past few days. I'll be ready to return tomorrow, after I see the leather tanner in the morning. I'm going to meet him here for breakfast.” With that Makad finished his glass of wine.

  Morbannon filled both their glasses again, he then tore off a piece of bread and pushed it into the stew to soak up the gravy.

  Makad continued, “There is going to be a festival here in Koroot and the Tanners guild is responsible for a great deal of costumes. The Queen herself has an elaborate costume that calls for Lalgoran materials and we will supply them.”

  The flute player stopped playing and he put his flute in a silk bag and moved over to the bar for his pay, which apparently was food and drink. Morbannon finished his stew in silence. Makad sipped his wine, savoring every drop.

  When the barmaid took the empty bowl Makad spoke, “That is a fine sword Kagen, how it seems to absorb the light – it is fascinating...” his voice trailed off, eyes out of focus he continued, “...its enchanted.”

  Morbannon quickly raised an icy finger to his lips to silence the perceptive Lalgorè. Pouring more wine with the other hand he said, “You are correct.”

  He smiled and returned the bottle to its place on the table. Makad seemed to understand, he relaxed and tilted his chair onto two legs. The barmaid didn't seem to hear and the laborers were drinking their beer.

  Makad leaned forward, letting the chair legs knock onto the floor. “What are you looking for Kagen? Why so secretive? Koroot is a friendly town, surely no threat has befallen you here?” He stopped to drink from his goblet.

  Morbannon was unmoved by the questions, though Makad was no fool. Not just any lie would do, it would have to translate into truth when the time came to approach the Lalgoræ for help. Makad was that connection.

  “I was also chosen, to find an amulet. The Amulet has no name, nor do I know what it looks like.” Morbannon lowered his voice as he continued. “I only know that it possesses great power and I need to find it. If you know of such a talisman, I do have the means to recover it at any cost.”

  His aroused whisper got the Lalgoræ complete attention. “Perhaps. My people have ways of hearing about such things. You can find me in the North Khapr.”

  Khapr was an Lalgoran term, used to describe the tree-bridge towns of the Lalgoræ. It was also one of those Lalgoran words that translated into an Arcane term. Like much of the Lalgoran language; an intermixture of the common Peradran and ancient mystical dialogs. The Arcane translation of Khapr is a portion of a protection spell. It was the nature of Lalgoræ to incorporate magic into the mundane.

  “Your invitation is appreciated Makad, I’ll be sure to visit your Khapr in the near future.” The bottle was less than half full. Morbannon emptied it into their goblets, filling them both halfway. He admired the way the fire’s reflection danced on the goblet. How it seemed to enhance the flavor of the wine.

  Makad was distracted by Morbannon’s sword again. He studied the blade closely, looking for a forge mark or a familiar scroll in the engravings along the blades center. He found nothing that he could distinguish as familiar. Most enchanted blades are crafted by the Lalgoræ. The one at Morbannon’s side bore no Lalgoran markings, nor was it human. Of the few enchanted blades crafted by the humans, none were as unique. With a glance into Morbannon’s eyes, Makad knew the dark origin of the sword.

  “What is it called?” Makad whispered the question into his goblet.

  Morbannon rested his hand on the pommel of the sword and answered into his own goblet before he drank, “Spiritmoon.” Telling the true name of the sword, which meant nothing. There was no legend behind its name, for no enemy has seen its terrible potential and lived.

 

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