Druid's Child (eBook)

Chapter 1

Black clouds swirled high above the city-like fortress of Torg Mautta, creating whirlpools of darkness encircled by silver linings that made them appear like dark saucers. The unrelenting rain battered down upon the cold stone of the ageless fortress, creating a cacophony of sounds that blended together to create a symphony of unending dark noise.

Torg Mautta’s location at the base of the Black Grolock mountains was built for the constant rainfall as storms that made their way east from the western lowlands would back up against the high jagged peaks of the dark mountains and have nowhere to go. Fed by Cripal Lake moistures, the two would mix to produce constant moisture that ranged from steady downpours to a heavy mist that hid all the horrors that defined Torg Mautta’s past.

But this day was different. The black whirlpools in the sky were turning with a ferocity that belied the normalcy of the eastern empire. Something different—and very evil—was in the air. Suddenly the air above the fortress seemed to move in different directions and the circles of darkness screamed, joining together as if actually coming alive and blowing a hurricane force wind down onto the fortress walls.

As this happened, in the eastern-most tower of Torg Mautta, deep in the reaches of the ancient castle, in one of the anti-chambers that made up the lower dungeons, an ancient evil began to stir. The still air within the chamber began to swirl and groan just as the clouds above were doing the same. On a stone dais in the middle of this particular antechamber lay the body of a tall man dressed in black tunics. Nothing else surrounded the dais; it sat like a lone beacon in the room. As the dank air shifted and swirled within the chamber, the chest of the man suddenly began to move with the breath of life, and the evil god Crough opened his eyes for the first time in two thousand years.

At the same time, in the adjoining tower to the west, the evil sorcerer Cictak awoke suddenly in a cold sweat as an icy shudder rolled through his body. His sorcerer’s awareness immediately screamed within his soul that something drastic had just occurred. It took him a minute to become fully awake and as he did so, he realized what had happened … the evil lord had arisen.

“Quickly, my robe,” ordered Cictak to a Morg chamber gremlin who stood guard near the wooden door to his dimly lit and starkly cold chamber, which resembled all the rooms and chambers within Torg Mautta: dark, outfitted with stone furnishings, cold, and with a stale air that would sicken the senses of normal beings.

“I believe our destiny will begin today,” murmured Cictak in a monotonous, cold voice to nobody in particular, although the black-clad Morg who handed him his robe bowed and nodded in robot-like obedience as he backed away from the sorcerer.

Sorcerers tended to be on the thin side because of the nourishment and use of calories that were required to be able to channel their powers, but Cictak was especially thin, with a gaunt looking face that made him look more ugly than fearsome. The stark paleness of his face contrasted with his robe, which was woven of black and gold threads with the insignia upon his shoulders that marked him as the high sorcerer of Torg Mautta and leader of all the eastern armies. That is, leader until this day, until this very morning when the universe had deemed it time to awaken Crough.

Arising from his stone and wooden bed, Cictak glided across the stone floor, seemingly without touching it or moving his feet, to where the gremlin archbishop Morg was kneeling in reverence to the great evil leader, and his king. Although powerful himself and knowledgeable in the ways of sorcery and its evil uses, the gremlin was no match for the power of Cictak, and he trembled slightly in his leader’s presence.

“My Lord, I am thy servant,” he growled out in a routinely cold voice that sounded powerful, yet in some awe of his lord and master.

“The prophesized writings of the Word have come true, and Crough has awakened,” barked Cictak to the suddenly wide-eyed and frightened gremlin bishop.

“Crough has … awakened, but …”

“Never mind, you fool,” snapped Cictak as his body suddenly began growing in stature until he towered over the gremlin to a height of about seven feet. “I must prepare myself for all that must be done.”

Outside, the rain pounded down on the towers and walls of the eastern fortress, and the darkness of midday seemed to thicken and mirror the dark waters of Cripal Lake and the unknown creatures that inhabited its depths.

The Morg gremlin bishop arose to follow in Cictak’s footsteps.

“Begin the sacrifice ritual immediately and tell Tunick to assemble the parish of bishops at sunset,” ordered Cictak to his follower. “I must go down to the forbidden dungeon to greet the reawakening of Crough.”

Cictak glided through the large wooden doorway of the chamber, mindlessly using his sorcerer’s power to propel himself forward, unconcerned that his use of magic would be sensed by anyone important that might be near enough to feel his use of the power. He moved rapidly through the spiraling stone stairwell that wound its way down through the southwest tower of Torg Mautta. Small open windows within the stone tower opened up views in all directions. The vast Morglands to the west, the black mountains to the east, and Cripal Lake, just south of the tower.

As he descended the tall tower, Cictak went over in his mind very carefully how to great the great evil god and shuddered internally at the thought of the encounter. He glided out into the dark daylight of the rainy day, into the inner courtyard of the great fortress, and made his way to the eastern tower.

I must convince Crough that I am the one, the only one, who can do his bidding and conquer the lands. Then I too shall have the bidding to become a god that will serve Crough, and rule all else, he thought to himself. “I have waited a thousand long years for today,” he whispered aloud to nobody in particular.

Morg patrols busily conducting combat drills and exercises under the watchful guidance of archbishop commanders, knelt and bowed their heads in respect and fear as the reclusive evil sorcerer passed.

High over their heads an orange flame suddenly came to life and illuminated the gold half-dome atop the eastern tower, shining brightly down upon the blackness of the stones, all the way to the inner courtyard. The half-dome roof of the tower was constructed of pure gold, and bright flame now within gave it an odd luster that contrasted with everything that made up Torg Mautta. None alive in the courtyard that day had ever seen the tower so lit, not even Cictak. Now the roar of the flames within the dome could be heard over the silence of the soldiers, and the constant pounding of the rain.

“The sacrifices will begin today,” announced a thin, sunken-faced gremlin bishop to this platoon of dark Morg soldiers once Cictak had glided past and was safely out of earshot. “Prepare for war,” he hissed to his company. “This can only mean that the Word has been avenged and Crough has awakened,” the gray-cloaked bishop snarled as he stared at the euphoric glow of the dome.

Awed murmurs ran through the platoon of Morg soldiers, each transfixed on the eerie sight of the dome, as if hypnotized by the rhythmic sounds and flashing reflections being created by the great flame.

Cictak passed by the final platoons of soldiers, crossed under a series of archways, and into a lower courtyard that led to the eastern tower. This courtyard was deserted, and a maze of weeds grew weakly between the stone steps of the pathway he followed. It was apparent that this portion of the fortress was not maintained, which was a result of the gremlin bishops religiously forbidding entrance into what they called Crough’s sacred brothel.

The weeds melted before Cictak as he crossed his way toward the eastern wall and tower. The glow from the dome created a long eerie shadow that followed Cictak’s wiry frame. The thunderous noise of the flame echoed off the stone walls, sending reverberations throughout the fortress city and into the lands below to the south and west.

Cictak glided right up to the solid but neglected stone wall at the base of the tower, stopping roughly an arm and a half’s distance from the round edge of the dark stone. Feeling his way carefully along the stone, he searched for several minutes for just the right position, then he raised both arms slowly and pointed his fingers directly at the tower’s stone. Instantly, orange fire leapt from his fingertips and began to scorch a design in the stone of the wall. Slowly, he formed a perfectly scorched six-pointed star in the facing of the stone.

Bringing down his arms, he breathed a sigh of relief and dried the droplets of sweat that appeared on his dark wrinkled forehead and around his black, deep-set eyes. In front of him a black smoke drifted up in the gray daylight from the scorched stone. He could smell the dirt and moss burn away. It smelled like a rotten animal being burned up in flames.

Reaching underneath his dark cloak, he unhooked a silver amulet that was fastened to a chain around his waist. Slowly, he matched the star-shaped amulet perfectly over the burned design on the stone and pressed it firmly against the wall. It stuck. As the sorcerer released the amulet, he stepped back one step and the amulet seemed to simply melt into the stone. As it disappeared into the stone, a low, grinding noise from somewhere below...