Scourge: A World Of Centauria Novella

Emorith Darkridge stood alone in the center of the granite slab road, her eyes wet with moisture, but far too little to satiate the fire within them. With her legs spread shoulder-width and her hands wrapped tight around her twisted staff, she leaned forward and craned her head back as far as it would go.

Two thousand feet above her, suspended just below the jagged, dome-shaped ceiling, hung the aethershard crystal.

The Äfärəlleƨʈinzh.

Its dim light, born of a magical energy known in the world as mezhik, bathed the entire city in a bluish hue, a beacon to battle the forever-night of Intus.

She’d heard tales of its majesty and striking beauty, but all those accounts paled in comparison. The veins in her neck bulged and twitched as her pulse rose. She closed her eyes, yet its glow still filled her vision. Her skin pricked and the hairs on her nape and arms stood on end as its mezhik called to her.

She rose onto her tippy toes, stretched her arm up as far as she could reach, and willed its mezhik to consume her. Her toes departed from the ground, and she sailed into the air. Upward. So close to the ceiling, she felt its presence just above her head. She opened her eyes with a gasp, yet found her feet still rooted to the stone road and the crystal impossibly far from her grasp.

Her heart thrashed against her ribcage, jerking her forward with each beat. Beads of sweat lined her hairline and moistened her armpits. She rubbed her arms, but the chill remained.

Emorith breathed deep and realized her scarf had slipped down under her chin. An earthy, musty, rotten egg stench filled her nostrils and set her lungs afire.

The forges of Intus.

Her nose wrinkled. How anyone would choose to live beneath a mountain bewildered her, but the dwellers—a hairless, albino-skinned race of short-statured, humanoid creatures—flourished. Their hidden city spanned many square miles and boasted a palace hewn from solid stone and fit for the gods.

The dwellers of Intus did little trading with the outside world. In fact, few even knew of their existence. They would’ve faded from the memories of all Centauria long ago if not for their skilled craftsmanship with precious gems and metals. Their war hammers, maces, shields, and other forged weapons and armor rivaled that of the elves and their kinsman, the derro dwarves. However, unlike the fierce derro warriors, the dwellers fashioned themselves as arms dealers, willing to sell their goods to anyone for a price. Wars raged across Centauria through the ages, and kings and queens rose and fell from power, but the dwellers kept to their subterranean city under the mountain. Their haven.

Emorith’s eyes narrowed.

Soon, they’ll all be dead.

She knew none of them, yet the thought of taking part in wiping out an entire race unsettled her. Her stomach gurgled, and her chest ached right about where her heart should be, but she no longer had one. What must be done required her to feel nothing, and she told herself that she didn’t, but her body failed to heed the commands of her mind.

She had to be strong. Must be strong. If not for herself, then for Illian.

Illian.

His name touched her heart like no other.

Flesh of my flesh.

Her first and only born. The others had been lost in her womb, spared from this harsh world by nameless gods.

Her hands trembled as tears welled in her eyes and her throat tightened. She ground her teeth and gripped her staff so hard that her knuckles turned white, and her hands ached. The tears receded, but her throat remained constricted.

Just find a test subject and be done with it.

Emorith dug her fingers into the leather pouch that hung from her waist, retrieved a wad of mint leaves, and stuffed them inside her left cheek. Succulent, refreshing juices seeped from the leaves as she worked a few of them between her back molars. The taste calmed her nerves.

She adjusted her scarf so that it covered her nose and mouth once again, but the thick air clung to the fabric and saturated the tightly woven strands of black silk. She pursed her lips.

Focus on the task and Magus will reward you.

She took pride in her persuasive mezhik skills, but she’d never believe her own lies. Magus Carac cared nothing for her—for anyone for that matter. He reigned over the southern half of the Ancient Realm with a bloody fist. No, the only reward she’d obtain from him would be an escape from punishment.

Magus sought ultimate power—to rule all Centauria, not just the southern half of the Ancient Realm. Like many of those under his strict rule, he used her time and again. Mentally. Physically. Magically. Sexually. She hated him for everything he did to her, but the arrival of Illian nine years ago made the steep price bearable.

Each task she performed for him darkened her soul further. Soon, she’d be lost forever, a shell of a woman without heart or soul. But she’d endure anything as long as Illian remained unharmed.

But will Magus keep his word?

She sighed, knowing she had no recourse if he didn’t. No alternative existed that she could think of either. A man indifferent to his own flesh and blood could not be bargained or reasoned with. A tyrant. A mad king. War loomed on the horizon, and she must do his bidding once again.

Everything she’d done for Magus over the past ten years boiled down to this moment, and the only way she’d survive the night would be to do the unthinkable. She must locate a test subject and lure them to Magus with her powers of persuasion. Anything short of completing her task would earn her and Illian a one-way trip to Ef Demd Dhä, the realm of the damned, and bring them face-to-face with the dark one, Diƨäfär.

The thought made her skin crawl. She didn’t bow down to Diƨäfär, nor did she serve Ƨäʈūr, the supposed one true God. Her loyalties lie only with Illian. For him, she’d cross the veil of death and face any god or demon.

Illian’s soft, green eyes, pale complexion, and thick raven hair drifted into her mind and tightened her throat. A single tear formed in the corner of her left eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

I’ll save you from your father, my love.

Had Emorith been one of the ʊnzhifʈäd, a person or creature born without mezhik, as Magus claimed Illian to be, Magus would’ve killed them both long ago. Twice, Magus had left her on the brink of death, and once, she’d crossed over into death before his vile mezhik ripped her back into the world. Never had she endured such agony. She never wanted to feel it again.

She stared at her hand and the thick scar across her palm. Her other palm had a matching scar of its own.

A lesson in mind over matter, Magus had said, time and again.

How many times had he forced her to hold that length of glowing steel he’d pulled straight from the fiery forge? She couldn’t recall, but her fingers curled, and her hand recoiled with the memory as pain seared her palm anew.

I’m stronger than this.

She took a deep breath and forced her gaze to the inside of her left wrist. A dark-blue, heart-shaped mark about an inch wide and tall marred her pale, freckled skin. On their sixteenth name day, each mage, wizard, and sorceress would gain their mezhik and their wizard’s mark. Her heart-shaped mark symbolized the type of sorceress she’d become: Fizärd Imōƨzhn. As an emotion wizard, she possessed the power to release emotions that blocked true memories, an ability to gain knowledge of one’s past based on reading emotions, and the gift of persuasion.

As with all wizards and sorceresses, Emorith possessed basic mezhik abilities beyond her classification as Fizärd Imōƨzhn. Some of those abilities, like conjuring balls of light or fire, telepathy, and telekinesis of small objects, required little effort and mezhik. Other abilities, like teleportation and basic healing, consumed far more mezhik based on the distance of teleportation or the severity of a wound. Expending too much mezhik, especially in the case of teleportation, could kill the wizard or sorceress.

With a single thought, an orange glow of mezhik—a white-hot heat that bubbled up from deep within the marrow of her bones—rose from her palm. Intense, yet soothing. She closed her palm and snuffed out the ball of light.

She closed her eyes and drifted into the past. She’d just turned eighteen the week prior to meeting Magus. She worked nights at the Drunken Fool’s Tavern as a bar wench and had a reputation for garnering large tips. Drunken patrons and a touch of mezhik persuasion proved a perfect combination. No one knew her secret, and she split the extra coins with the other girls, so none of them ever questioned her or complained.

Magus came alone that night. His slicked-back, silver hair and piercing, yellow eyes grabbed her attention the moment he stepped through the door. His gaze scanned the patrons as he strode toward the bar—toward her. His eyes met hers, and his smile drew her in. Had she known then what she knew now, she never would’ve used her mezhik on him. Magus placed his hands on the counter and asked for a cup of water, but no one ordered water from her.

She smiled as she brushed her hand against his. Mezhik rose from within her, coating her tongue and lacing her words with persuasion. Are you sure you don’t want a tankard of ale? she’d asked.

Magus’s eyes narrowed and then the edges of his lips curled upward. He grabbed her left hand, quick as a snake’s strike, and turned it over. He pushed up her sleeve before she could take a breath. She gasped.

He lowered her sleeve,