Zal'Darik: The Performance

         The chill air surrounded Zal’Darrik in a frozen world of his own. In the northern mountains the temperature rarely rose to allow water. Only ice, snow and a bitter cold wind.
         He rode along on his horse, and wondered to himself why he had decided to come this far north. As far as he could tell, he was heading north at least. Despite his many centuries of life on this continent, he had spent the majority in his tower, and rarely ventured this far north. He preferred the quiet life, a life of pondering over the many, many mysteries of the world. Some he had found to be useful, others useless, and others still irrelevant.
         The wind swept Darrik’s night-black cloak behind him, as the wind dug deeper into the very soul of the sorcerer wandering alone on his rather thin-looking horse. They had not eaten that morning, having had the last of their food supply and with no real time to hunt, and lack of skill on Darrik’s part, he couldn’t find anything suitable to eat.
           Darrik’s mind probed ahead, searching out anywhere where he and his near-dead horse could spend the night. The snow came down in thick blankets covering the land in a deadly fog of wet white. One false move and they would have a very long plummet before being impaled on the many trees hundreds of feet below. His mind found a small cave, it would be slightly out of his way, but if he could get a fire going, he and his horse would see it through the night. He hoped.
         There was a gust of wind that brought the Sorcerer's mind back to reality. They wound their way towards the small cave. As soon as he saw the cave opening, he realised that ‘small’ may have been an over-exaggeration. It was barely a half a dozen feet back, but if he could get some cloth over the opening, it would be warmer inside, at least.
         He led his dying horse through the small opening, and into the cramped interior. He rummaged in his bag and found a piece of black cloth, probably from an old robe. Not very big, but size does not matter. Not when you have the special talents that sorcerers have.
         He focused his mind for a second or two, and the cloth grew, until it could easily be placed over the opening. He threw the cloth, and again focused his mind, this time a faint blue glow appeared around the edge of the enlarged cloth, which held it in place over the opening. It would stay there until Darrik commanded it down.
         He again rummaged in his bag. He found a stick. There’s not a lot you can do with one stick, Darrik thought. So he placed it on the floor, and looked about the cave. It was dark. The only light was the faint blue from the canvas behind him. He saw a few small sticks lying about the place, here and there. He collected them in and went to look for flint and tinder. Only to discover that there was none. He must've left the ones he brought with him at the last cave they slept in - he could picture where he left them too. Shame. So, he paused, and thought a moment. Then a small fire appeared on the twigs and sticks he had collected.
         Smiling at his handiwork, he set about warming the animal, and himself.

         The cave was brighter as the old man opened his eyes. He looked towards the canvas, and commanded it down, it fell into a heap in front of the opening. The sun was already rising, and Darrik knew that he would have to hurry if he wanted to get out the mountains alive. He looked over to his horse. She had died during the night, probably due to lack of food and heat, thought Darrik. He was in for a long trip. So, cursing his ill luck using some very interesting, and amusing language he had picked up over his long life, which would turn the face pale, he decided he had better leave.
         Quickly he set about gathering things that he knew he would need, and discarding things he could dispose of. He left the mouth of the cave, and picked up his large cloth, he shrunk it back to its original size and shoved it unceremoniously into one of his inner robe pockets. 

         The long walk was taking its toll on the elder man. It was approaching midday, and he had scarcely walked to the downward slopes. A bright idea came into his mind. He mulled it over until a few hours before sunset, as far as he could gauge. He was adamant that he wasn’t going to spend one more hellish night up in the sub-artic temperatures of the mountains. So he focused his mind. His mind left his body, and everything was oddly disfigured, and grey. He had to move quickly, he could only hold this for a short time. He looked for the edge of the mountain and his mind flew over the edge, down the sheer drop. Then into the trees that hung nearby at the bottom. He focused his mind again.
         An odd feeling, as if slipping through some two fabrics, through a very narrow gap, came over him. At the point where his mind was, he opened his eyes, and felt a rush of wind from all directions flood in about him. He was sweating. He looked about him, and instead of clouds and crags, he saw trees, and bark. It may have been difficult, but at least he was out of those thrice-damned mountains, made many years before. The Sorcerers' Range.
         After he had recovered and got his breath back, he looked about for a suitable place to set up camp, and having none in the immediate area, he decided that he should simply stay where he was. He took out his small cloth – the same cloth from the mouth of the so-called cave the night before – and enlarged it again. He then centred his mind on making it a tent. It took only a few minutes for it to meet his approval. He then created some wonderful illusions about it, to keep it from being seen. Bushes of varying hues of green, tall oaks and silver birches, an ancient boulder from an age long past: he did have a knack for illusions.
         He snuggled inside his makeshift tent and closed the flap, and willed it shut. He fell into slumber shortly afterwards, dreaming of the dreadful mountains behind him.

         He slept for too long the next day, and was bitter about that fact the entire morning. And afternoon. He packed up as soon as he could, and as fast as he could, dismantling the tent even as he turned his back on it and began the rest of his trip to the north.
         He found a narrow road, winding gradually towards the east. He was not familiar with this ground, so he followed it hoping that it would take him to the city of Hakkarah, in Dravinia, the country he should be in by now. Clouds floated in towards him, carrying rain no doubt, they were grey and ominous. He continued nonetheless following this seemingly rarely-travelled road.
         Away in the distance, Darrik could see a few figures. He probed ahead with his mind, and found a very strong-willed one amongst them. Darrik recognised that strong-willed mind from somewhere in his deep past, it had been such a long time since he had met him. We need to catch up, he thought to himself.

         Not long after, he felt the odd sense of mental touch, as another mind brushed the surface of his own. Darrik knew that the sorcerer knew that he was there. It was a stupid idea to try and sneak past a sorcerer, especially a good one. There are ways, of course, but they require a lot of effort, and Darrik didn’t have the time, nor inclination to do so.
         As he drew closer, he saw that there was a group of ten men. One wore a robe of swirling colours, it looked very much like some sort of jewel, made into cloth for the sole purpose of being worn by this sorcerer. Darrik recognised the finery, and knew it was Al’Varadin, the King’s Sword, and around him were about ten guardsmen. Varadin was so named after he raised King Sadrinna III, after his parents were killed in a terrible raid – this happened about two thousand years ago. Varadin taught the young noble, and trained him in many things, and King Sadrinna later unified the northern states of Dravinia. It originally was a small title, but the sorcerers kept it alive, and now all know him by that name.

         “Don’t come any nearer!” one of the guards began, “or I’ll spill your lifeblood!” he drew his sword.
         “Try.” Varadin said “But Darrik, be nice to him. Try not make too much mess.” He smiled. The guard turned towards Varadin.
         “You mean --?” the threatening guard looked over his shoulder, his voice quavered in fear, or astonishment, Darrik couldn’t tell which.
         “Yes, I do mean.” Varadin replied calmly “he’s a sorcerer”. The guards faces paled slightly.
         “I’m sorry, master-sorcerer” he stuttered, his face to the ground.
         “Quite alright” Darrik replied, a faint smile growing across his face. It always amused Darrik to see people squirm: this may be a result of the poor image people sometimes give him, or was it the reason for the poor image?
         “And what business has The Necromancer here?” asked Varadin
         “This is the Necromancer!?” asked another guard asked, his face mixed with the same fear. “I thought the Necromancer was a foul-mouthed, black-hearted fiend, who ate children, and despised the living!”
         “Well, if you anger me, you’ll find out how foul-mouthed I can be. I do however; have a certain amount of a black heart though. I don’t eat children, nor despise the living… But back to Varadin’s question, I’m off to Hakkarah, I spoke with Karanith, who said we were to meet in Hakkarah, I think.” Zal’Darrik, the Necromancer, replied.
         
         “Well, I’ll join you on your journey north. I haven’t seen Karanith for many years. I wonder what’s up..” Varadin said.
         Darrik frowned slightly. “Do we have to take your followers?” he asked in a long dead language, know only by a few sorcerers
         Varadin looked taken aback by the sudden shift from present to ancient past. He composed himself quickly, and said “There’s a garrison not far up this road. We can drop them there.” Replying in the same ancient language.
         Darrik nodded once. Varadin turned and began to explain to his guards what was happening, in his own language. A flowing language which Darrik had wanted to learn at some point, but never got round to it. Varadin turned back to Darrik. “Well?”

         The shadows grew long as the sun set. Varadin and Darrik talked at some length about what was happening in their respective nations: not much as it turned out. The guards that followed Varadin marched ahead and behind, each speaking in low voices in their native tongue. One spoke up as the setting sun fell behind the horizon and night crept in.
         “Master Sorcerers, I suggest that we find a place to set camp. It will be a cold night tonight”, his deep voice spoke.
         “Thank you, Captain. I trust your judgement” Varadin smiled calmly.
         They found a small clearing not far from the road they were travelling on. It was small, but big enough. The erected the tents and made a fire, all with the precision of ones trained by the military. A small group of soldiers went out into the trees, as the fire was being made. They came back later with some fresh meat, already cut and cleaned, and some drinking water.
         “My, they are thorough” Darrik commented to Varadin.
         “Indeed.” Varadin replied simply.

         As they sat and talked, the guards became more accustomed to Darrik’s presence. The asked him questions, mostly to do with small matters. One then came to him, and asked to speak with him in private, to which Darrik nodded. They walked together a ways into the trees. The guard was sullen, and kept his eyes forward.
         The place they were taken to was on the nearby lake, the moon had risen and it’s pale face was reflected in the rippling water below. The clouds that were overhead at midday had floated south, and the stars were visible.

         “Master Sorcerer,” the sullen guard began, “You are The Necromancer are you not?”
         “Some like to call me that.” Darrik replied.
         “Could I ask you a favour?” the guard asked slowly, “My wife died some years back, leaving me with my two sons, they were both young and so have no knowledge of their mother. They have grown, and should be in the garrison when we arrive. I ask you, will you practice your arts to show them the face of their mother?” the guard was near tears. “As a gift that no-one else can give.”
         Darrik thought this over, his face stern. “This is no small thing, what did you say your name was?”
         “Sergeant Darid”
         “Well, Darid, if it means this much to you, and if what you tell me is truth, I see no reason why I should not. But, I will need you to picture her in your minds eye, very, very clearly. I need to summon her spirit from her grave, and unless the grave is by the garrison, which I doubt, I need something to work with. We will also need to do it at night, it works better that way.  All other problems should work themselves out.” He concluded, furrowed in thought.
         “My thanks, Learned One.” Darid replied.

         The morning came, and there were a few of the guards who groaned and complained about painful headaches, after last night. “Some of the guards believe that the only way they can fall asleep is by drinking until they do.” Varadin explained, as Darrik stifled a laugh.
         A cool breeze was blowing in from the south, which brought painful memories of the mountains back to Darrik. In this flat expanse of land, the Nation of Dravinia, allowed wind to be past for many miles without hindrance, so it was most probably from the mountains. This gave Darrik little joy.
         The day seemed to fly by, like a fleeting dream. Darrik was deep in thought about his ‘performance’ that evening. He needed to have a clear head when he was doing his work, otherwise things turn out wrongly. Necromancy is a precise art, requiring will power and determination, you need to keep your emotions in check, and even one mistake may prove fatal.
         In this flat land, however, they managed to see the garrison from many miles away. Throughout the day, Darrik was wondering how to best do ‘his art’, as it was referred to as. Some of the scholars named Darrik as the Father of Necromancy; even the word for 'Necromancy' means ‘Darrik’s art’ in his native Dravind. He thought that was a trifle wrong, but he didn’t complain, no one would listen to him anyway. That fact has been around for several millennia, and people won’t change their views so quickly. Even if he were to say that it was wrong.
         “What’s bothering you?” Varadin asked him.
         “Huh?” Darrik said as he was pulled from his reservoir of thought.
         “What’s bothering you?” Varadin repeated, “You haven’t spoken since lunch”.
         “I was asked to do a little performance for a few of the guards tonight.” Darrik explained. Varadin understood, he was often invited to ‘perform’ on the celebratory nights of the Dravinian year, creating wondrous illusions for the dazzled onlookers.

         By late afternoon, the garrison could be seen clearly. They could even see the guards outside and on top it, keeping a vigil watch for intruders. As the party approached, one of the guards by the gate yelled something in the Dravinian language, the same flowing language that the guards speak. There were a few responses before Varadin came into view, and the gate guardsmen bowed humbly before him. Varadin spoke in his native Dravinian and they stepped aside. He then beckoned Sergeant Darid, the man whom Darrik spoke with, and spoke quickly to him.
         Darid ran off to the barracks and came back shortly with two men behind. One was clearly his son, he had the same features of his father, the other was smaller with less muscle, but he carried signs of battle, suggesting that he too was excellent with the sword.
         The group ate, Darrik feeling more and more uncomfortable, as many of the Dravinians spoke little Commontongue, and he couldn’t speak a word of Dravinian. He was secluded with his thoughts, which suited Darrik fine, he had a lot to think about. As the cool of night began to creep in he headed towards the trees off to the west of the Garrison.
         Wispy fog had formed about the small hill in the forest where Darrik walked to. He looked back and gauged the distance between him and the guard tower. It was probably safe here. He took a deep breath and spoke to Varadin’s mind: send along the Sergeant and his sons. I’m not far from the guard tower. They should see me on the forest’s edge. There was a pause, and Varadin replied: they’re on their way.
         He saw the three men walking towards the guard tower, and look into the trees to see Darrik standing not far from the edge of the forest, standing in a growing sea of mist.
         “Ancient One,” Darid said, “these are my sons: Verdan and Dirman.”
         “Hello.” Darrik said briefly, “we need to go back a ways. People don’t like to see spirits and the dead walking.” He turned and walked into the thickening fog and trees. Behind he heard the footsteps of the three guards. They walked for a short while, until they could no longer see the guard tower, or hear the noises from the fires. Now was the time.

         “Here will do” Darrik said, as he stopped walking. He looked about, there was a winding brook running past some stout birch trees. He walked over to the brook, and stopped. “Darid, you and your sons must remain silent, there are a few things that I need to extract from your minds, and if you talk you’ll make it harder for me. Understand?”.
         “Yes, Learned Sorcerer” they replied.
         He searched each of their minds, gathering all possible descriptions of this dead soul. He found her to be very fair, her blonde hair was long, to her lower back, and very smooth. Her eyes were blue like the sea on a clear summer’s day, and skin was smooth and flawless. The curvature of her body was very fine, that didn’t have to be too precise. This took several minutes, until he could picture her clearly in his mind. Then he spoke to Darid, “What was her name?”
         “Velara” he replied.
         “Good, now I can begin” Darrik said quietly.

         He began to form the picture of Velara in his mind. Forming her exactly as he had seen her in their minds eyes, the sea-blue eyes, the sun-kissed skin, and the curves of her body, the blonde hair and all the other smaller details he picked up from Darid. After he had formed this image, he projected it mentally through into the World of the Dead.
         'Velara, I beckon thee. Come unto me from thy place of rest' He intoned, there were two voices, his own baritone voice and the empty, eerie whisper of his soul. He heard a distant reply, a painful screech as Velara broke the confines of the Death World and entered into the World of the Living. He spoke to Darid and his sons, “You may wish to look away at this point”. Even as he spoke, a white bone hand clawed its way from the earth beneath. The dirt was pushed aside as the full skeleton rose from its depths. She clawed more ferociously until it stood before them. Even as it was clawing it's way up muscle and flesh began to form over the bones, and she stood before them. Her flesh began to form from the bone, and slowly she resembled the beautiful woman from their minds. All that she wore was a simple robe.  'Why hast thee summoned me Father Necromancer?' she asked in the shallow voice of her soul
         'Thine husband wishes to introduce thee to thy infants.' Darrik replied in the same two-voiced way.
         Velara, looked over to Darid, and smiled fondly. Darid, who had watched the whole thing, looked stunned beyond belief. His eyes streamed tears as he beheld the figure of his wife once more. He introduced his sons, and Velara spoke to each one, in her normal voice. They spoke for some time, way into the night.
         Darrik spoke to Velara from his soul: 'Velara, thou hast spent too much with thy Living Family', his tow voices intoned.
         Velara gave him deathly daggers, 'Nay! Thou shan’t rend me from mine family! I belong here, like the sun doth belong in the sky. I shan’t return to the Death-world!'
         Darrik sighed, 'I thought that thou wouldst see is that way.' Speaking in the same two voiced way, as his soul uttered the words of Darrik’s mouth ' Yet I must return thee to thine place of rest, lest ye become immortal!'
         'Thou art immortal, art thou not?' Her soul intoned, as harshly as a soul can.
         'Yes, that is the truth. But not by falling unto death. Velara, begone!' and with that the Chains of Death, thick ethereal chains, rose from the earth, coiling themselves around the disintegrating flesh and muscle that once was Velara. She struggled and fought, but the Chains were too many, and too powerful. The fight was long, by comparison. She lasted no less than one minute under the powerful grasp of the unworldly chains. Then, she slowly sank back into the hole in the earth, her dead screams echoing in the souls of the three guards, filling them with fear and dread.
         Verdan, the taller of the two sons, grabbed his sword, and pointed it at Darrik. “Make her come back. Or so help me, I will send you to the grave!” he snapped.
         “Don’t you threaten me, boy” Darrik snapped back, “do you have any idea what would have happened if I let her stay? I’ll explain it to you: she would have remained alive, much like me, until the end of days. You would be long dead, she would live on. Her body would rot, and her soul would remain, she would become that which you most fear: A living dead. That pain that you feel even now would be with her for eternity, causing her the feeling of revenge and lust of blood, she would try to kill herself, though she could not. She would kill, and slay all peoples of all races until she was satisfied - which would never be. It would mean that I would have to seek her out and send her back. I had to send her back, or would you have preferred if I let her stay and watch you all die of old age?” he explained hotly. Darrik had learned that lesson the long way.
         Verdan’s sword point lowered slightly. “Now, take that sword out of my face” Darrik commanded calmly. “Or I will”, his eyes narrowed threateningly.
         He sheathed his sword. But his brother, Dirman, had thrown a dagger from behind. Catching Darrik in the lower thigh, just above Darrik’s wrist.
         “Who do you think you are!” Darrik shouted in rage at the small guardsman. He gathered his will, and froze him to the spot where he stood. It was as if a mighty hand had grabbed the small man, and lifted him off the ground, so that he was at eye level with the sorcerer. Darrik took the dagger out his leg, with a flinch of pain, and tossed it on the ground. He took three deep breaths, and closed the wound in his leg with his mind.
         “Master Sorcerer --” began Darid.
         “Silence!” Darrik commanded sharply.

         He then walked over to Dirman. His face fixed on the same expression of fear he had had when he became frozen. “Now, listen here boy” Darrik said in a deathly whisper, “you foolish child. You have no concept of what you have just done, and what I have done to protect the future. Your future.” he paused, and probed his mind for some deep memories, deeper and darker. He found the perfect bait. “Ah,” he continued in the death-whisper, “My, you have been busy haven’t you? A plot was it? You wanted you’re brother’s inheritance, so you planed to kill him. What would they” Darrik pointed behind him, “think of that?” Dirman’s eyes showed fear and dread, much worse than the eternal suffering that may happen in the deepest of the seven hells.
         “Do I have to tell him about that? Would you like being beheaded by your own flesh and blood? Because if I ever hear that you have attacked another sorcerer” he paused “It shall happen so.” Darrik released him from his frozen state, and he fell on the floor, as his knees buckled under the sudden change of weight. He was weeping quietly. “Now, get out of my sight” Darrik spat.