The Saga of Uthdore 1.1: Rangorn Part 1

Rangorn

The spirits’ anger was evident. The old man heard them whisper and curse his name rabidly in their ancient language as he walked, wheezing and huffing, through the night. The old forest spirits had watched his heinous actions. They scorned the object in his worn hands, the heavy Tome with its brown leather binding that acted as a cage for the unbelievable power trapped inside. He began to whisper a short prayer to Vorad for forgiveness of his theft of the book, but he quickly remembered that he deserved no absolution for his deeds.

As the old man mused on the steps it had taken him to arrive at this day, his faltering eyes took notice of a small shack in the distance he had come to call home for the past few months. It was not his true home; he would probably never return to the glorious forest that had raised him. The dwelling merely served as a place to perform a spell. A dark spell.

The old man opened the door to his temporary, dilapidated quarters and looked around. The wood of the shack was rotting, black and far too weak to survive for much longer. The old man had often felt the walls sway against the slightest breeze. The walls seemed to whisper due to holes dug by small rodents that would scatter in and out, their small mouths filled with whatever meager scraps of food the old man had been foolish enough to leave about the shack. The room had only a pit for fire and a wooden table, the only things he needed. He hardly slept, so a bed was useless. With one movement, the old man set the Tome on the table and swept his experienced hands with a practiced wave across the pit, sparking a small fire. A deep, thoughtful breath prepared the man before he stepped timidly toward the table and opened the Tome.

The awful sight forced the old man to look away when he laid his eyes on the first few pages of the terrible book. The spells in the Tome were the horrid and vile creations of dark Mages centuries ago to perform acts of evil far too gruesome for the old man to think about for too long. It sickened him even to glance at the disgusting words, but the Tome contained the ritual that he desired and he had no choice but to persevere to reach his goal.

He read the ancient language of the Tome easily, having studied the old tongue with the Elves in Woodfair. At the thought of his old life in the woods, a tear rolled down the old man’s face and dripped unwittingly onto the very words the he was reading. The tear seemed to be a final plea by whatever forces controlled these sorts of things for the old man to cease his actions at once. Consideration of cessation crossed the old man’s mind, but he nonetheless wiped the tear away and continued to damn himself.

The ritual required nothing but blood and a Song to coax the demon into the world of the mortals. With a knife firmly held in his hand, the old man placed himself in front of his conjured fire and began to Sing. The words were old and unused, as was his voice. He had not summoned a creature in decades and, as he forced his Song into the other world, he wondered if his coarse voice would lull any creature into traveling to the human world.

The more he focused on his own voice, the more the old man grew to detest listening to himself Sing. He began to think that if he were a demon, he would detest coming into the human world by the force of such a horrible Song. Once the Song was complete and his words finally began to caress the outer edges of the spirit world’s domain, he waited for a response.

The coming of Death was imminent, and cold. The room chilled rapidly as though it was icing over from a harsh, Faymont winter. The pit of fire in the center of the room burned brightly, yet no heat came from it. The old man began shaking uncontrollably. He smelt the unmistakable, metallic stench of unbridled power in the air as the fire began to swirl and grow brighter, far too bright for his elderly eyes to handle. The old man clutched the silver blade tightly, waiting for the ritual to begin. Suddenly, the world stopped. The old man was no longer cold. The fire blew out. Darkness filled the room. Silence shouted deafeningly. Nothingness was upon him.

“What will you give to me?”

The voice reverberated off the walls and seemed to be everywhere. It was inside the old man’s mind, boring into his temples and crushing his heart. His ability to breathe all but left him. The old man nearly keeled over; he had not expected the effects of the ritual to be so harrowing on his body. Utilizing the tenacity that held him to his task, the old man forced himself to push off the pain on his body and stand tall. As he raised the blade to his hand, the old man looked away in anticipation of the warm blood that would soon pour from his body. The cold metal sliced into his hand and allowed the red liquid to flow. It dripped onto the wooden floor in small drops that caused the old man to quiver. Blood did not bode well with the Mage. The old man held out his hand submissively to the fire, following the instructions of the ritual. The flames jumped from the pit and wrapped around his hand. The old man cried out as the strange flames sapped the blood away from his body.

“What do you ask of me?” the voice demanded impatiently.

The old man gazed into the flames of the pit and saw everything. He saw himself as King of Uthdore. He saw mountains of jewels and lakes filled to the brim with gold. He saw himself with all of the power he could possibly imagine. It was tantalizing. The old man reached for the fire, his mouth watering and his hands shaking, but he realized the trick before it was too late. He quickly recoiled and drew his hand away from the fire.

“I ask for Dratia. I want to see her again.” the words finally coming to his lips after years of agonizing anticipation.

“I cannot allow a dead human to be brought back to this plane of existence, you foolish mortal. She is gone for eternity. She will be with you in the End.”

“I know the limits of magic. I wish to see her again, demon-god! Show her to me, now!”

The voice did not answer back. The old man waited. His knife dropped to the floor and he himself fell to his knees when a woman appeared before him. The old man knew she was not human, but a spirit: a projection from the other side. Her youthful features brought him a happiness that had been unknown to his heart for years.

“Where am I?” the ghostly form asked.

The old man stood up with much difficulty, but he could not think about the pain. She was there, in front of him. How he had longed to see her face again.

“You are in the world of the living, my dear.”

“Rangorn?”

“Yes, my love.”

“I am dead.”

“Yes, my love.”

“You brought me to the world of the living.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Why?”

The door burst open and dozens of ironclad soldiers poured into the small room. Wind blew through the door and the fire disappeared, the beautiful woman along with it. Rangorn’s hands flew to the fire pit and dug deep into the ashes, regardless of the searing pain. He yelled the woman’s name and begged the demon-god to return her to him, but Dratia did not appear. A laughing voice echoed throughout his head, the laugh of an evil victor gloating of his victory. Rangorn turned angrily to the soldiers, the fire of rage burning within him.

“By order of Baron Uskban Nystheris of Whiteholt, you are under arrest for the use of death magic within our borders.” A soldier said.

“You fools! You have ruined everything!” Rangorn screamed.

“Men, prepare to constrain the Mage.”

It was all over. After so many years of planning and studying, idiotic soldiers who understood nothing had ruined his efforts. Rangorn’s anger overtook his emotions and his malice gained control of his body. He raised his hands into the air and shouted filthy, arcane words to the gods that caused the weaker soldiers to fall to their knees. Rangorn’s aged voice disappeared and an ancient sound bellowed from the Mage’s mouth. The words flowed from Rangorn’s being and transfixed his would-be captors who found themselves unable to move. In a sudden, inhuman movement, Rangorn’s hands flew to face the soldier who had dared speak to the Mage. A strange light flowed from his fingertips and slammed into the man, knocking the soldier off his feet and blasting him through the rotten walls of the shack.

“Demon magic!” A soldier yelled.

The other soldiers surrounded their fallen comrade. His skin had turned ashy and black. His eyes were sunken in. He was dead. Although the lowly soldiers would never discern the fact, the spell had taken the man’s soul. Rangorn, recovering from his powerful magic, simply stared at his murder, unable to justify the ultimate act of betrayal against Vorad. A river of regret began to flow through the Mage’s mind, before he felt a sharp pain on his head and darkness filled his mind.