Featured Novel: The Shadow Channeler | Chapter 27 ('Just a simple uber w00t shall do it :)') | 03/08/08 | Rated 5 Stars

Chapter 22








The man in the black cape was
relieved to see the massive idiot leave, and was just as annoyed to see him
come back. He tried his best to focus on the body, however. It had obviously
suffered a powerful arrow wound, probably from only about a foot away, and he
honestly couldn’t say whether the man would recover or not. He was determined
to do his best, however. If he saved this man, he could force the two to help
him get what was rightfully his; the body he had had to abandon in that damned
sewer, or whatever the hell it was. The man came back in a noticeably better
mood then previously, and he was rather surprised at the sudden change, though he
knew asking the giant what had happened would be pretty much like asking god to
give him a migraine. Focusing on the body once more, he tried to sort out his
options, to no avail. He had wiped out a group of bandits, escaped a fortress,
and now he couldn’t save one man with a gash? Frustrated with himself once
more, he bend down and began chanting a healing incantation.





Volkern was surprised himself at how
quickly progress was made when they had arrived on shore of Draknius. They had
nearly traversed half the continent in a few days. He had deeply regretted
giving the order to kill the baby during the voyage on their ships, especially
because he hadn’t directly interacted or seen the baby. During a long voyage in
a ship such as the previous one, the gfhii find it highly inconvenient to stop
a boat and discuss, halting progress. Therefore, there are certain arrows they
shoot from their boats, in a particular order or number, and the lead ship
fires back in response. There is always a man on watch for this, and if he
ignores or does not see the message, the consequences are severe. Therefore, a
worker told Volkern that that order had been fired, and he had ordered them to
give the go-ahead. After all, how could he have known about the poor child? As
far as he knew, there was still a good number of nights until the High Oracle
would be born.





Each gfhice ship has it’s own Chiftum, or, simply, leader. The leader
is responsible for more or less everything that goes on on the ship, and the poor
man is usually charged with all the troubles that happen there. You could only
imagine, years later, how the gfhice must’ve been treated after the unfortunate
leader threw the baby off the ship. Perhaps things would’ve changed if they had
not thrown the baby into the cruel sea. Perhaps not. We will never know,
however. There is also a Chiftum on Volkern’s ship. Volkern finds that if is
much too tiring to handle all the petty problems himself, and, therefore, he entrusts
it in the ship leader, only handling the slightly larger problem, as deciding ultimately
whether a newborn lives or not. A young gfhice ran (or, rather, jumped, as
Volkern is in a moving room, carried by several servants) into the king’s
chamber. He stated that they had just eliminated a small army sent by Draknius,
and they were less than a day away from the outpost. The king nodded, and
dismissed the flustered man. The outpost. This made him frown. It would be the first
real obstacle they would have to overcome, and, possibly, the last. He had
studied as much as he could on the shores of this continent, and, besides
completely skipping this place and sailing around it, there was no way to avoid
leaving from that small city. The continent was surrounded by harsh cliffs that
are dangerously impassable. The landing from the previous voyage itself has
made him lose several men. That would be all he was going to risk, he decided.
The outpost would be filled with innocent humans, who have not done anything to
offend them. They did not deserve to die. However, he reasoned, sighing, there
was no other option. Sailing around the island was out of the question,
firstly, because they were already too far inland, and second, the long voyage
would wreak havoc on their supplies. He was suddenly interrupted once again by
a servant. Annoyed, he listened to what he had to say. Nodding, he got up and
headed to the doorway. Sunlight flooded through. There, on the horizon, was the
outpost, in all it’s glory; a proud stand-alone city. Volkern quickly turned
away and went back to his throne, as he could hardly keep himself from seeing
the city in flames.





Now, you are probably wondering why
Volkern, as well as Hazul, claimed to see the outpost many days before reaching
there. The reason is because of the rather perculiar fashion that the continent
is made. On the west side of the island, facing the vast desert of the gfhii,
the continent is at it’s highest point, mountains touching the clouds. At the
edge of those mountains is Draknius (yes, if you have not noticed, Draknius is
the name of the continent as well as the capital). After that, the whole
continent is on a downfall, the cliffs steep, and the voyage down always at a slope.
The outpost, being directly at the edge of the sea, is easily seen after just a
few hours travel from Draknius, making it convenient to travelers who have not
traveled the lands very often. One of those people happened to be Volkern.





Hazul felt the dual blades dig into
his skin, but that was all. They did not strike deep, and had barely penetrated
his neck when they had stopped. He slowly opened his eyes, scared that movement
would cause the daggers to move again. His assassin was on the floor, almost
next to him, clutching his eyes in pain. Confused, but not an idiot, Hazul took
the opportunity to kick off the table suffocating him, and deal a rather good
blow from his knee into the man’s stomach, which added to his agony. After a
few more good blows, the man had dropped his daggers, still occupied with
clutching his face. Taking the chance, Hazul grabbed the two knives and hovered
over the man. For a second, he stopped, and he swore to this day he saw a women
standing next to him, looking down on him in shame. He did not recognize her,
but he instantly knew who she was. She was his mother. Shaking his head and
closing his eyes, Hazul quickly brought down the blades, delivering “a fatal
and absolute blow” (After reading the last line of the last paragraph of chapter
20 when this book was finished, Hazul insisted that I added that line in. I was
just too happy to oblige.). The man died, Hazul reasoned, but he sure as hell
wasn’t out of danger. Still curious about why the man was clutching his face,
he slowly removed his hands from his face, cautious at what he would find. He
almost left back in disgust. The face was almost massacred, skin ripped off,
nose broken, lips torn. “What the hell did this?!”, Hazul said to himself, and
a nudge was his answer. A purring that consisted of strange noises and
vibrations combined with a low hum followed. Looking down, he saw a rather
happy Pumpkin, his now twice-life-saving-scurtle, starting up at him, smiling
as much as a scurtle could. Starring incredulously from the animal to the man,
he suddenly decided that he would take the animal overseas, whether he was allowed
to or not. A sudden bang on his door snapped him to attention. He opened the
door, which he noticed was locked, and a panic-stricken owner was looking at
him, wide-eyed. “A damn army has been spotted! They’re moving at a horse’s
speed! Evacuate! Now! Get the hell out of my damn room! Hazul followed the man
outside, which he now saw not as the peaceful village, but a panicking
hell-hole. Despite all the panic, he groaned and rolled his eyes, looking at
the sky. “And I thought getting on a god damn ship was hard before!”, he yelled at the sky.





So,
the gfhii are at Draknius, and moving fast, thought Regius to himself, in
his usual place on his throne, lazily wiping invisible dust off his crown. As mentioned
before, he was greatly surprised at how few people were leaving Dreadnar. There
was less then twenty. Even more surprising then that, the city was hardly in a
panic at all. The people were going about their usual business as nothing at
all was happening. The king felt proud about this, and he was determined to not
let this city fall. He had not faced a large army of gfhii, however, and he had
no idea what to expect. Their weapons, siege weapons, spells (Humans do not
know of the High Oracle, as the gfhii regard it as their one weakness, and even
through torture their prisoner has not relinquished this knowledge) or
otherwise. He has kept that knowledge secret, however, and he was determined to
parry whatever the fiends threw at him. Or so he thought. Nothing could have
prepared him for what was going to happen. Or, more precisely, what was
happening. The invisible ticks of the clock of fate had started, and nothing could
stop it. An event had begun, far larger then a small war. Whether Regius
knew it or not, he was going to face something far damn more difficult then a
speech.

Chapter 23











Sandarus let out a piercing shriek
as the bodies closed in on him. He had come fully in contact with the fact that
he was well beyond insane. The laughing…Their ghoulish laugh, dismembered
body-parts… Sandarus slowly opened his sack and took out the sword that his
father had given him. He remembered grimly that his father had chosen to give
it to Sandarus over Falcun after he had married his daughter, saying that he
was a much better warrior. Yeh, well he
might withdraw that compliment right now, he thought, as he poised it over
his throat. There was nothing left. They all hated him. Falcun hated him. The
damned Zuthis that he had killed twice hated him. The mammoth Hog hated him. Everyone
did. Now they were all dead, surrounded him, forcing him to pay because of the
suffering he had caused on them. Sandarus had seen men insane before, shaking
his head and praying to God that such an illness would never strike him. Now it
had. Fully aware of his senses, able to reason perfectly, but the unreasonable
and unthinkable happening in reality, this was what it must feel like. He would
end it quick. He slowly took one last breath of air, and thought about his life
up to now. Born on a farm far from Dreadnar…Having to march there every day
with gallons of water on his back…His father always hating him…His acceptance
into the prison as a guard…His slowly way as he round up…Find Falcun and
everything up to here…His wife…Her de-“NO!” screamed Sandarus suddenly, “I
swore an oath not to speak of this. Nothing shall ever change that. Not even my
form of psychosis.” The corpses were close now, their empty and partially
filled eye sockets glaring down at him, in a horrific laugh. Shaking his head
for the final time, Sandarus brought down the blade, but was interrupted. A
massive shine of light blinded him, and, it seemed, damaged all of the bodies,
as they let out a blood-chilling yell and retreated. Standing there, bond in
cloth, was a creatuer. Sandarus did a double take, blinked his eyes, and looked
onwards. In front of him, was the last damn thing he’d expect in his insanity.
It was the High Oracle.











The group of bandits watched in
amusement as the man looked around in horror, and slowly removed a sword from
his pack. They got ready for combat, believing their spell had failed, but they
chuckled as the man pointed it at his own throat. They stood there impatiently,
waiting for the man to impale himself, so they could take what the man had and
leave. As the man brought down the sword, a blinding light enveloped the small
clearing. A strange, clothed figure stood there, actually quite taller then the
men there. His companion instantly drew his sword, and charged at the figure.
With little effort, the thing grabbed the man’s arm, who screamed in pain in
return. The monster let go of the man, and ran back to the other, staring in
horror at his arm. He drew back in disgust, as a part of the man’s arm had
turned to ice. Both of the men took off, but they knew that whatever that thing
was, it was much faster then they. It caught up to them in mean seconds, and
grabbed both of the men by the neck. They both felt a cold sensation flowing through
their body, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe any more. The man opened his mouth
in horror, but suddenly he noticed he couldn’t. The last feeling he felt was
pure terror as the ice engulfed his vision.







Zuthis whipped around from his lying
position, and, in less then a second, had a knife at the throat of a rather
pale man in a black cloak. The man didn’t seem particularly daunted that he was
about to die, so Zuthis stopped for a second. He would ask where he was first.
Suddenly, the door behind him burst open, and someone had his arm around him,
trying to choke him. Then, suddenly, he froze. He turned around, and saw the
crying face of Hogar. He had not been getting choked. He had been in one of Hog’s
rather uncomfortable hugs. He suddenly felt pretty stupid. “Hogar? What are we
doing here? What happened? That man…The arrow? Wh-why aren’t I d-dead?” So many
questions, so much to answer. “Zuthis…You’re alive. I can’t believe it. Oh…Yes,
you must be very confused. I’ll try to condense it for you.” So Hog told Zuthis
of everything that had happened up to this point, and Zuthis told Hog
everything that he had done up to this point. Suddenly, Hogar started laughing.
“The man…That bound me…Was y-you? Gahaha!” Zuthis gave a weak smile, and look around at the man in black, who was
looking at him in annoyance and smoothing out the creases Zuthis had caused. Hogar
noticed where he was looking, and stopped laughing. He was suddenly extremely
silent, and the silence caught on. Then, he spoke in such a soft voice that
Zuthis did a double-take to make sure Hog was speaking, and not the other man. “You…Thank
you so much…My friend…I was sure he was dead. I don’t have enough money to show
how thankful I am, but I still have quite a bit. Take it. Take as much as you
desire, friend. You have our eternal gratitude.” The man looked at the money,
then dismissed it with a gesture. “I do not need money, my good sir. I have
heard that…You are a mercenary…Correct?” Hogar looked at Zuthis, who smiled his
perfect smile in return. “Yes, of course, the finest in Drea-err…I mean, the
finest in Rilos! Why would you ask?” “You may keep your money; that is not what
I desire. I am in need of a fighter’s service. About a day ago, my companion
and I were on our way here, we were mugged by an extremely rough group of
brigands. They took all our belongings, and I am left with nothing. I had
managed to escape, because, as you have seen, I am an adept mage, but my friend
had no such advantage. He is still there. I am sure he is not dead, but that is
as far as my estimations go. We must hurry. Do you accept that task?” Once
again, Hog looked at Zuthis, who nodded, and they both smiled. Their new start
was already starting, much easier then Hogar had anticipated, and Zuthis was
there with him. “Why, of course! Why wouldn’t we! A real mercenary team always
takes a task! Let’s go! We’ll do it for free! Those men don’t stand a chance against
us! Ahahaha!” Nodding with the slightest of a smile appearing on his lips, the
man in the black cape patted the giant on the back, and moved towards the door.
Suddenly, as he touched the man, a spark erupted through his body. He stared at
the man for a good, long, second, then turned around and continued on, as they
followed him to the entrance to the sewers. Hog had already guessed that he
would leave on a job as soon as he had gotten to Rilos, so he was adequately prepared.
Zuthis, as the man in the black cape had already noticed, was also adequately
armed, but had no armor. Shrugging, Zuthis drew a certain pattern of runes in
the air, and he felt a light weight appear all over his body. He was fully
covered in light-weight leviathan-bone armor.







As they walked, Hog mentioned to
Zuthis that Sandarus was still not here. Although Hogar traveled at an alarming
rate, the man should have long been here by now. Something was wrong. Zuthis,
who was rather annoyed by Sandarus, having first put him in jail and started
this whole damned thing, shrugged. Hogar had his doubts, though, and said that
he may head out a few miles tomorrow to check up on the poor fellow. He may
have gotten taken by bandits, which was more then possible in these dark times,
especially on that desolate path…Then, Hogar suddenly realized something. He
had left out the war. The gfhii. All that was happening. He looked at Zuthis,
happy as can be, beaming at everything, just damn glad to be alive. Nothing was
wrong with him. His life was perfect right now. He was doing what he wanted to.
Hog kept his mouth shut, and looked grimly behind him, towards the sea. For a
split second he stopped, then continued. Must be nothing, he thought. Looking
back once more, he shook his head and kept walking, for what he saw made his
features darken. He saw smoke on the horizon.











That spark…The one he felt when he touched the man…Could it
be? Hhhmmmm...,He thought, Interesting… Could it be? He dismissed
the thought. Impossible. The thing he had been looking for, right under his
nose, all these years? In the same continent, even? Besides, he reasoned, there
was no way to find out…Or…Was there? A dark smile danced on his lips.

Chapter 24








The decapitated assassin looked up
at his body in annoyance. That sfickus was turning out to be worth much more
then originally thought. He made a mental note to demand a higher bounty. “Kigran Herbus,” he said in a rather
angry voice. His head slowly lifted off the ground and re-attached itself to
the rightful body. A bowl of magic with a
pinch of necromancy, thought the assassin happily, always a useful tool. When the head was successfully placed on the
neck, he heard several bones cracking into place and felt a strange sensation
as muscle tissue and skin was rejuvenated. The spell was successful, although
bringing yourself back from the dead was not something that an average mage
could do. Even one as skilled as he was tired. The man ran his hands through
his hair in exasperation, only to find that he had none. He groaned as he
remembered that damned pet -god knows what it was- who had attacked him and
massacred his face. Using slightly more power then intended, he reattached his
hanging eyeball and teeth into their sockets, respectively. He collapsed on the
bed, knowing that that damned sfickus had got away again, and due to his
fatigue, had cemented his lead over him. He looked out the window, towards
Dreadnar. That damned place. Never again. He was determined to kill that
wanderer before he could leave. Just as he drifted off into sleep, the whole
building shook and catapulted him into the wall, successfully lodging the
hanging picture around his neck. Swearing in annoyance, he got up, a now-ragged
glint of gold emerging from his cloak, and wondered what the hell was going on.
No time for rest. Something was happening, and damn him if he wasn’t part of
it. He grabbed the first weapon he could find, and made his way out towards the
door, brandishing a rather elegant and long table leg.





They were at the gate of the
outpost, and, as foreseen, they would not surrender, nor let them pass. Volkern
sighed. He had neither the time nor the patience for this. He had no quarrel
with Draknius, but if they would not allow them entrance, then he had no other
option. Volkern rose at full height, and armed himself with a gfhice weapon,
called a Gashinus. It was a sword,
just a regular sword, nothing intricate about it. The coup de grace was, actually, that the blade was a good seven feet
long. Beared by a six foot ten figure, Volkern reminded everyone who saw him
why he was their king. He stepped outside, as light flooded through the moving
tent. He chuckled slightly when he saw archers lining up to attack them.





Hazul was lost. He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t move. The crowds of people were
waves themselves, washing him, throwing him off his feet, clawing at him, in a
mad panic. He was torn between two options. See what was happening, and
possibly offer help, or get the bloody hell out of this place. He knew that
after killing a man, assassin or not, then not paying for his room, staying and
possibly getting himself killed was not the best idea he had heard. He had
decided, then, to get to a form of transportation -that is to say, boat- and now
regretted it. The whole damned city was on the dock, people being thrown into
the water, being trampled, and, the thing that made Hazul cry, a ten year old
child calling for his mom. For one split second, just one, he had the urge to
grab the kid and bring him with him. He was about to. He really was. Then,
suddenly, he was washed away by the crowd, and Hazul cried out for the child,
but he was gone. Red from tears of sadness and anger for the carelessness of
these people, he wondered angrily why that stupid kid hurt him so. He then
realized he reminded him of himself. Hazul angrily battered his way with the
butt of his sword, his hand, and one very annoying royal tax collector.





The assassin did a double take; to
make sure what he was seeing was true. This was the stuff of legends and old
wives’ tales. This was the ultimate theat. This was the gfhice army. As the
outpost’s pitiful defenses lined up, he all saw the fear and desperation on
their faces. He chuckled, and continued walking towards the out wall, of which
he guessed lied the just of the army. Then, what he saw caused even him to gasp.
A massive figure rose and blocked out the sunlight, bearing a terrifying sword.
That man- or creature -was at least twice the size of him. “Time to go…,” he
said happily, with a slight crack in his voice, turning on his heels, and
trying to act normal as he ran for his life.





The concept of time travel is a
baffling experience that has confused the most brilliant magicians for years.
They could cast the spell, oh yes, that was not the problem. There was no
disadvantage to time traveling. The problem was when it was used as an aftereffect.
Teleportation, especially over large distances, is extremely risky. When
casting the spell, even over a mile or so, it could age the person months in
advance or previous, sometimes, even years. This was extremely risky for many
people, and that is why teleportation is spoke of by few and tried by an even
smaller amount. Now, if you haven’t already guessed, the baby gfhice’s teleportation
had more then a chance to be fatal. If the time travel would have altered his
age, even just by a month in previous, the poor baby would have no longer
existed. It was luck, or perhaps fate, that his age had been altered by just
one year to the future, and due to their strange metabolism, that is all it
needed to be as tall and smart as Sandarus.





Sandarus ignored the two men who
suddenly appeared. He ignored the great flash of light, the battle, and the
killing of the two men. It was just another part of his madness, although, he
was grimly happy that the cadavers were gone. As he once again picked up the
sword, his hand was suddenly grabbed by a clothed figure. Sandarus screamed as
his hand went suddenly painfully numb. “Rise, mortal,” said the figure, in a
deep voice, “Your nightmare is over. The committers have paid for their actions.”
Sandarus slowly got up, and looked at the figure, face to face. He grabbed his
sword, but had no urge to attack. “Who the hell are you? You have out of a
damned tree! Where did you come from? And what in the name of Dread was happening to me?” The clothed
figure smiled, and sat down, gesturing Sandarus to do the same. He cautiously
declined. The figure shrugged. “Who I am? I am afraid I do not know. All that I
remember is blackness, then appearing here…In the flash of light…And I
immediately saw what those men were doing to you…I could not let them continue.
What they were doing? Ah, well they were casting a spell on you, my friend. Tormentius Dementias, I believe. May I
ask, who are you?” Sandarus starred at the figure, jaw drooped at how elegantly
and politely this man spoke. “S-so I was not going insane? Truly? Oh, thank
Dread!” he said, laughing. “Insane?” the figure chucked, “far from it, my
friend. I have no knowledge of this land, but it seems to be a rather desolate
and dangerous place. What would one such as yourself be doing here, if I may
ask?” Sandarus sighed as he finally sat down to begin his story, “I am
Sandarus, son of Guimehr, and a former Elite Guard Captain for the city of
Dreadnar. My life was going great…All until that damned day. The damned day
when that prisoner showed up…” And so, Sandarus recited everything that had
happened, from that beginning day to this point, doing his best to leave out
the part of how he ‘killed’ Zuthis.








“They are at the outpost at
Draknius, sire,” said the messenger, who Regius dismissed in annoyance. Nothing
was going well. He was ready to retire, when, suddenly his son gets killed, and
now, possibly the biggest war in history was going to being, right about the
time when he should be harvesting his squash and potatoes in his small farm
house. He could not end the bloodline here. He just could not. Dreadnar needed
a king, and they would have one. Just not who they were expecting. Nor could he
have one more son, for he was much too old. There was one more way. Not one he
could attest to, but something that he had to do. These were hard times, and it
was his last chance. He would find the last of his bloodline. He would find his
illegitimate son.