The Sorcerers Mark Read online

  THE SORCERER’S MARK

  By

  Ellen Ashe

  © copyright May 2005, Ellen Ashe

  Cover art by Amber Moon, © copyright May 2005

  ISBN 1-58608-585-9

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Prologue

  He awoke because he knew.

  Buried in the crypt beneath castle ruins, the darkness had robbed him of the passage of time. He had slept, for hours, days, months, years, a century or more, how was he to know? Water dripped down earthen walls searching for escape through tiny cracks, while damp air had saturated his straw lair. This! This was not a bedchamber for a powerful man, a feared sorcerer. This was a place of torture, a prison, meant to keep his lips silent, eyes closed. Meant to keep him from abusing the soft white flesh he craved to taste. Meant to rot the seed he was meant to sow. This was his punishment for taking one chaste maiden too many, for laying with her in a bed of satin and silk and for creating a child believed to be a blight--soiled blood. There had been many children--in the silence of recollection his ears filled with their cries--the pleading mothers, the shouts of dishonored families. He had ignored it then, he did so now. Except one, the last one--a woman abandoned, her brother angered to the point of vengeful destruction--for his family had welcomed him into their home. Welcomed him for he was the comrade to their son, a loyal friend, an honored blood-brother. Wine had flowed to celebrate the victorious return from fields of battle. Too much wine. Too many voices. A friend who had become an enemy. That voice was the loudest still. How he loathed the sound.

  But he was awakening, ever so slowly.

  He had had little empathy for those he once ravished. Why should he? They came to him, extolling his handsomeness, his eloquent speech, his fine clothes, inviting his charm. They presented their bodies for the pleasures he bestowed. He would never deny them the taste of passion. They were drawn to him, as moths to a lantern’s light, and if they were burned as a result, then this was not his concern. He was a warrior and a warrior’s path was long and crooked and it took him many places. He was a sorcerer and his pride had created superiority. He was wise and powerful and meant to travel a solitary journey. They were mere women. Yes, lovely, and soft, and ripe and welcoming, but limited in thought. None could compare to him. None could outwit him and certainly none were worthy to cast a hold on his attentions except for the duration of an embrace. Yes, their wombs swelled as a result of the embrace. This was the fate they brought upon themselves. How dare they cry once the foolishness of such acts produced results. How dare they utter that his seed was worthless and common. How dare they seek recompense. He was a warrior and a sorcerer, and his path was one he would tread alone. He was a slave to no one except the one who resided within his heart--his dark side--the one who spoke without scruples. This was what made him great. Wyldelock Talan De Croft would not be lumbered with conscience. To do so would mean ruin, limitation, infirmity and he harbored none of these. And his darkness, the brutal warrior within, was shared with only one other--his comrade--their bond secured, their talents extreme, their paths similar. Only he deserved respect. In a blink of an eye one fateful night, when the wine flowed too freely, the flush of victory too warming, that respect was lost. An honored comrade became a vengeful enemy.

  He remembered because he was waking.

  That fateful night he had answered the flirtatious suggestion, followed her to her chamber, and took the gift she offered. Her kiss was the sweetest, her sighs were the longest and he had luxuriated in delicate femininity. Only beautiful women could make him tremble so. She had been the most beautiful. But she was his comrade’s sister, and a child had been conceived. He left her chamber, harnessed his steed and rode away, following a crooked trail. She had been the most beautiful. The memory of her lingered too long. He had wrestled with the demon of confusion. Her brother’s face had haunted him. It was then he traveled the most treacherous of paths, to the Underworld, to sell his love for immortality. Love had no place in a heart confused, a soul condemned, a conscience pricked. But even in that wretched place he found no fulfillment. Lost love translated to cracked foundation--an empire could not be built on sand--and sand was slipping from beneath his feet. An enemy grew ever stronger.

  He remembered. He was awake.

  The darkness of lament filled his comrade’s soul. As the wine that flowed in celebration, it bubbled over the rim, spilling on the pure white cloth of friendship, staining it crimson. Soiled blood between them now. The darkness they shared, once a power in battle, a power of alliance, a power of shared dominion, had grown black. The inky depth was too much for a brother scorned. He succumbed to the rot of hatred and jealousy and revenge. The object of such hatred was Wyldelock’s existence. Demons drank from the cup of communion that had once been reserved for mortal lips. He fled from the one man, the only man that he had loved, respected and honored. He fled, for the terror of revenge glowed bright. So bright and harsh it was as fire, burning flesh, stinging eyes, singeing hair. So relentless its quest that the only relief to be found was deep within the earth, beneath the estate he had once called a refuge. In the crypt he would not be pursued. In the crypt he was safe from the glowing eyes of vengeance. But above him was uttered a threat. The walls crumbled, the foundation shattered. One last voice, one last promise of retribution regardless of the shield of time. One last memory before he fell into the straw and slept a dreamless sleep.

  But not eternal sleep. For his vision was beginning to clear. Finally the ties were breaking.

  And once more he caught the sweet fragrance of a woman meant for him.

  He crouched on all fours, stretching unused muscle, luxuriating to the sensation of impending freedom. His naked body shivered within the dank air, eruptions of existence, warm blood that still coursed through his veins. His hair had grown into a matted mane. Fingernails curled like thin knives creating the claws that would help him to scratch away the earth that made up his prison. His nostrils flared, taking breath into limp lungs. He rasped, the vibration exercising impotent vocal cords. As he rose from the damp straw he howled, long and loud, the animal within finding its voice. Victory tasted sweet in his dry mouth. He was alive!

  And he knew--another awaited him--within her breast he would find absolution.

  He would find her.

  The scent had wafted past his nostrils, even though the dampness of this place was everywhere. The scent had fluttered through his being, pooling in his groin, stiffening awareness. The scent renewed his potential. He reached down, touched himself and cried out with the searing pain. He was forbidden to relieve the pressure--the punishment had been cruel. Through the passage of time a harsh plight remained. He was conscious, alive, on the move, but his masculinity had been tampered with. His seed was dry.

  In a scream of agony he urinated into the accursed mound of straw that had been his bed for the eons it took to wake. Never again would he rest here. The stinging flow of water made certain of the fact. Finding the spring that gushed nearby, he wet his lips, and then drank of the earth’s life-blood. Vitality was growing. He felt his muscles tighten--his legs, arms, shoulders. Urgency was searing through him. Her breath was his call. If he smelled it and awoke, so, too, would his enemy.

  He knew. He understood what had to be done.

  Punishment had followed. Immoral transgressions had a price to be paid. Never again could he take of flesh carelessly. Never again could he taste pure white maidenhood
and then abandon its results. Never again could he lust for the sake of lust. Now there was only one, and in order to subdue the craving, his own flesh demanded he had to find her, cradle her, cherish her, be a mate to her. Betrothed to only one--this was the demand that had been left on him. For his body to sustain life, his soul had to be cleansed. He had no choice but to hunt her down. The fire could never be extinguished until that moment arrived. He would never be whole until his lungs were filled with the sweetness of her virginity. And to live, he must remain her loyal servant. She would sweep the cobwebs of darkness from the corners of his soul. She was his savior. She was his chosen.

  She was out there. He knew it as well as he knew himself.

  He lifted his fists in one last outburst of fury, shaking them to the ruined ceiling above. “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft.” The stones beneath his bare feet began to tremble and rightly so. “I am alive.” The shudders emanated up each leg, growing in intensity. A noble stance, he held firm to the rocking of the stones beneath, the dust that began to slither down the murky walls. “My spirit returns!” he called, the words bouncing off the earthen cell, shattering rock. “I will live again.”

  The quake opened the sky above his extended arms. Nothing made him flinch--not dirt or dust or falling stone or the blur of lights across the black sky. With the clean night air rushed the wash of restitution. Stars had been placed in the heavens just for this happening. His power surged through his veins, and as his nose filled with her perfume, his mind burned with obsession.

  He awoke because he knew.

  His cause would lead each step.

  His hunger would direct his path.

  Wyldelock Talan De Croft was reborn.

  Chapter One

  Except for a placid caress along the pebbled shoreline, the ocean was at peace. It was uncommon that such serenity touched the usually energetic surface. Usually, the dark blue broiled, stirred by currents and wind and a hidden eternal restlessness that demanded unrepentant respect for those who ventured near. As the early summer sun began its journey into the distant curve where the sky fell into the crystal sea, sinking into the mystical place where it slept for the evening hours, the cool wind died, giving up another day’s impassioned embraces. The same peace radiated through Olivia as she lightly picked her path along the beach. For the duration of these precious moments she felt as one with all that Mother Earth kindly bestowed.

  Olivia had always been sensitive to the changing moods of the ocean. The angry waves had, since childhood, filled her with a mixture of awe and a need to whisper some faint word that might calm its restless spirit. But like any other all-powerful emotions within the human heart she was reminded that words did little when time itself was the only cure. Time, and mediation, and knowing that all energy flowed naturally within the realm of nature. Respect was the key--learn to understand the tug of the moon upon the tides, enjoy the currents of warm waters as a gift of summer, respect the icy cold on winter’s depression, and stand a respectful distance away when storms in the soul churned anger--until the serenity returned again and all turmoil was put at ease. She felt as though her life reflected each and every movement of the eternal sea that yawned out before her now. Yet she was so small and insignificant compared to its supremacy that she blushed, and apologized often for thinking she could even begin to have knowledge of one so prevailing. And then she would whisper sincere thanks for teaching her how to survive the confusions that these last days seemed intent on throwing at her. If the surface of the sea, so vast and deep, could mirror such tranquility, she, too, could learn to shoulder life’s burdens.

  Her step froze as she gazed on the white pebbles, finding a gull that had been caught in a discarded piece of netting. Its eyes were glazed in death, feathers distorted, tiny neck twisted. She knelt beside the small corpse, tenderly releasing it from the weapon that had secured its demise. “Oh,” she cried. For this should never have happened. This was a reckless abomination on a creature fashioned by nature and soiled by the hand of man. “Poor thing,” she sighed, running her finger over the open beak. Of course death was a part of the cycle of life, but not like this. She sensed the instinctual struggle to survive, how it must have squirmed within the netting, trying in vain to find freedom. Losing hope it perished, and now, as Olivia scooped up the lifeless body and placed it reverently into the sea, she prayed that its spirit would find release to soar the sky again in another life. Such hope was a comfort, despite the wash of loss that gripped her heart.

  What was it within man that instigated such carelessness? Could people not realize that they are a part of nature, not its supreme masters? Cruelty, even in ignorance, was intolerable. It was darkness within the human psyche she could never understand. Nor did she want to.

  “Olivia.”

  A phantom wind caressed her ear. She scanned the empty beach, senses alert, although she detected nothing out of the ordinary.

  Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders to ease the chill, she continued to walk. “I have been hurt as well,” she whispered, as though the gull’s eternal spirit tipped its head to listen. “I struggled within a net cast out by an irresponsible hand. He said he loved me and would utter no word that might cause me harm. But it was a lie.” She stopped, scanning the horizon. A fishing boat, a dot on the sea, bobbed silently. She wondered what waste they were throwing into the water concluding that because the sea was so wide and vast that the act would go unknown. Every action had consequences even though it might go unseen. Action and then reaction. One word, one look, one thoughtless flick of the wrist, and instantly a chain of events is put into motion. Without the word or the look or the flick of the wrist, a whole different outcome was possible. Only one was allowed, favored by fate, or luck, or providence, or whatever a mind wished to use as a title to rationalize the result. Whichever, action resulted in reaction, and her limited experience with love had been cruel enough to warrant austere caution.

  “You are mine.”

  Heat flushed her face.

  Olivia lowered her gaze while drawing deeply the salt air into her lungs. “I thought I loved him, too,” she said, melancholy sinking her heart like a stone thrown into an empty well. “He demanded my favors because of simple words. I knew then that his confession of love was all a lie. So he left me for another who gave him what he sought.” A fresh sting of betrayal deepened her downhearted mood. Unlike the gull she had managed to free herself from the net. Even so, she felt as though a part of her had died. A promise of love had been dashed on the rocks. Then the darkness within her psyche whispered that love wasn’t even real--it couldn’t be seen, touched, tasted, measured. Those who said they understood lied for personal gain--physicality, control--and Olivia was beginning to believe that love had no voice after all.

  “Come to me.”

  Her feet had begun to move again. Confidence swelled in her breast.

  Time would heal the pain. The sea could boil with the hurt of abuse and then settle again and if one so infinite could do so, then she could as well.

  The night Olivia returned from college she had crawled into her bed and sobbed to relieve the hurt of a broken heart. She hadn’t spoken of her loss to either her mother or Gran, but when the house was quiet, Gran had crept into her bedroom and offered comfort. “This, too, shall pass,” she said, passing Olivia a white embroidered handkerchief. “Dry your eyes, little one. Make each day count. Love will find you.”

  Olivia smiled, taking courage from Gran’s infinite wisdom. For being small and hunched and feeble, the elderly woman harbored strength in wisdom. That came with age and experience and a harmony that could be eked from the lessons of nature. Gran had the sight--a time-honored ability to see and understand what mere mortals could not. Her body was frail, her face creased, but her eyes sparkled with a lifetime of understanding. Sometimes, though, Olivia would catch Gran staring at her with a profound sadness. But when their eyes met she would smile and the sadness would disappear. Olivia wondered what it was Gran sa
w. In her twenty-one years of life, however, she never once asked.

  The still water exaggerated laughter, men’s laughter. She stopped a moment to watch the fishing boat glide closer to the bay. Their nets hauled, they were returning to town and likely already celebrating a profitable catch with opened bottles.

  Home had always been a cherished place. It stood halfway between the lighthouse and the town of Beacon’s Bay, built near the fork of a dirt road that led to paved. The loneliness of isolation never bothered Olivia. Even as a child she found contentment tending Gran’s herb gardens or walking along the beach, gathering shells and smooth stones, lost within her thoughts and dreams. Rarely did she venture into town when she didn’t have to. Other children teased her for being a witch, like her mother and Gran. Guarded adults crossed the street to avoid them when they shopped, and plastic smiles that were meant to hint politeness were nothing more than silent accusations. Yet when questions of the future were urgently sought, women from the village would arrive at their door with teacups or extended palms, and Gran would vaguely give them information meant merely to humor their taste for the supernatural. She knew they were hypocrites, at the very least ignorant. “Witches worship nature for what She is--the supreme body of Mother Goddess--so you needn’t apologize to anyone for being different,” Gran had told Olivia often. None understood that herbs and oils and spells were meant to keep the human spirit in tune with the subtle energy within all things. All the town’s women wanted were quick answers to troubling questions about husbands or boyfriends, and then they would depart to the safety of their own world to whisper cruel rumors about the three generations that still plagued this quiet fishing village.

  The boat carried on, as did the bursts of faceless laughter. They were headed back to the village, back to their homes, where their families waited and wondered if the witch’s predictions of hope and fulfillment found in a cup or a crease on the palm might in fact come true.