(...)
Fully aware of how thin the ice beneath my feet was, I made a desperate gamble on diplomacy: “Taraban, what is the meaning of this?”, I ventured, keeping my voice as calm and measured as I could, while stepping out of the cage, “We pose no threat to your village! I am a wizard of Ordo Magica, and I have the means to secure a considerable reward for your aid. Please, think this through — there’s no need for hostility!”
Taraban’s demeanor, however, seemed to have shifted dramatically from the moment when we first encountered him. His voice, though weary, carried a grave and commanding tone now tinged with unmistakable fanaticism: “You do not understand, wizard,” he intoned. “Your company has trespassed on the sacred grounds of our pact with mighty Gulgafal — and he is already coming for you!”
Taraban and his helpers reached for the sickles at their belts. The women, who had been carrying baskets and fruit, dropped them and followed suit, closing in to surround the cage. Standing by my unconscious companions without my staff nor any of my other belongings, I must admit the thought crossed my mind that this might be the end of the line. Then, a whistle cut through the air, and an arrow struck the side of a cabin with a loud thump, drawing everyone’s attention. Outside the circle of villagers stood Anya-Rey, bow in hand, radiating menace. What an entrance! The thought of hugging the elf crossed my mind (and, just as quickly, disappeared).
Taraban then dropped to his knees and raised his hands to the sky, praying loudly: “Gulgafal, mighty one, hear our call! Come forth and take what is owed! We call unto you to fulfill our pact!”
Immediately, in response, clouds unfurled above us, and a familiar oppressive dampness swept in on a sinister gale — pushing forth an unnatural mist and compelling the trees to sway, showering us with wet leaves. From the cage, a painful gargling drew my attention. I turned to it and saw Leslie on her knees, her limbs still bound, as a dark, oily ooze poured forcefully from her mouth and nostrils. “Leslie…”, I muttered, knowing not what to do. Lysindra had woken as well, and was just beginning to take in — with dawning horror — the gravity of our situation. Nearby, a female voice cried out: “Everyone! Look at the barbarian — she bears the taint of corruption! May Gulgafal take her, may he save us!”
I gritted my teeth, taking some small comfort in the thought that things could not possibly get any worse, but — once again — I was wrong: From above the ancient birch overlooking the village came a thunderous sound — a roar? — that shook the colossal tree and the very ground beneath our feet. In the petrified silence that followed, broken only by the feverish cries of “Gulgafal! Gulgafal!”, a gargantuan serpent-like creature descended out of the misty air, coiling itself around the birch and surveying the village with a voracious gleam in its eyes.
I… wanted to laugh — not from joy, but in a futile hope for deliverance, surrendering my sanity to the absurdity of being under the gaze of a lindworm. I had read about this monster, this wingless dragon which was said to guard treasures, sacred sites, or areas of immense magical energy deep within Davokar. Thus, I understood — likely better than these villagers — the true extent of the danger we were all in. Not just Boga, Leslie, Anya, Lysindra, and I. All of us!
“They are yours, Gulgafal!”, Taraban shouted, seized by zealous fervor, “Feast, feast on them!”, he laughed. The lindworm uncoiled itself from the birch tree and slid through the air, unceremoniously chomping on a female villager who stood in submissive adoration. Its bite was heavy and sharp, like a butcher’s cleaver, sending severed limbs flying and a spray of blood that peppered the surroundings in crimson. Without hesitation, the lindworm landed on the stony soil and slithered to the boy who had yelled earlier, swallowing him whole. Gods damn you, Taraban, you reckless idiot! Deluded fool!
The creature was so perplexingly massive that a single swipe of its tail against one of the village huts was enough to bring down the entire structure. At this point, the villagers finally began to realize that they too had been invited to the feast, except they were sitting on — rather than at — the table. Panic and chaos, at long last, justifiably ensued.
I looked back at the cage and saw Leslie struggling to free herself, while Lysindra’s wide, terrified eyes darted from the lindworm to Leslie’s tar-dripping mouth, then to me, silently pleading for help. Fleeing was not an option, nor was fighting. I had nothing with which to sever Lysindra’s bindings, and it seemed — by my estimation — less unsafe to carry her to one of the cabins for shelter than to remain exposed and risk becoming another morsel for Gulgafal the Ungrateful.
The next thing I knew, Leslie — having freed her limbs — was forcing her way out of the cage, hurling Barbarian insults and swear words in every direction. I sighed and dug deep for inner strength. Yes, there I was, still in the cage, moderately demoralized, with a still-bound and wounded Lysindra next to me. No, I would not give in to melancholy or despair — though the circumstances seemed to warrant at least one of them. Some days, it feels as though every action marks the start of a journey in the wrong direction. Patience. Focus. Think.
I looked around. The lindworm was not upon us, and Taraban remained on his knees, arms outstretched to the sky, chanting fervent pleas to the monster: “Yes, punish them! The trespassers! The offenders! Gulgafal!”. How did he even know if that was its name? Had they summoned this creature before, utterly blind to the fact that they were no more than livestock to it? What insanity drove these people to build a village within the territory of a bloody lindworm? The absurdity, the sheer outrageousness of it all, fanned an unpleasant violence within me, smoldering just beneath the crust of my soul.
Alas, I was useless without my staff and gear, which had been confiscated before my imprisonment. Then, I spotted Boga emerging from a hut, carrying a crate of supplies and wearing his own equipment. Aha! However, for all I knew, the village was still crawling with sickle-wielding nitwits. Since it would take a while to free Lysindra using my bare hands, and with the lindworm (temporarily?) out of the picture, I concluded — as quickly as my reservations about leaving Lysindra behind would allow — that the fastest way to make myself useful was to race into the hut and, hopefully, retrieve my belongings. Indecisiveness, at a moment like this, could be just as bad as abandonment.
“Lay low and don’t draw attention”, I whispered to Lysindra, with no small amount of guilt, “I promise I’ll be back for you”. She hadn’t had time to recover from her wounds, so she just gave me a look of exhausted resignation and nodded feebly.
Even as I leapt out of the cage and charged after Leslie, I was bitter and afraid. What if I wasn’t fast enough? What if the worm returned, or a villager got to her before I could do anything? What if I’d made the wrong decision again? These thoughts hammered at my resolve, my heart pounding in my ears as I flew past Boga and barreled into the hut.
My equipment was lying in a corner, and I reclaimed it without delay. As I rummaged through my backpack to ensure nothing was missing, my fingers brushed against the warmth of the Sunstone. Before his passing, Master Mermes had bequeathed it to me — his greatest achievement, something truly priceless. I had not considered using it before I had the opportunity to study it more thoroughly; however, the moment I touched the gem, that distant voice at the edge of my thoughts stirred back to life:
“He hath betrayed thee, hath he not? Cast thee unto the beast, deeming thy life but a trifle to be squandered for his folly. And for what? A covenant with a monster? A prayer to falsehood? Taraban doth merit more than death — he must taste the weight of his treachery, suffer as thou hast suffered. Take up thy flame, wizard, and let him know the wrath of the betrayed.”
Under different circumstances, I’d have taken my time to ponder on the nature of these hallucinations. Currently, not only could I not spare the time, but I had no disagreement with the voice. Its logic was irresistible. My wrath was then fueled by a sort of cold fire; I was furious, but in control — or so I thought.
I strode out the door and stopped beside Boga, who appeared to be crafting something in considerable haste. He paused, lifting his eyes from his work with a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips. Leslie must have sensed something, as she followed me outside, rattle in hand, looking fierce.
“I don’t even know which way we’re supposed to run,” Leslie confessed, “Maybe follow the river, move north?”
“I do not believe we’ll find safety while that man lives”, I argued, pointing my chin at Taraban. Boga squared his shoulders and gave me a knowing look, his amusement barely concealed.
Boga grinned, revealing a row of sharp, pointy teeth.
“Make no mistake, Leslie! He wants revenge”, he laughed, “And I want to watch that.”
Hearing Boga phrase it so bluntly gave me pause. I looked at Taraban, still spouting his fanatic nonsense from the top of his lungs, and the rage within me burned white-hot. Yet, when I glanced at Lysindra, who watched us uneasily from within the cage, something else — quieter, but no less compelling — vied with that violence.
“Mordamir”, Boga said, tapping me on the shoulder. “Leave her to me. I’ll see her freed and safe. You go do what you need to do”. With that, he slid into a crouching run toward the cage.
“Revenge, then?”, Leslie asked, her tone serious, her expression genuinely intrigued.
Whether Taraban’s actions were truly evil or not — perhaps he had struck an accord with the lindworm to preserve his village — was irrelevant. In Davokar, people will do insane things to survive; that much is hardly unexpected. But the laws of hospitality are sacred, transcending cultures. To deceive us so thoroughly, to offer hope and then replace it with doom — this, I could not forgive. To hell with him.
“Yes, Leslie”, I admitted, without joy, “Revenge”.
Thus, we went to him. As we approached, I saw that he had finished securing some of his own villagers to the ground — two women and a young girl — using rustic ropes and large wooden spikes. In the distance, an unsettling sight caught my eye: Anya-Rey, dashing back into the village, pursued by none other than the lindworm itself. Taraban saw it too: “Return to us, mighty Gulgafal!” he cried, his voice trembling with zeal. “I deliver you this child, O sacred patron, to appease you! To honor you!”
My disgust boiled over.
“Taraban!”, I shouted. He turned slowly, as though expecting us, his face twisted with fury.
“Infidel!”, he spat, pointing a trembling finger at me, “This is all your fault! Cursed, you be! Once and a thousand times over!”
I grasped the Sunstone in my satchel. I had never used it, and now that I was about to — it felt almost too hot to hold. The voice returned: “Dost thou feel it, wizard? The weight of his falsehoods, his cowardice, his blasphemy — none of these merit pardon. Justice waiteth not, least of all for the guilty. Let the flames purge his sin. Let him taste the ruin he hath sown. Strike, for the fire is thine to wield — unleash it, and let his perfidy be repaid in kind.”
“Taraban, I have no wisdom left for the likes of you”, I declared, my voice heavy with contempt, “You have doomed your people, and the mantle of leader suits you not. But I can offer you something that does: fire.”
To use the Stone required barely any magic. All I had to do was to open my heart to it; let the flames run through me, and drink of my own aggression. They washed over me, nibbling at every buried violence, whirling faster and faster, hotter and hotter, until they roared out of existence — only to reappear, slowly, inexorably, at the end of my gaze.
At first, Taraban did not understand. He clutched at his chest, fumbling with his tunic, perhaps blaming the rising heat on his own exertion. Then it grew hotter, unbearable, and his confusion turned to terror. His screams tore through the air as the flames licked their way out from beneath his clothing, climbing onto his beard and hair, consuming him. His flesh melted away, a grotesque symphony of agony and fire.
(...)
(excerpt from the Journal of Mordamir)