The Pass by Zion Kistler (books to read romance TXT) 📖

a select few, the ones that are pliable and can be manipulated. Hmmmmmmm…in this case he would probably have to talk to the Elder about this later, for the old man had to know about it. Treaf doubted that the Spell Book was so ignorant that it ignored this part of magic, since it would have to be quite well-known.
“In that case you’re pretty good-looking,” Treaf said. His enemy nodded, looking at the ground. Not wanting to discuss this any more, Treaf then lunged at him, his sword outstretched, and he was expecting to find his sword hit the thing, but instead his opponent grabbed his arm, as if Treaf was a waste of time. Damn it. Now he’s really getting serious about this, he thought. He attempted pulling free his arm, but to no avail. He swore loudly, and the man grinned at him, almost disdainfully. Darn it! I lost again. If I could just—the thing was maintaining such a tight grip on Treaf that it was almost painful, but Treaf just gritted his teeth, and then pretended to go limp, as if giving up. His opponent seemed to since what Treaf was doing, so he slackened his grip slightly, but it was still more powerful than normal. He’s pretty powerful, Treaf realized. I wouldn’t mind getting raised from the dead after I die, he thought, and then with a tremendous effort that almost gave him a nosebleed, he brought up his other arm, the free one, and then as swiftly as he could muster he transferred his sword, then raised it up very powerfully, brought it down like a bolt of shining lightening—this is it. There was a resounding thwack as his sword hit the man’s arm, and then a clang. Before the man could do anything Treaf raised it up and brought it down again, and then again, again, again, again, again, again, until there was a very loud CRACK and he felt his sword’s sharp blade cut through something. His plan had worked, for he sensed he had already cut through the man’s bracers, for after taking a beating that severe, and armor would have broke, no matter how thick, for if it was thicker no one would wear it for it’s weight. His enemy, however, knew what Treaf had done, and he twirled towards Treaf, his sword drawn. He delivered a series of fast side-strokes, and at that Treaf thought, Yep. He wants to beat me quickly, or else I’ll just kill him now. Treaf found this very interesting for some reason, even though he had been expecting it. I’ll just play everything out, Treaf thought. He then saw an opening in the man’s side, and so he lunged with all his force, but by sheer luck and planning the man stepped to the side of Treaf, turned around, and thrust his dirk forward to Treaf’s open rib cage, and with horror Treaf screamed in pain as he saw the dirk buried in his flesh. He crumbled to the ground and ripped open his shirt, still gasping with pain. The dirk, half buried in his personal body, felt like an iron rod pricked with barb wire, but as he ripped a portion of his shirt off he realized that soon it would be all over, and in favor of himself. I’m gonna break that bastard’s skull, Treaf thought darkly. He was so angry that he felt he was going to burst…he jumped up as fast and as powerfully as possible, and with that he thrust his sword forward with incredible speed, and the man blocked it, but he started waving his sword to and fro so powerfully that it was a series of blurs. He let it down so powerfully that it hurt, but he kept doing it, even through the blood covering hum, the pain blinding him—he struck so hard he realized that his opponent’s dirk was probably about to break, but it did not, which fueled Treaf’s anger like a hot iron. Damn it! I’m so gonna—with that he whipped his sword around and delivered a low swipe aimed at the man’s legs, but after at least a tenth of a second he pulled back and thrust his sword at his opponent’s face. He barely blocked it, and he went sprawling slightly, and with that Treaf swiped again, and this time he hit the man’s stomach with full force. Blood spurted everywhere, and in an instant Treaf thought, yeah. I beat him all right. He’s done. He did not walk away as his opponent lay on the ground, gasping in pain, he stood there until a few minutes had ended and started again, and then the man that he saw before him waved his hand over the wound again, and with horror Treaf saw that all the blood soaked up, or evaporated, or both, and with intense anger and despair he forced his weapon into the man’s face, into his heart, into his leg, into his forearm, and finally again into his stomach. He repeated this process several times. He did not chose to do it; actually he thought of it to be insanely inhuman, but he had been forced to, and he would as long as he would have to survive. And by the time that he was done he was covered in blood, and his enemy was also, but he had won finally, and with that he thrust his last time, and after that he left the corpse behind, walking over to the battlefield before him. When he made it there what he was quite a welcoming site. Only a few had died, and of those that had survived there were only a few injuries. Mildo was by Malock, and none of the Seven Warlords had perished. With that information he went over to the Elder, and with a very serious tone he said, “How the hell did you get rid of the Blackwolf Spirits?” The Elder turned, and he looked at Treaf, obviously staring at all the blood on him. There was a short pause after this, and Treaf grimaced.
“I did not do a thing but have twenty Magical Beings die. Something else ended their existence.” He paused, and then continued, “For some reason they seemed to be very invincible. They had very powerful wards on them, and they could also attack with magic. My Beings were absolutely no match.” Treaf grimaced deeper, then looked away and clenched his stomach. It was bleeding quite heavily.
“Yeah—I guess it’s a good thing that I was a match for my opponent,” he said, and the Elder looked confused at this for how, Treaf thought, would he have been able to guess that Treaf had actually been fighting a—well… human that whole time?
“I was the one who was fighting the creator of ‘em,” Treaf said, crossing his arms. Treaf noted that there was much black powder on the ground, a very fine-grained powder. Huh. From the spirits, I guess, Treaf noted, but since he already knew about this he considered it irrelevant and decided to confront more pressing matters.
“So you were fighting with the Magical Creatures this whole time, huh?” the Elder nodded, and Treaf noticed that he looked solemn, as if someone had died, and since Treaf remembered that only a few people had died, none of which were related to the Elder in any way he pushed that way of thinking aside and looked at the Elder full-on.
“The guy that I fought happened to be the work of a Necromancer,” Treaf said. The Elder paused in a shocked kind of way and then said, his eyes having surprised air to them, “Well I’ll be damned if I’m not right, but a victim of a Necromancer is not capable of producing magic.” Huh…Treaf thought for a moment, but he realized that he would not know anything about the whole thing even if he tried, and that would not help anyway, so he might as well listen. If a Necromanced person cannot use magic than…?
“What if using Dark Magic isn’t magic at all, but something else?” Treaf asked warily, for he did not want the Elder to start worrying about this and that.
“You are correct in a way,” the Elder said presently, and then continued, “Dark Magic is commonly also known as sorcery, and I suppose that you could call that a whole new thing…” he seamed to start thinking for a long time, and Treaf was in fact very impatient to hear what he ad next to say. I need to know all that I can…
“Unless one of us tried it, sorcery is pretty much under the label of ‘not explored,’ so I would advise you not to indulge yourself into these matters too openly.” Treaf grunted, and then grimaced. If he was not to indulge himself, than what the heck was he there for…?
“Well, why exactly can’t a victim be capable of working magic?” Treaf asked warily, again. The Elder sighed, as if this was not suitable o Treaf, but he was glad that he was giving in to Treaf’s little pesking, for it was all too necessary.
“They are not souls, Treaf, and they are nothing like them. They do not hardly have brains, they are monsters meant for controlling and killing. They can be made out of anything, it does not even have to be human, hell’s gates…they are only meant to destroy. They are an empty casing of nothing but what they had left from…” at this the Elder cleared his throat in a way of saying the word ‘death’…“so they, in absolutely no way could be able to do magic or anything close to it.” Treaf kept his grimace firm, and he thought, in that case, old man, why the hell are they able to create Blackwolf Spirits, unless…
“Elder, what if someone else is controlling this person, perhaps even Mourgorth…?” The looked at Treaf with that unchanging expression and Treaf felt slightly annoyed at this, for he was not in the mood to be hidden by from the truth.
“No, I do not think that it is Mourgorth. There are two reasons, and perhaps even a third… the first one is that he probably has enough magic-users that he can send them out at little cost, but of course none of us know this. It is not possible for him to have that big of an army, otherwise he would needed more room for everything, and the knowledge of him would be more widespread than it is now.
“The second reason is that he would most likely come himself, for I am sure he is plenty powerful if he has become so famed, plus become so old without dying. Otherwise he likes to toy with his victims, or enemies, to be more honorific, for otherwise he would have become more powerful, been more prideful, and made his fame known to all, not just a select few. Though more and more people who for some reason are trying to go against him seem to be appearing. After all, you can not hold a spring river in a small leather bag.” At this at first Treaf was a bit confused, but very shortly he realized what the Elder was saying: one cannot hold in much power before