The Elder's Curse Andrew Walbrown (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📖

chamber slowly returned to normal, the letters engraved on the blade of the jade-green axe began to glimmer.

“Ulam, your axe!” Amantius shouted from the ceiling. “It’s glowing!”

“I can see that,” Ulam muttered. But why?

Kuruk cursed, and for the first time, Ulam saw fear on the dark mage’s face. “Just my luck. Survive for centuries only to be found by one who calls himself Ulam and carries Malzara’s Axe!”

“What does that mean? Tell me!” Ulam demanded, raising the enchanted weapon high in the air.

“It means you can…wait,” the only good corner of Kuruk’s mouth curved into a hideous smile. “No, I will not tell you!”

Ulam stared at Kuruk, a white-hot flash of anger suddenly flaring in his heart. “Tell me now!”

Kuruk laughed madly once again, satisfied by the turn of events. “I will not tell you the meaning of your name, nor the significance of the weapon you are holding!”

Out of spite, Ulam placed a heavy boot on the left side of Kuruk’s face, sure the pain would be so intolerable that the dark mage would speak. Unfortunately, all it had accomplished was to make Kuruk howl even louder.

“Do you think this hurts me? I have crawled on the floors of this tower for centuries, recovering from an inferno caused by the breath of a dragon, and you have the arrogance to believe anything you do will bring me pain? My life is pain! Just kill me, or are you not enough of an Orc to even do that!”

Though the anger coursing through Ulam’s veins demanded blood, a part of him wanted to spare Kuruk. There were too many questions he needed answered, questions that had plagued him his entire life. By killing Kuruk, Ulam feared he would never know the truth about the disappearance of his race, that this crazed dark mage was his only connection to the past. Ulam thought perhaps there was a chance that with time Kuruk would divulge his secrets, but the more he thought about it the more unlikely that seemed. Kuruk had been confined to the floor of a tower for centuries, and because of that, Ulam highly doubted his own patience would outlast that of the dark mage’s. He must die.

Ulam raised his gleaming green axe high to strike down Kuruk, but he hesitated. Before he could deliver the deathblow he remembered Amantius, Kona, and Mazargo were still pinned to the ceiling by the black aura sprouting from the dark mage’s staff. If he killed Kuruk now, Ulam feared, the spell would cease to exist and his three companions would tumble to their deaths.

“Bring them down,” Ulam growled.

“Or what?” Kuruk spluttered. “You will kill me? Ha! You may have the axe, but you are still powerless!”

Ulam’s face twisted into a snarl, his tusks shining in the green light emanating from his axe. “I said bring them down! Now!”

“Are you daft? What advantage could I possibly have in bringing them down?” Kuruk replied. “You know what? Actually, since I am going to die either way, letting them fall to their deaths will be my last gift to the world!”

While Kuruk started chanting under his breath again, Amantius, Kona, and Mazargo let out a series of shrieks and curses, their chorus of terror drawing Ulam’s attention. Slowly the wisps of darkness entangling the trio began to disappear, forcing Ulam to make an instant decision. Killing Kuruk was out of the question, the dark mage’s death would instantly release all three, and there was no way Ulam could catch them before they crashed into the floor. He could catch one, perhaps two if Amantius and Kona fell near each other, but that was highly unlikely. And there was no way he would willingly sacrifice Mazargo to potentially save the other two, especially after they braved the trials together. That left Ulam with one other option: wield the staff himself.

Perceiving there was no way Kuruk would surrender the staff to him, Ulam raised his glowing axe high, and in one fell swoop severed the only good hand the dark mage still possessed. Kuruk’s focus had been broken, his one eye bulging as he watched the blood pour from the stump like the eruption of a grisly volcano. Ulam then dropped his axe and picked up the bloodwood staff from the floor before spinning around to point it at the ceiling.

The black aura surrounding Amantius, Kona, and Mazargo remained intact, though only by a few thin strands. All three remained still as they held hands, united in their collective fear of falling to their deaths. Kuruk’s wailing echoed off the chamber’s walls as Ulam stared at the end of the staff, praying the amber powerstone would bend to his will and lower his friends safely to the floor. It was a fool’s hope, though, as without the proper knowledge and training there was no way Ulam would be able to utilize the staff’s magical powers.

What now? Ulam thought as he stared at the ceiling. They are safe for the time being, but how am I to lower them to the ground? In my hands this staff is no more than a bejeweled tree branch.

“I can help.”

Who said that? Ulam looked around, but he saw no one. The voice did not belong to Kuruk, who was in a pool of his own blood, his voice hoarse from his own screams. It was too close to be from Amantius, Kona, or Mazargo, all three remaining silent as they awaited their fate. Where are you?

“Who is to say? I am either close, or very far away.” The voice answered. It was a male speaking, his tone venerable, like that of a highly esteemed orator. In many ways, the articulation reminded Ulam of Tomo, just with a slightly deeper voice. “I do not know precisely where you are in this great, big world of ours, but I do sense your presence. You hold an ancient staff in your hands which, until recently, belonged to a powerful mage, no?”

Yes. How do you know