Khing and the Magic of Black and White: Book Three Ash Makes a Wizard

Khing

Book Three: Ash makes a Wizard

by William A. Patrick III

Copyright © 2002 by William A. Patrick III

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction; any similarities between actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

The enemy rushed the party but did not reach even their swords when death came and the black air rose. Ash stood before the crowd, trembling, weeping and grinning, while again and again feeling for the dark. Those standing near, fell. Black blood floated in the air; it seemed to cloud even the mind. Another row of men fell, then everything and everyone stopped. Rows and rows of soldiers in front of the party were no more than black, leaking stumps. Behind the stumps many more men stood. Sucking air, the group stared at the enemy. Their foe had frozen, filled with doubt. But then they came. Hundreds poured into the tent. The party had the advantage of being together in a tight group, with almost all their members present. They crowded tight, unconsciously pushing Linder to the center of their circle. The enemy charged through the black air Ash created. They came in great numbers. Erow and Rehoak charged the coming soldiers and knocked a large group from their feet.

Now Ash! Gwere screamed. In a wide arc, men and blood became one. Ash spun the blades as the party, always on cue, ducked. Protecting them like a shield, Ash released the blades and clutched the weapons only by their leather straps. Stumbling and screams followed, but the fallen only seemed to bring more men. Their foe threatened to swallow the group, Ash or no.

Linder, scrambling to free herself from her warrior jail, saw a smile grace Gractah’s face, and saw the same on Gwere’s. They want this, she thought, this was their plan. Death, not victory, would be the fruit of this battle. The enemy came again and Linder watched as her friends ignited. Gwere and Gractah stood side by side; both held their weapons clenched in two-fisted grips. With blades held shoulder high, their strikes were almost invisible. They pushed their upper bodies beyond hard—the muscles of their shoulders, arms and chest stood taut, bulging under their skin. They worked in unison to deliver strike after strike. Sharp blasts, whip-like and repetitive, came in quick succession, bring down man after man. Each blow came with barking shouts of death to mortals. Delivered with great power, the impacts staggered the coming soldiers, and row after row dropped. But more came. Blood sprayed over all. Ash, hovering about their circle, hewed in great sweeps, skillfully timing his blows around everyone else’s strikes.

Linder watched as a blade, long and honed, disappeared into her armor and was then withdrawn. As she fell, she heard the horns. Fire spread through her side, and she dropped to her knees. In the distance calls rang out into the night. Linder, falling to all fours, thought she could hear the hooves of chargers. She could picture the big black mounts of the king’s knights in her mind. Pain courted her as strong hands grabbed her shoulders and waist. Ash’s beard, overly long from their busy days and nights, pushed against her cheek. Linder buried her face into his tunic and tried to stop breathing. The men were right; death was a peace; death could stop the show that now played from within and without.

There’s something back there…’ she heard someone say. Blackness… beasts…" someone said. Linder began to sob.

Quiet now… quiet, she heard Ash’s voice among the screams. In the din she heard other voices. Move, move, move… what the hell is that… As black beasts paraded in her mind Linder passed from the world of the conscious. She did not know that Ash had gotten her to a knight atop one of her beloved chargers, she did not know that the big charger’s hooves now thundered over grassy knoll after grassy knoll as it raced to the castle, and she did not know that behind her death had found the armies of the Alannas.

Now! Now! Get to work! Now! Do something Now Now NOW! Frantically plying at the buckles, Tara struggled with her patient’s armor. Her hands slipped on the thick leather straps. The people that had entered her heal-room were so heavily covered in blood that she had to use parts of her tunic to clear the clots away. Getting purchase on her patient’s shielding was all but impossible. Raging at her was the famous, or infamous, Ash. He charged at her. Spittle flew from his mouth and his shouts thundered in the hall.

The group that all the castle loved so to gossip about had decided to strike out at the enemy in the night, on their own, again. Now, one of their members was hurt. Ash, screaming like a madman, was losing control; he raved, weapons drawn, past the edge sanity while the healer struggled to aid his fallen.

She’s okay! SHE’S OKAY! Tara yelled. Stop screaming. She’s wounded, but it’s flesh, it’s not life. Look! After removing Linder’s armor, Tara saw the wound had pierced the young woman’s side. She could see an entrance and an exit wound, and while blood had filled much of the body shielding, the enemy blade had only pierced an inch of skin. Keep it clean and this will heal, Tara said. She used her most calm voice, the one that soothed. It worked. Ash turned his attention away from his violence and to his wounded friend. He picked her up and left the hall. Meanwhile, dozens of the dying were arriving from the battlefield.

Is this part of the plan? The lieutenant asked. He wore the black uniform of the king’s Near Elite but Ash couldn’t put a name to the face. He was asking his questions with a reserved fury, as a man would when talking to a naughty child.

Get the men ready, Ash said, we celebrate tonight and all of tomorrow. Party, dance, eat, throw the biggest gala you can—musicians, lights, everything. Ash was shouting, teeth bared, while the guard before him paled. Burn huge fires and keep them lit until dawn and re-light them at dusk. Play music as loudly as you can. Make a banquet with all the food we have. We party all night and all day. Ash was walking while carrying Linder. Then, at midnight, we rush them, just like tonight. Inform the king and get to work, Ash said. He walked with his cheek nuzzled in the female’s hair. He barked the orders. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to kill the man who now stood speechless beside him. He had the urge to kill without discretion. Also, in the dining hall the wounded are piling up, so do what you can to assist Tara. Find that crazy lady in the white shift, she needs to help. Ash, done with the lieutenant, turned his face back to Linder’s locks. She had her arms around his neck and her face pressed into his chest. It was actually a plan, Ash thought. If nothing else, he had delivered that. They may not like it, but he had come up with a plan. Let the party begin. That which the Dral had once said, Ash would now do.

At the camp Ash laid Linder on many soft pillows. The others had gathered the cushions as they walked through the castle, each carrying two or more. Most had the Royal Seal on them. Gractah had a large fire burning. Ash placed his blue blanket over Linder and brushed the hair from her eyes. In the amber glow of their fire, she turned to him. For the third time in his life, Ash pressed his lips, as softly as he could, against hers.

Are we sure of this path? asked the Monarch. Settling into his seat, the king beheld the manic over fingers pressed together like a steeple. The King’s Elite had created a makeshift access hall, and, using the largest chair they had, set their regent upon it as his throne. The guards behind the king were dressed in their finest livery, and the king himself was unsullied. All the environs, furnishings and men, appeared proper and fitting a monarch of great lineage.

Do you want a siege? Ash asked. I was asked my opinion, and this is it. We enjoy what we may and then we provide history with its greatest victory. We have a reason to celebrate. This is a beginning of a tale that will be told and retold, forever. The access room was no more than a large, square chamber with doors in each wall. Dark and dim, its many column supports blocked the light from the small windows above the doors. Whips of smoke from unseen torches snaked about, high in the air.

My advisors say we have food enough for weeks if used sparingly, said the king. They also say we should wait for more armies, coming perhaps from places yet unseen, or use the time to devise weapons or strategies.

I fear this falls to us and us alone, and we do not need more plans or weapons, Ash said. We party. We go out and don’t come back until the enemy are gone. Let not any say we hesitated. Let none say we waited, that we ever did anything but attack viciously those that would trespass against us. Whether it be ten, or ten millions, we tolerated it not, Ash said. The echoes in the chamber seemed to reproach the speakers, mocking their words by repeating them without conviction.

Son, I’ve been spilling mine and my foe’s blood since before you were born, said the king. I do not dispute that we fight, and soon. That is why we are having this talk. But this plan, the king said, it must not be the rash act of the desperate. I will not have that said of us. I must know that we only take those chances that can best provide us with the greatest odds of victory. It is not just you and I that will suffer here; it may be all of our kind. Do we have the best chance with this plan, or not?

Staring at the thick battlement walls of the dim throne-room, Ash hesitated. The high ceiling made Ash feel small. He missed the group. He missed the outdoors. The only sky Ash could see was through a small window above the furthest-most door. The little window, high in the wall, provided a glimpse to the outside world. It was a light in the dark. A moment later the sun streaked through the opening in a brilliant column. Slashing diagonally through the chamber, the streak announced the dawn of another day.

No, Ash said, and he found he could no longer face the king. He instead watched the dust-fairies dance in the light streak. His talk with the Monarch, he had decided, would be candid. He had prepared himself, best he could, to tell only that which was in his heart. The king’s army had cut a wide swath into the enemy with their surprise attack, and the rescue of the group had provided a lift to morale. But their situation had not changed. Ash watched as the column of light touch his boot. A patch of black leather turned to colorless silver as the brilliant streak moved slowly across his feet. As his eyes adjusted, he saw bright specks of red on the leather. The light burned; but the more he stared, the more the room faded away.

Then why do you suggest such a plan—is there another? asked the king. Would we not profit from gathering all the Captains and working some strategy to give us an advantage? And what about magic? Can we summon the arts to assist us? The king’s impromptu throne was set upon a layer of slate stones serving as a dais. Rising, the king signaled to a servant. A chair, similar to the king’s but smaller was brought forward and set next to the platform. The king bid Ash to sit, and dismissed the guards. When Ash sat, the king came from his chair and, while alone in the room with Ash, sat on the stones that supported his throne. The manic and the Monarch were now eye to eye. To Ash, the king then appeared to be only a haggard man in fine clothes. Clouds passed before the little window and again the hall grew dark. Ash, after meeting the eyes of the king, turned his gaze back to his boots.

Ash… what are we going to do? asked the Monarch. What do I tell my men? The king rose, clasped his hands behind his back and stood, unmoving, a statue alone in the hall except for Ash. For a long time the king stood as thus, a monument of gray in a colorless hall. At last, he turned to the manic. It is time, son, the king said. Now. If you are to have a moment, if you are to begin to build upon a legacy, if you are to fill his shoes, then now, son, now is the time. Magic… the king said. He turned to Ash. Coming close, the Monarch bent and placed his hands on the arms of the chair. He and Ash were again face-to-face. Now. Ash, of course, only resumed his boot vigil. The king patted the manic’s knee and sighed. We need to use every tool possible, the king said. Magic, strategies, and weapons—both conventional and otherwise, the king said. Come.

The echoes of their footsteps resonated with every step. Through chamber after chamber they passed; some were in tatters while others appeared untouched. We saw the beasts, said the king. His voice was low and he peered at Ash with one raised eyebrow. We saw the death magic. The king looked to Ash, but Ash said nothing. Many of the rooms had their doors pulled down and their contents strewn into the hallways. They passed boudoirs and living quarters. The king proceeded without mind to the clutter, winding his way around the piles. Up many stairs they went, past private chambers and room-sized closets full of fine garments. Finally, the king stood before a large door and drew forth keys. Though the huge door was heavily scarred, the room behind it was unmolested. Ash could see spell work as protecting lines on the door’s frame. They were the purest of whites.

They came to this tower, and it was from a window here that the Dral flew his flag, but they couldn’t get past this door, said the king. Because of Eye, not even the Dral could go further, the Monarch said. Impressive, yes?

Vaulted ceilings high above were painted with storied tales of valor. All pictured a younger version of the king and what appeared to be his ancestors. Colorful and masterfully created, the scenes depicted battles. All showed the king or his family standing upon vanquished foes. The enemy in the frescos was of a blonde nature, similar to their current adversary. Through this room they passed, until the king stood before a full-length mirror. Pushing on the frame produced a click and the looking-glass propelled outward. Behind, an opening led to stone stairs. This will take some time,’ the king said, pause if fatigue presses."

They paused many times. Ash counted more than four hundred steps. The spiraling walls closed in as they climbed and small windows betrayed that they ascended the kingdom’s tallest tower. At the top the king directed Ash to push open a trap door. Ash failed to clasp a rope that stayed the door as it fell, and the heavy wood slammed with a bang that resonated through the entire well. The king directed Ash to pull down a ladder, which Ash steadied as the regent climbed. Stunning views greeted Ash as he gained the small, glass enclosed chamber. The morning hours were kind to the view—the clear air revealed a startling panorama of the land. Ash felt as if he were in the clouds; even the birds floated below him. A feeling of instability, of unsound equilibrium, rocked him as he tried to steady his feet. Artists of great talent had crafted stained glass windows in many of the room’s eight-sided walls and their reflections also disoriented the manic. But the manic shook off the unease, whose effect seemed to resemble a spell, and caught his breath. After finding his balance, Ash saw the books.

This is a library, a study, the king said. Isuair was allowed to use it, and now you have that privilege. A guide will provide you with access when needed. Lining the shelves between the windows and on tables were books of every shape and size. At first the titles seemed foreign to him, but after some moments of study Ash could see letters, then words, and then their meanings. Many languages called from their covers; each needed a few moments of close examination before Ash could see the tongue and many minutes more to actually read it. The books covered varied topics, from slaughtering livestock to the stone-craft of block making. But most, Ash saw, were about magic.

Now is the time for you to take the wizard’s standard and call it your own, the king said. We will have your party, son. We will have a party to make the god’s jealous. And then you, with every able man behind you, will take to the enemy and drive them until only corpses remain.

From a glass cabinet, the king removed a large piece of bright yellow felt. He placed the thick piece of cloth between his hands and pulled open a drawer from the same cabinet. Inside the drawer lay a book. With the cloth protecting his hands, he pulled forth the tome and gingerly pushed it onto the room’s center desk. Again using the golden cloth, the king opened the book. Then, using a ribbon set deep in the pages, the king opened it to a marked page. We lost half our people before Isuair could wrest this book from the Dral, said the king.

Ash immediately recognized the block letters. Cold and cut with precision, each letter perfectly matched the next. It was a uniformity that could only come from a machine. It took a while for the meaning of the large text at the top of the page to come through, but Ash soon saw the copy contained the rapid, harsh, clipped speech of the machine world. It read; Top Secret. Biological Deterrents. DOD.

One way or the other, said the king, the enemy must perish. Ash opened the book. He saw that someone had translated the machine words into common language along the tome’s margins. Ash saw it was not a book of magic; it was a book of the body. The words detailed how to fester a live pig and draw forth from it an illness. The words alone caused Ash violence, and a picture, the first of its kind, flashed in Ash’s mind. It was of the king, dead in the study, lying in a pool of blood, his body branded with the trademark slash. Ash began to feel ill. While his stomach churned, Ash felt a familiar pulse and the heavy, watering eyes of grief flush his face. The king, his back to Ash, stood staring out of a window that faced north. Ahead, miles and miles deep into the valley, a large, dark swatch, resembling a mammoth insect colony, stretched across the entire horizon. Above the hoard storm clouds brewed.

After 175 days without rain the skies opened up for four consecutive days. With almost 300 days of sunshine a year, Southern California was usually gentle on the homeless and much of the ‘bad’ weather days were nothing more than half-hearted sprinklings. But the state does experience downpours and heavy storms. Stunned Californians get glimpses of Mother Nature’s fury on the evening news over station logos and catchy sound-bite headings. After days of sheets—curtains of gray rain, Ash was desperate. All his possessions were wet. His money was gone. He was sober and his booze stash was gone. He had no food. All his haunts had been rained out. Other homeless, along with ticks and fleas flocked to the bridges and underpasses where Ash usually found peace.

Ash sat wet and hungry, knowing the shakes were not far off, with his arms wrapped tight around his knees. Fright began to set in. No people roamed the streets, which meant no panhandling money. He was too far from any charity shelter for them to save him. These were the conditions that killed, and Ash knew it. He knew he lived too close to the edge and that now he was at the line. He had used up all his chances, spoiled all his opportunities, squandered every resource he could use to save himself, and now he sat, truly alone. Only God, whom he either hated or discounted altogether as fiction, could save him now. But Ash knew well how God responded to his needs. With mounting intensity, creeping over everything like a suffocating blanket, came the heart-clenching emotion Ash feared the most—panic. In the dark, in the cold, in the solitude, Ash began to panic.

Before he knew it he was running along the rain soaked streets of Anaheim. Finally, wet to the skin, Ash dropped against a chain-link fence beside a busy boulevard. Cars, with headlights shining on the water soaked streets, passed while Ash lay in rivulets of mud. But his spirit, instead of subsiding, found a bulwark in which to prop itself up. Hate, unbridled in its fury, empowered Ash with resolve against his most bitter enemy—the world and its machines. Ash clenched his coat tight and shut his eyes.

The day after dawned with a beauty Californian’s witness only a few times a year. Washed clean, it’s vibrant skies no longer masked by haze and smog, the Southland sparkled. The air had a crispness to it—the sun’s light shone bright, unmasking vibrant colors in every hill, leaf and flower. Above, a rainbow framed the horizon. It seemed within hours after the rain that the hills, scorched brown by the usually intense sun, waxed green as millions of tiny shoots of grass sprang forth. Bright and clear, the only reminder of nature’s previous violence being a few puddles, California welcomed a new day. Somehow, Ash had survived.

Ash had crawled to an underpass and passed out. No motorists stopped. Shivering, with an audible buzz in his ears, Ash crawled, crab-like into the sunshine. A warm blanket of yellow engulfed him and burned his eyes. Stripping off his water-weighted jacket, Ash let the warm glow touch his skin. With cardboard and a pen Ash could make a sign, but the torrential rain had washed even the litter away. In the end, Ash just stuck out his hand. Within twenty minutes he had fifteen dollars and the beginnings of the shakes.

The Santa Ana’s were a boom for Ash. Shifting air in the deserts create warm currents that rifle through the valleys of Southern California for days at a time. Known as the Santa Ana’s, the warm winds brought summer-like conditions and warm blustery breezes in the winter. The warm winds were one of the things Ash loved most about his home. One could bask shirtless, in the warm December sun, when the day before the temperature was in the fifties.

Spread across a chain-link fence, Ash’s stuff was dry by the time he woke from his daytime slumber. Even the puddles were gone. His river haunt - the large piece of plywood that served as a lean-to among the high reeds in the Santa Ana River channel, had been swept away as the concrete channel reclaimed its original purpose—flood-control. Not even the reeds withstood the watery onslaught. Only concrete, silt and water remained; so Ash turned his thoughts elsewhere. He had a seldom-used spot next to a Karl’s Fryer, a burger place one-mile from the river trail. Long ago, when Ash had first committed himself to the streets, this haunt made homelessness seem less evil, less harsh. He had a car then, and more or less camped in a back corner of the tiny, rundown strip mall. A dry cleaners, video rental shop and burger joint were all that made up the mall, which sat apart from an auto repair station. Ash rummaged the burger joint trash bins for food and worked the Friday night video crowd for change. Across the street, behind fully enclosed iron gates, stood a liquor store. But if Ash could count on one given in his nomadic existence, it was this; if things got good, things would change. Curious looks from the video store manager set Ash’s radar on full alert. Though he would move his car to a different parking stall every day, Ash could see that the manager was taking an interest in him. Only his love for the spot kept him there, awaiting the inevitable encounter with the manager or the authorities. And though the encounter did come, it wasn’t what Ash expected. The video store manager was friendly.

The Manager let Ash drag a mattress discarded from a nearby apartment complex to the back of the store. Ash propped it up in a dumpster alcove, and used it as a sofa and a bed. The manager asked Ash to help himself to the alley, but begged him to keep the area clean and urine free. Twice the store had been broken into, said the manger, and Ash could repay the man’s kindness by keeping open a watchful eye. With plenty of food, a friendly place to stay, and a liquor store nearby, Ash thought he had landed in paradise. That was until the cops that ate at the burger place noticed him. They told him, through their loudspeaker, that they would be back, and that he best not be. Watching from across the street, Ash did indeed see that they meant what they said, returning at different times throughout the week. Without tags on his car, Ash couldn’t afford the attention, so he moved on. But now, with dry clothes and fifteen dollars in his pocket, that spot sounded as good as any. And, as an added bonus, Ash could travel much of the way to the mall via the river trail, avoiding the prying eyes of the public.

Years had passed, but when Ash finally made his way to the mall, he found that little had changed. Where the dry cleaner was now stood a wireless phone dealer. The burger place still offered their Burger Plate Special though the price had gone up. Most important of all, the liquor store still occupied the corner across the street. With the shakes close at hand, Ash, the Golden Warrior, the man among men, was back in business.

The king told Ash that they had not been successful in recreating the plague. How they tested their weapon, Ash did not ask. The regent told the manic that he suspected some magic element was missing in their experiment. Ash could only stand and stare at the book that the king would not even touch. After long moments, the king bid Ash to take the book as his own. He said the Pantry Master had been told to save him a hog, then he thanked the manic for his service. It was clear from the king’s tone that this was a dismissal, and, having had received his orders, Ash turned his back on the lofty room’s spectacular views and on the monarch himself.

Clutching the book in its bright yellow wrapping, Ash struggled with the ladder. In contrast to the luminous library, only a gray dusk filled the tower stairs. Ash clutched at the stone walls, all but blind in the shadows. The long descent of the steps numbed the manic’s mind and body. The anteroom, with its gloried frescos, seemed to crowd the Ash; the gaudy characters, on all four of the split ceilings, bore down on the manic. He half feared they would come to life and push themselves free of the plaster. Ash fled the room without closing the door. Alone in the long echoing halls, he paced off step after step in what seemed like an endless array of chambers and stairways. Finally, the cool air of the grounds, scented and sweet, greeted him, and though he still walked among stones, his heart rose. Turning a corner, Ash was met by a slender beam of light. Ahead lay the arched entrance of the king’s home. People milled about, coming and going. Like the narrows of an hourglass, the gate funneled the people into crowds. Someone lightly grabbed his arm as he passed. His name was whispered.

Head down, Ash paced off the steps, and something inside him turned on. It was the voice; you should have done yourself long ago. Ash quickened his pace. Someone paid for an intrusion into his path with a dusty tumble to the ground. These tears are forever. Ash began to run. Down the streets and alleyways he ran. The images around him blurred but ahead stood the walls. All the war he had been able to answer the anger and the bitterness with a flight toward death and it’s promise of release, as he and the group plunged into battle after battle. But the walls ahead reminded him that already he had done that. They had driven the enemy so far into the valley that the manic mused he would most likely collapse from fatigue before he ever saw a foe. Then, the something turned off. Standing by the wall, Ash felt it drain out of him. In that moment of hesitation, the anger was replaced by pure, unadulterated sadness. But the sadness did not fill the void; inside the manic was a great emptiness.

Ash made it to the same spot he had stood with Gwere and Bri, when they talked and kicked at the loose stones at the wall’s base, in what seemed like an age ago. The wind had begun to blow, and blasts ripped at his cloak; it fluttered and waved, whipping at the air behind him.

Again he climbed the steps. Standing in the biting wind with the book, which was slightly larger than his forearm, Ash took inventory. He had the king’s blessing to claim Isuair’s standard. He had his blades. He had his death-defying suicidal courage and his thirst for blood. He had his books. Ahead stood thousands of the enemy, their lust for blood based on a valid claim against the Comeratte People. Behind were the damned, looking everywhere, anywhere, even to him, for salvation. And still he felt nothing. He let the book fall over the wall. It fell the distance tumbling open, end over end, in the wind. It made no sound as it hit the escarpment below. A few guards on the outer grounds turned at the movement, but turned away again just as quickly. The golden cloth never made it to the ground. It twisted and danced in the blustery breeze, also trying to escape the evils of the day.

Ash placed his hands outstretched into air. After a minute, great flames of black raced from his fingers, fire raged, and an army of beasts rose from the ground. Trailing the black fire, the beasts marched toward the enemy. But Ash could see them, like a fog after sunrise, quickly fade. The guards began to scatter as Ash tried his hand at his most deadly