The Last Warlock

By Mark Daniel

To any who might cross paths with him, Ahren is a quiet herb farmer who lives alone on a mountainside above the hamlet of Duran. To the one friend who knows the truth of his life, he is actually the last of his kind. The last being who can manipulate the elements of earth, air, water, fire, and life itself. He is immortal. He is the last warlock.

To Ahren, his powers are a curse; a nightmare from which he cannot awaken. Each day for three-thousand years, he relives the dark time when he lost his way, and used his powers to destroy every other warlock in the land. And each day, he never tries to stop the pain; or the guilt. He knows he deserves it. So he lives a life of solitude in order to live in punishing emotional pain, and in order to never hurt another living being. But he is destined to be tested.

One day as Ahren tends to his garden, his elfin friend, Azura, brings devastating news that an ancient prophecy appears to be coming true. If the prophecy is fulfilled, an evil sorcerer will become immortal and finally have the power to carry out his plan to crush and rule over the land of Nordanfel . Ahren must make the choice between two unthinkable alternatives. He must either choose to use his powers against and among the living once more - something he made an oath never to do again. Or he must keep his oath and watch from his mountainside garden as all of Nordanfel is crushed to dust.

Perhaps this will be his ultimate punishment. If Ahren doesn't help, he will know that every life the sorcerer takes will actually be his fault. There will be more deaths on Ahren's sorry soul; this time because he wouldn't use his powers. But if he helps, will he lose control once again, and use his powers to bring even more death to the world? Even if he chooses to help Nordanfel and all the living beings of the land, can he even get to the sorcerer in time? Could he lose control, and lose the race to stop the prophecy as well?

Can force of arms or magic overcome the sorcerer and spoil his plans to take Nordanfel? Or will it take another force to save the land? Perhaps the forces of Ahren, the last warlock.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Daniel
• Release date: Apr 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463817308

Mark Daniel

Mark lives in San Diego, California. A geologist by trade, when not working, writing or playing the ukulele, he enjoys assembling scale model aircraft.

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The Last Warlock

Copyright 2018 Mark Daniel

Published by Mark Daniel at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Recognition

The author would like to thank Amythyst Morris for their tireless work on the cover.

Inquiries may be made at [e-mail]

Further artwork may be seen at the following URL:

https://www.artstation.com/myartstation/projects

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

He wept quietly in the vast garden outside of his cave. He wept for things long gone, for people long dead, for a world that no longer existed. Never again, he thought. He wept for his evil and for his cowardice. The past no longer exists, and I have no place in the future. He wept in the same way that he had met the morning for the past three thousand years.

Once, long ago, he had laughed at the barbarity of the Five Races of Man: the fun-loving halflings, the elegant and stately elves, the stoic but surprisingly entertaining dwarves, the superstitious humans, the quiet giants. Yet now he moved among them like a careful shepherd tending his flock, for they were his people’s legacy.

After a final moment of sorrow, a last silent sob, he wiped away the last of the morning’s tears and stood. He forced himself to smile. His garden crop was doing quite well this year, and its herbs and spices would certainly fetch a good price at Duran’s Market Day in a few weeks. Rosemary, thyme, precious pepper, ginger, cinnamon trees, cloves, mace, saffron, and anise shrubs were all in full bloom. He extended his right hand before him, palm down and outward, towards the garden, and made a sweeping gesture from left to right, closing his eyes as he did so. A brief green glow lit the land, and the plants grew by another centimeter.

He looked up into a sunny, cloudless sky. That would never do. Not today, anyway. He took his right arm and held it up with his palm facing him at eye level. Making a fist, he yanked his arm downward. A peal of thunder arose in the distance, and soon it began to rain, though no clouds filled the heavens. He allowed himself a brief laugh. He did always enjoy his power over the weather, as well as his power to give and enhance life.

Ahren? Ahren-of-the-Hill? Are you up here? Azura’s soprano voice was as beautiful as her elven face, and just as distinctive. Ahren quickly dropped his hands to his sides and hid them in the long sleeves of his now-dirty white shirt. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to know about his powers. That could be very inconvenient.

As the elf crested the rise that led to the hillside garden, Ahren called out to her in a strong tenor, Over here, Azura, where you know that you can always find me.

And your garden is lovely, as always. But unfortunately, I come bearing ill tidings. Cirunel has been attacked.

Ahren was silent for a time before asking, Was it taken?

No, the monstrous invaders were thrown back at the very gates, but the battle was close, and many dwarves fell.

Ahren contemplated this new information as he stroked his beardless chin with large, strong hands. Cirunel was the dwarven capital city, a fortress in its own right some thirty leagues to the north. It was said that no enemy had ever entered the gates of Cirunel, and Ahren, with his ancient life span, knew that to be true. Yet the gates had nearly been sundered many times, for at one time or another, all of the races of Man had tried to conquer Cirunel’s masterfully constructed ramparts. Even unrest among the dwarves themselves had set dwarf against dwarf at the gates. Cirunel’s fortifications had always held. The attackers had always failed. This was not the first time that monstrous invaders had been turned away, and Ahren suspected – no, at this point he knew – that it would not be the last.

Ahren glanced back at the classically beautiful elf, with her long raven hair beginning its cascade a full two heads higher than his small frame. He enjoyed her company, her friendship; for of all the races of Man, only hers could even begin to approach his longevity. At two hundred years of age, she was still considered a youngster by her elders, perhaps in her late teens in human terms. Ahren himself appeared to be only thirty years old or so, and of roughly human stock. He had deep golden skin, dark brown hair, and irises so black they seemed like shadows. Any unusual ancestry was betrayed only by his relatively short stature - at least for a human male, the standard measure in the land of Nordanfel - and his ever so slightly pointed ears. Of course, no one in Nordanfel knew what that ancestry was, and he hoped to keep it that way.

From where did the invaders come? he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Their origin is unknown, as they took the defenders by surprise. When their hoard was first spotted, it was descending from the northeast, but that was already deep in Morovarian territory. Of course, many suspect that Savanod is the culprit, but none knows for sure, and no monsters escaped to be followed back to their lair. There were orcs and goblins working in concert with urugs and chalkai. A very disturbing turn of events. If the monsters have joined forces, they may well be unstoppable. Even Visonia has called up its conscripted guards; which naturally placed Morovar on an even more heightened alert. You know as well as I do that the humans and the dwarves don’t see eye to eye – no pun intended. She smirked and covered her mouth with a slender hand.

What of the elves, Azura?

Since our domain lies far to the south, we feel that there is a safe buffer, at least temporarily, between us and the hoards of Savanod. Yet I have been instructed to spread the word that we will lend aid to all who request it.

I don’t suppose word has come from the northern wastes?

Actually, yes, the giants have reported increased activity along their borders, and are just as concerned as the rest of us. Perhaps more so, considering their isolation. The other races of Man would be hard pressed to send aid through Savanod if it came to open war.

I doubt it will come to open war. Even those ruling the Keep of Savanod know they would eventually be defeated by superior numbers, if nothing else. Unless, of course, something else has changed that we are as yet unaware of.

What else could change? Our seers have seen no great shift in the balance of power.

Who knows? Perhaps they’ve found a new way to grow orcs, or maybe the goblins are finally banding together. Evil magic created the first urugs and chalkai; perhaps the beasts have evolved into something new. A great weapon or ancient relic may have been found. A new magical power may be rising. There are simply too many unknowns, Azura. Even your finest seers must know that.

Yes, they have said as much. But you know that I value your opinion over theirs.

Ahren laughed and grasped at his stomach. But why, Azura? I am but a humble farmer, eking out a meager existence on the side of a mountain overlooking a fishing village.

No, Ahren-of-the-Hill. You are more, of that I am certain. Someday I will find out what that ‘more’ is.

Don’t hold your breath, my dear elf. Why don’t you go busy yourself by the fire in the cave? It’s clouding over, and this unseasonable rain can’t be warming you. I shall be inside in a few minutes.

Very well. If you have any food, I will prepare some stew. But hurry up, you know elves don’t like to be kept waiting, she grinned at the absurdity of the statement.

You’re destined to live some eight-hundred years, and yet you can’t wait for a man to gather his thoughts. Incredible! I should report you to your parents and get you a good caning. Now hurry along, there’s food inside. I promise that I shan’t be long, but I must think on this a moment.

Azura bent down and kissed him on the cheek, a gesture that always made him smile. As she disappeared around the bend and into the well-lit cave, he sat down on the ground, cross-legged among his herbs. After checking to ensure that Azura had indeed gone out of sight, he reached up toward the sky with his right hand and made a flicking gesture. The rain abruptly stopped. He leaned backward and placed his hands flat upon the ground, his fingers splayed.

Now what can you tell me, my friend? he muttered. As he closed his eyes, his hands turned to clay, and melded with the very earth itself. He sighed, then breathed deeply and evenly, nodding his head up and down ever so slowly. The earth spoke to him. It reported on where every living thing in Nordanfel was at that very moment. It told him what kinds of things they were. It told him of its pain felt in Savanod, of its happiness in the Elven Kingdoms to the south, of the discontent in Visonia to the east, of the wariness in Morovar. It spoke to him of everything, both living and non-living, on or beneath its surface. For a moment, he and Nordanfel were one. He knew what it knew, and what it knew was not all good.

He opened his eyes, and his hands returned to flesh and blood, resting quietly upon the ground. He shuddered and stood, walking carefully through the growing darkness toward his subterranean home. Something extremely powerful, and deathly evil, was rising in Nordanfel. But how could he warn the masses without alerting them to his ancestry and powers? How could he battle this evil when he had forsworn using his powers for anything but the most mundane of tasks? Eons ago he had wielded his power like a mighty scythe, and it had led to the extermination of his people, the creators of all the races of Man. Never again.

* * *

Back inside the warm, dry, well-lit cave, Azura was busying herself dressing a hare for their evening stew. She had picked cabbage, carrots, and beets on her way, and had arrived to find a blazing fire already burning beneath the small, tripod-supported pot. It struck her as somewhat odd when she realized that while she had never seen Ahren’s home without a flame, neither had she ever seen him light one. After pondering this for a moment, she passed it off as mere chance, and continued to prepare their meal.

As she skinned and filleted the hare, it also occurred to her that while Ahren was never without meat, she had never seen him use the enormous crossbow that even now stood ready in its place against the wall. However, she knew, he was quick and deadly with the eight-inch hunting knife that was ever present on his belt, hanging at his right side. She examined the carcass and found that its throat had been slit, which seemed far too accurate for hunting a wild animal with a knife. Peculiar.

She had asked her father once just who or what Ahren was. He had replied only that he was not one of the races of Man, and that dangerous questions like that should go unasked. Naturally, even with an elf child, this only roused her curiosity more, and she began to neglect the pomp and pageantry of her diplomatic duties in order to spend more time with Ahren.

She had yet to actually catch him doing anything unusual, but she possessed an elf’s patience, and persevered. It was only by chance that she was here today on more-or-less official business, for Ahren held no title, little land, and should have been no one of import – but she trusted her elven instincts, which told her that there was more to this man than he allowed others to see. For instance, it was curious that the spring outside of his cave’s entrance never wavered, was always cool, fresh, and abundant. It always seemed to rain exactly when Ahren needed it to, and for just the right amount of time. She had never known him to rotate his crops, yet still, they flourished. His fields were always blessed with a comfortable breeze, and the soil constantly seemed ready for plants to take root. One look at his magnificent spice garden was proof enough of that.

When she had finished preparing the stew and Ahren had yet to return, she took the rare opportunity to look around his modestly appointed cave. Even that was odd, she thought – who but the subterranean dwarves chose to live in caves? Even all but the lowest orcs slept in communal yurts. What was it about this strange man that led him to reside in a cave - an admittedly comfortable cave, but a cave nevertheless? As she strolled deeper into its recesses, she encountered piles of well-read books on countless subjects of science and philosophy. She found a small walnut desk covered with parchments inscribed in a language she did not recognize – and as a diplomat for the elven courts, she knew nearly every language there was to know.

Everywhere, torches flickered gaily, obliterating all but the most minor of shadows. Somehow, though, the scent of smoke was not thick in the air, and though she felt the heat of the flames, her intuition told her that the flame would not burn her if she were to touch it. It was only with great difficulty that she curtailed such an inspection, and walked on.

She encountered more parchments and maps written in the same unknown language that had adorned the papers on the desk. Finally, she came to a split in the passage, one that she would have sworn on her ancestors’ graves hadn’t been there the last time she had explored the cave. Selecting the left-hand corridor for no particular reason, she advanced. It, too, was lit by torches, though not as well as the main passage. She walked a short distance and then gasped as the hallway abruptly opened into a lighted chamber. It was a personal armory. The suit of armor hanging from the wall was a strange mixture of plate and chain that gave it both rigidity and flexibility. It was covered in runes of gold, silver, and emerald; runes that Azura did not understand or even recognize. But most unnerving was the soft white glow given off by the metal. She looked closer at the glowing material and marveled, for she knew that not even the finest craftsmen among the elves or the dwarves combined could have managed such perfection. She suspected that it was one of a kind in all Morovar – nay, in all Nordanfel itself.

Below the armor was a sheathed sword and dagger set, emitting its own curious glow and covered in the same runes. She picked up the sword and carried it nearer to the torchlight at the doorway, turning the sheathed blade over in her hands as she walked. She knelt at the threshold and pulled the sword from its sheath. The blade emitted a brilliant emerald green light, so strong that it appeared to be made of light itself, even though she could feel the cool metal upon her palm. Again, she marveled at its construction, as she gripped the handle and gave it a careful, experimental swing. It weighed almost nothing, and cleaved the air without a sound. She carefully swung it back the other direction, awed by its perfect balance.

You don’t have to be so careful with it. I promise it won’t break or dull if you accidentally hit the walls.

Azura jumped straight up and quickly sheathed the sword as she turned around and gazed back into the armory. Ahren stood in the middle of the room, grinning up at her.

I’m sorry! she exclaimed, and rushed to place the sword back where it had been found.

Azura, Azura! Do not be embarrassed, for the embarrassment should be mine. We have been friends for nearly one hundred years now, and in all that time, I’ve never shown you my armor or my weapons, just that crude crossbow in the antechamber. I do not fault a youngster for curiosity. His words echoed throughout the chamber, resonant and strong, yet soft and fatherly – and somehow ancient – at the same time.

He calls me youngster, yet he looks so young himself, thought Azura. How old is this man? Despite her curiosity, she couldn’t shake the more pressing question that bubbled to her lips. How did you get in here? I was blocking the passage!

He grinned broadly and clapped her on the shoulder. My little elf, I am so small compared to you. Perhaps you simply didn’t notice me slipping past.

I think that I would have noticed, Ahren!

Well, then you come up with a better explanation.

She thought about it for a moment, then blanched and said, You moved through the stone and entered the chamber behind me.

Ahren frowned for a moment and shook his head. Have you ever heard of anyone who could do that, my dear? Really, if someone could do that, don’t you think that other people would know about it? If I could move through walls, would I content myself with an herb garden, or would I live as a rich man by pillaging the earth for its gems? Be serious, Azura. I think that you were simply so enthralled by my sword that you failed to notice me.

It was Azura’s turn to frown. What he said made perfect sense; far more sense than her own accusation, in fact. She looked at Ahren, and though he had resumed smiling at her, she felt the first of many curious misgivings she would experience. Of course, Master Ahren, I must have been mistaken. She paused for a moment, searching the room with her eyes as she searched her mind for words. Perhaps you could tell me about your armor now?

Ahren’s smile broadened, and he hugged the much taller elf close. Of course, my southern flower. Anything for my only friend. He moved over to the wall and ran his hand down the front of the breastplate.

The material is called shimiral. It is easy to work with when cool, and takes permanent shape when fired in a kiln. The glow is simply a byproduct of the armor’s forging – a process that, I am afraid, I am not overly familiar with. But I can tell you that the metal somehow knows its owner, for no glow is ever precisely the same color – the glow fits the personality of the wearer. Mine was the first suit of white ever produced.

He nudged the sword with his toe. The sword and dagger are of landrit, a strong metal in its own right. As for its glow, it’s really only useful for lighting dark spaces or intimidating enemies on the battlefield. It serves no other purpose, I assure you. In truth, I rarely had use for these weapons at all.

Azura looked down at him, wide-eyed. And the runes? I do not recognize them.

Ahren paused for a moment, and appeared to have a brief mental argument with himself that showed in his eyes. When he spoke, it was quiet and slow. Yes, the runes. They imbue these weapons with some unusual properties. It is magic. A magic of my people, written in a language that has been dead for a very, very long time. No one alive today would recognize those runes. He sighed silently and averted his eyes toward the floor. After an uncomfortable moment of silence passed between them, he began again. I must ask you, my dear friend, to swear Elf Oath that you will never reveal to anyone what you have seen or heard here today. I ask you as a friend.

Azura reached down for his arm and took it in her slender hands. Of course, Ahren! I swear on my ancestors, my kin, and my future progeny that I will never reveal what I have been witness to today.

Ahren nodded and his face brightened. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, rocking back on his heels until she thought that he might fall over. He then exhaled swiftly, swung his arms out to the sides in a friendly show of acceptance, and said simply, I can smell the stew all the way back here. Perhaps it is time for supper?

She gently flicked the side of his head with her finger and smiled. But of course. Just keep in mind that I’m a diplomat, not a chef ; especially under these less-than-ideal conditions.

He laughed and motioned her forward. Oh, my little elf, you possess talents that you won’t even admit to.

The stew was delicious, and their spirited conversation lasted well into the night before each turned to a bedroll and fell asleep. Ahren’s last thought before drifting off to sleep was to wonder how he could have been so negligent as to have left the armory chamber’s passageway open with the cave unattended like that.

* * *

Ahren was startled awake by Azura’s sudden screaming. He glanced briefly outside, and saw that it was still some time before sunrise. Stealing quickly across the cave by the light from the still glowing embers of the fire, he allowed his hand to come to rest on his hunting knife as he placed his left hand on Azura’s shoulder. Her eyes were wide in horror, her face flushed.

The Princess! she screamed. The Princess! The Princess has been taken and is in terrible danger! She is with child! She continued to scream and repeat herself as Ahren tried to calm her down.

Come now, child, be still! he implored. Sensing no immediate physical danger, he put both hands on her shoulders and shook her, yet still she screamed, her eyes wide and focused on nothing. He tried caressing her face and talking to her, but none of it seemed to help. Finally, as she continued to scream, he sat back on his haunches and cupped his hands before his chest. They immediately filled up with ice-cold water, which he threw in her face. She sputtered and stopped screaming, only to begin crying, throwing her long arms over his shoulders.

Telepathy! she bawled, I received a telepathic message from our embassy in Cirunel. Ahren stroked her hair with one hand and held her close as her body was wracked with sobs.

Shh, shh, it’s all right. You’re safe. Tell me what you heard, he