The Forbidden Spell

Basetcha the Baccanian, the most renowned and feared sorcerer all the way from Kirunsia to An'Dreana, was lying on his deathbed. He, who had bound the forces of darkness and the most powerful demons with his word was helpless in front of disease, and no spells could save him. After months of agony he was weak and languished. All the strength was gone from his limbs and his face had sunken in on his skull. However his eyes still blazed in their sockets; the mind behind the flesh fought for its survival.

Robed figures surrounded his bed, but Basetcha didn't find a single friend among the high cheekbones and shining eyes. He regretted staying in An'Dreana. An'Dreana was the city of elves and its physicians had no understanding for human suffering. Their pity was mixed with pride. They were the chosen people, who never would taste a bitter death like this.

Still their realm is decaying, like I do. An'Dreana isn't more than an empty shell anymore, waiting to be struck asunder. The elven land has lain in pieces for a thousand years, and still they raise themselves above humanity. Still... still...

Basetca closed his eyes. His body shook with the spasms.

"His time is near", he heard someone whisper. Like the sand in a broken hourglass the number of mourners shrunk, until Basetcha realized he had been left alone. Bitterness went through him like a shiver.

They think death is holy, but I curse it!

His room as in the same order it had been when he fell ill three months earlier. He had been studying forbidden magic, used by the pyramis far out in the desert. It was outright ironic, that among those papers there was a spell that was claimed to return life back to the dying.

The forbidden spell...

Elves say, that nothing else could follow from the powers of darkness but pain. Basetcha could still hear his teachers' voice in his mind: The great Cha is the father of all that is good. What is not from him, hurts and destroys you. The touch of darkness ruins the soul. It's a curse that costs you more than your life. Don't touch it! Even when coming near to losing your life, don't turn to the father of Darkness...

A new seizure threw him into an abyss of despair. The sorcerer convulsively took hold of the side of his bed. Horror grasped his heart. I can't breathe!

Slowly the sickness let him go. It was clear that his body wouldn't survive to the following day. Death is closing in. Whether you want it or not, you die.

When Basetcha opened his eyes, he turned his gaze towards the flickering candle on his desk. How often he had sat in front of that desk reading, until early in the morning the flame finally went out. Now the flame was the stronger of them two.

No! I don't have to die. I can drive him away...

The ritual required blood. He didn't have any other than his own. He didn't have the strength to stand up, but he fought his way over the floor to his table. On it there lay a dagger he had brought with him from the desert.

He had sat next to the words so long that they fell down his tongue as if on their own. He let his blood flow and drew the magical symbols on the floor.

"Depart Allw, master of the dead!

Depart, Faceless one! back to your souls.

With the words of the Liar I bind you.

The One who Avenges! The One who Takes! The One who Sees!

In the name of Qiemiz I drive you away!

Do not take what is mine, but that I give you:

Accept my sacrifice."

"I offer you..." His voice died. I don't have anything to give. By taking up the dagger he had given up everything he ever had. It's over, he told himself. When the sun raises I will be dead.

Basetcha was too weak to fight. He closed his eyes and plunged into deep, dreamless sleep.