The Steward and the Sorcerer by James Peart (books suggested by elon musk .TXT) 📕

but I call it the Netillus, a word in my language that roughly translates as ‘formless.’

Far beneath him, on the bottom horizon of the Tochried’s mind, Iridis observed himself smile grimly.  Your time is over, helpmate.  You and I know that you can only extend your influence on one of us at a time.  Release your grip on this thing and try me instead.

And you think you can control us both?  You’re a dupe.  You still don’t understand, do you?  Those powers you have based on the physical, the so-called minds you govern stirred by your touch.  The Tochried has not so much as sensed you yet.  But it will, when I merge into you.

Iridis tried reaching out to the creature with a sequence of impressions, putting them in correct order in an effort to replace thought, then changing image to impulse, creating the idea of freedom from what controlled it inside the Tochried’s mind/non-mind.  None of it seemed to work.  He sensed the other’s contempt.

Have at me then, fool! he cried out.  See what happens when you confront the Raja Iridis.

Wrock acted blindingly quick, gathering every last reserve of his power, striking Iridis with the brunt of his force, lines of energy sent streaming through the other’s awareness, echoing through the tangled labyrinth of his mind with a charging intensity in a series of resounding booms, scaling upward in potency and force.  On and on he went, finding new avenues and corridors to travel, twisting deep into the heart of the Naveen King, turning as he turned, moving away from the Tochried, beckoned by the mainstay of the other, searching for the source of his lifeblood, penetrating deeper into the core of what awaited him.

Too late it occurred to him that he could not go back, realising with sudden, sickening understanding that he had become lost in the tangle of endless dark tunnels that countenanced Iridis’ awareness.

Screaming into the burrowed void, he dimly registered the intersecting cry of the Tochried on realising it had finally been released from Tan Wrock’s hold.

35.

As the doors to the complex swung violently open, the company made up of Legionnaires, Steward and Englishmen came face to face with the hulking, brutish form of the Tochried.  Its eyes, deep red pools beneath thickset brows, came to rest on the group.  In one massive paw lay the broken, lifeless form of the Naveen King. Simon and Christopher both let out a gasp of recognition as they noticed the King, one part of all their troubles, now so easily dispatched.  The others, thinking the Raja one of the citizens- perhaps having somehow escaped its attack and returned to make an ill-advised last stand against the creature- backed away from it, fear and wonder drafted on their features alongside a respect for this brave citizen.  Only Longfellow and Dechs did not show themselves to be afraid, the former standing very still, silently mouthing words as if rehearsing a speech.  The Commander signalled to his men to get ready to charge, lifting one clenched fist in a familiar gesture.  The Legionnaires tensed, gathering close, moving forward as one.

Absentmindedly, the Tochried cast Iridis aside like a rag doll and stepped through the entryway into the compound.

It brought its hands together in a deafening clap, the sound echoing throughout the courtyard of the complex, booming off the walls and rebounding in a thunderous roar, building a horrible momentum as it travelled toward the men, a wave to sweep them off the face of existence.  It would have finished them all if Christopher hadn’t acted in that moment.  Darting forward in front of the others to meet the forward pitch of the wave, he grasped the crystal that hung around his neck and lifted it above his chest.  Shutting his eyes tight, swallowing the sudden terror that rose up in him like a scream, he swept aside his cowardice and braced himself for the impact.  For a long moment that seemed to stretch out endlessly, nothing happened.  The moment passed into another and still nothing but the sound of the wave’s undulating pitch.  Christopher dared to open his eyes.  Through narrow slits he could see the swell had split to form hundreds of separate waves, pitching and rolling of their own accord, targeted at each man.  His hold on the crystal tightened, his fingers bleeding where they gripped its edges.  He composed a silent prayer to the Gods who ruled this place, pleading with them to finish him quickly.

A fraction of a second before impact, the single red flaw inside the crystal began to pulsate wildly.  Lines of force shot out toward the ruptured swell, catching the arc of each errant wave, shining in one fiercely magnificent pulse that was momentarily blinding, before dying to a dull red once more, the attack over in that fraction of a second.

The Tochried stared at Christopher as if unable to process what it had just witnessed.  Its hands lifted once more yet hovered uncertainly at the level of its chest, deciding if it should send a fresh attack.

Karsin Longfellow watched what had transpired in numb disbelief.  He had simply stood there while the creature attacked and for his inaction had almost been killed!  If it hadn’t been for the imposter they would all be dead.  How could he have been so stupid?  He alone held the key to his survival, the way things should have been, a certainty granted to him by the Darksphere, in the form of an incantation recited to him by the Sphere, a sequence of words that would make the creature his own, overriding any other influence including Tan Wrock’s.  He stared at the Tochried.  The creature was confused, thanks to the imposter, unused to being challenged in battle.  He should make use of it now, before it regained its senses.

Bringing the words to his lips, he walked forward and addressed it, calling out: “Mih set kraht, fan Dom ii tyl!”The demon narrowed its gaze on him, listening.  Turning,