Chapter One
A gentle rapping echoed in the chamber.
Regecon stirred under the sheets of his bed.
The rapping on the door continued.
With a weary sigh, Regecon sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he called. A glance toward the window told him it was still dark out—many long hours until the dawn. “This had better be good.” Mumbling to himself, the fire mage slid his feet over the side of the bed.
He stretched and yawned loudly. He stood, wrapped his red-orange robe about his shoulders, then strode toward the far door to open it. In the hallway outside, a young man in servant’s garb stood trembling in excitement.
“The night watchman sent me for you, sir,” he said. “There’s a fire in the High Tower. You must come at once.”
“A fire? Is it a large one?” Regecon asked, all thought of sleep vanishing. “What of Arcalian?”
“It has gutted the upper level, sir, and no one has seen or heard from either Arcalian or Aristoceles since it was discovered. Please, sir, you must come at once.”
“I’ll head there immediately. Go and wake Toreg.” As a master of seacraft, Toreg possessed skills with elemental water that could prove useful if the fire got beyond Regecon’s control. “Quickly, now.”
With long hurried strides Regecon headed down the hall, his thoughts troubled. A fire in the guild master’s quarters was a serious matter. Arcalian possessed considerable knowledge of flamecraft as well as seacraft; if a blaze was beyond his control, something must be terribly wrong. What could have possibly happened?
It was only a short distance to the High Tower, yet by the time Regecon arrived a small crowd of servants and white-robed apprentices had gathered before the steps of the great staircase. After several moments of searching, Regecon at last spied the night watchman in quiet debate with a young apprentice. The conversation became audible as Regecon approached.
“I don’t care if the mages can handle it. We’re not about to sit by and watch. The fire could gut the whole tower by the time they get here. Now take your friends and some of those servants and start hauling up buckets of water from the cellar well.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mathagarr,” Regecon said, interrupting the watchman. The apprentice smiled in a quiet I-told-you-so fashion, but a shrewd glance from the mage wiped the look from his face. Abashed, the apprentice looked down at his feet.
Mathagarr and Regecon had known each other for nearly twenty years, ever since Regecon first came to the town of Drisdak to study magic. And though Regecon was born of noble blood and Mathagarr had been little more than an adventurous commoner, they had become and remained fast friends.
Regecon turned to the night watchman, his expression sober. “If you would just fill me in, I believe I can handle things, although I have sent for Toreg just in case.”
“Certainly, Councilman,” Mathagarr said in a formal tone; in the company of others, the guardsman took care with his speech, primarily because of a certain episode he had had with Toreg a few months back. Mathagarr had been addressing the Council of High Mages on a simple matter concerning several late night pilferings that had occurred. In the middle of his speech, the watchman had made the mistake of referring to Regecon by name. Toreg had become irate, calling Mathagarr to order and insisting that all mages be given the respect they deserved when being addressed by the “commoners.” To a certain extent Regecon had agreed with Toreg, at least when the council was in session. However, there was such a thing as taking propriety too far. Toreg had pursued his case to the extreme, even insinuating that Mathagarr was somehow involved with the thefts—an insinuation Regecon found patently absurd. It was not until Morcallenon, the head diviner, had cleared things up and the real thief placed in custody that Toreg had even begun to speak directly to Mathagarr again. Since then Mathagarr took great pains to address Regecon in public as ‘sir’ or ‘Councilman.’
“If you would just follow me to the staircase, sir,” Mathagarr continued, “I’ll give you the details. I was doing my usual rounds when I heard a loud crash from above. I went up the stairs to investigate and found Guild Master Arcalian’s chamber doorframe collapsed and his room ablaze. The heat and smoke were far too intense for me to brave alone and I could hear the floor beginning to crack and give. I called loudly for Master Arcalian and with no answer forthcoming, I returned downstairs to get help. I sent one of the servants to fetch you and I gathered several others and was about to send them off to get buckets of water when you arrived.”
“Thank you, Mathagarr,” Regecon said, “You have done we—” A horrendous explosion and crash reverberated down the hall from above, shaking the staircase and sending an apprentice stumbling to his knees. “What was that?”
“It must be the chamber floor, sir,” Mathagarr answered. “It has probably collapsed, no doubt spreading the fire to the storage room on the lower level.”
“Then I mustn’t waste my time further in discussion. Mathagarr, disperse the crowd and send Toreg up after me as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
With nothing else to delay him, Regecon turned and took the first three steps in a single bound, then proceeded in a similar fashion up the winding stairs. After two complete spirals, he came to the level of the storage room. Already smoke could be seen issuing from the crack beneath the heavy door. He placed his palm flat on the surface of the wood, and then pulled it away thoughtfully as he felt the gentle warmth.
He took time to cast a brief charm against possible backdrafts, then turned the great door handle and gave a firm shove. A moment’s worth of mild resistance gave way with a groan and the great door swung inward. A blast of thick black smoke sent Regecon staggering back onto the staircase, coughing to catch his breath. Waving the smoke from his face and hacking loudly, Regecon murmured a second incantation, took a deep breath of fresh air, then strode into the chamber to gaze upon a hellish scene.
At one time the chamber had been simply furnished with a variety of wooden shelves and crates lining its walls, stock full of clean linens and the occasional odd old clothes. Now the room resembled the abode of the most hellish fiend of nightmare. The wooden floor of the mage’s study above had collapsed, scattering debris everywhere. Two of the linen shelves on opposite sides of the room lay on their sides under the crushing weight of the largest intact slab of the fallen ceiling. In the center of the room, as if in defiance, two smoldering crates stood stacked one upon the other while the rest of the chamber drifted in and out of view behind roaring flames.
Looking up, Regecon saw the remnants of the upper level floor reaching out to form jagged smoldering overhangs. Through the billowing smoke he sighted two such overhangs holding precariously in place what looked to be another large section of the floor—with a start Regecon realized this was the roof of the tower, his probing eyes spying the gleam of a star through a clear patch in the smoke. A groan from beneath his feet brought the mage’s attention back to his own floor. With the wreckage of at least one and a half upper stories weighing down upon it and the fire growing in intensity with each passing moment, he knew his time was short.
Regecon strode purposefully toward the center of the room, the flames dancing around him as he walked. Shortly, he stood before the two burning crates like a devout priest before the sacred statue of his god. Placing his finger on the highest of the two crates he uttered a single word. He retreated three steps, then spread his arms wide and called out in a loud, powerful voice.
With a surprising suddenness, order appeared amidst the chaos. No longer did the flames flicker and blaze in the random fashion accorded by their nature, but rather each began to dance in harmony with the others to a strange and silent tune. While Regecon began to chant, a pulsing light filled the room, like the beating of a gargantuan heart. The fire, caught in his magic, thrashed and convulsed like a living thing filled with rage, bent on consuming everything in its path. Its fiery will locked with Regecon’s forcing
the mage to grunt from the strain. But he delved deep. He channeled torrents of magical energy, using his own body as a conduit to guide the fire and direct its movements. Slowly, sluggishly the flames responded. No longer wild and rampant, they became a guided force with purpose. Around and around they crawled, spiraling in toward the two crates beckoning from the center of the room. The flames embracing the crates grew brighter and stronger as their myriad brethren tumbled in to join them. And as the flames continued to pour in, those which were first to arrive were pushed further and further inward, until at last they were smothered under the continuing onslaught. The outer most edge of the fire diminished, leaving a trail of charred and smoking debris.
Slowly, inexorably, the monster lost its will and the fire began to die. Its heart continued to blaze, roaring up in fury, but its writhing tentacles shriveled away, fading into nothingness.
Finally, all that remained of the fire was its pulsing heart, beating in the center of the room, consuming the wooden crates in its hellish furnace. Uttering a single word, Regecon strode forward to strike the flames with his open palm. With a last desperate hiss, the fire went out and darkness closed in.
Regecon heard voices outside on the stairs and shortly, Mathagarr arrived carrying an oil lamp. Behind him came Toreg, arms folded at his chest, eyebrow arched in quizzical dissatisfaction.
Weary now, Regecon lacked even the energy to move; he simply bowed his head and stood amidst the smoking wreckage. All about him, scattered pieces of what was once Arcalian’s floor lay tumbled in chaos. The gutted remains of wooden crates lay strewn about, blackened shelves littered the floor, and a lone half-eaten desk sat propped against a large slab of flooring near the back wall. Amongst all that wreckage only the center of the room seemed clear; where once two crates had stood, only fine white ash remained.
Regecon groaned, and stooped in pain, bracing himself with hands on thighs.
Kicking aside debris, Mathagarr rushed to the mage’s side, grabbing his arm to steady him and keep him on his feet.
“It’s all right. Just give me a minute,” Regecon said, wearily.
Mathagarr placed one hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Really, I’ll be fine. It was just the finishing touches on that one. The dousing at the end took a lot out of me. Just let me catch my breath ...”
Toreg approached through the tumult. “All things considered, Regecon, you could have waited.” The water mage stopped halfway through the wreckage and stooped down to pick up something. He studied it a moment, then continued forward carrying what looked like a blackened piece of twisted leather in his hand. “It wasn’t wise tackling that fire all by yourself. From the looks of it, it was an exceptionally large one ... and exceptionally hot as well.” He handed the twisted leather to Regecon. “Look at this.”
Regecon took the piece of leather in his hand and straightened his back, his weariness expunged by curiosity. With deft movements, he worked on untwisting the leather into a rough rectangle, nearly two feet long and half as wide. “Looks like a book covering ... Damn, it’s one of Arcalian’s spellbooks. The fire ate through the ward and everything ...”
“Yes, it did. And if that’s all that’s left of that one, you can pretty much assume his other spellbooks are ruined as well, not to mention all the other books he had which weren’t magical but were nonetheless of immense academic value. They weren’t even protected. It is truly an immeasurable loss.”
“Unless, he managed to escape and take some of his books with him ...” Regecon regretted the words almost as soon as they left his lips. Why were they discussing books when there were men still missing?
“Escape? Councilman, your skill in flamecraft does not exceed Arcalian’s by much, and I know he is much more learned about the ways of seacraft than you. He could have handled this fire long before we arrived; I have little doubt of that.”
Regecon considered the thought a moment, then said, “You are probably right, Toreg, but—“
“Sirs,” Mathagarr interrupted with a touch of uneasiness in his voice. “I think ... I see something.” He motioned across the room. “It looks ... like a piece of metal of some kind.”
Both mages watched as the guardsman waded through the still-smoking debris. He was perhaps fifteen feet away and up to his knees in wreckage when he finally stopped, set the lamp down on a blackened crate, and kneeled down to sift through a pile of rubble. “By the Sickle,” he said, studying something in his hands. His back blocked the wizards’ view.
Toreg snorted in irritation. “Well, what is it?”
Mathagarr turned, wiping soot from the mysterious object as he did so. He took a single step forward thrusting his hands before him to display their burden. Although still blackened and dirty, a portion of the object had been wiped clean. It was not difficult to identify. A small metal helm gleamed in the dim lamp light.
Regecon straightened in alarm. “Bloody Hell! Start digging!”
Toreg glanced briefly from the soot-covered floor to his clean blue night robe. “I shall gather some more help,” he said, then turned toward the door.
“Toreg!” Regecon said, as he whirled on the older man. “There may be men buried in there. We have to get them out! If there is even the remotest possibility that someone is ali—”
Toreg returned Regecon’s angry glare with a cool look of his own—an icy, passionless look, devoid of any trace of human emotion. “Don’t be ridiculous. If you find someone, do you have any doubt about the condition they will be in? This room needs to be cleaned and the wreckage removed. Twenty-pair hands can do the work much faster than three.”
Although irritated by his cold reasoning, Regecon again had to admit Toreg was right. It was foolish to think anyone they found could still be alive. He himself had seen the full fury of the fire. “Go then, but be quick about it ... and make sure you grab Morcallenon, I’ll want him to do a divining as soon as possible.”
“As you wish, Councilman. I will return as soon as I can.”
With that Toreg turned and left.
“Well, Mathagarr,” Regecon said, “it’s just you and me for now.”
“With all due respect to Mage Toreg, I kind of prefer it that way. I never much cared for his manners, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Regecon nodded. “I’ve always had an open ear for you, old friend. I, more than anyone else, know Toreg is somewhat lacking in tact, but he’s not a bad man, not really ... just a little cold.”
“You are too lenient. He’s not like you, he treats me more like a dog than a man ... and it’s not just me. The servants, the other guards, even the apprentices have the same complaint. Anyone not a full mage is little more than dirt to him.”
“If I remember, I’ll try to talk to him. There’s little I can do really, he’s been with the guild too long and he’s on his way to becoming a council member himself soon ... But come now, we must start digging.”
It looked to be tedious work, slow and painstaking, but the two men threw themselves vigorously at the task. Lifting and tossing aside countless remnants of the destruction, they began sorting the wreckage into three distinct piles. Each blackened board, each twisted spellbook, they tossed aside searching for some sign of anything human.
“Look here, I think I see something.” Mathagarr stooped down on to his knees, brushing aside a small pile of debris. “By the Scythe-Bearer’s Sickle,” he said. From beneath a fallen beam of oak, fingers spread wide as if waving a sad farewell, a charred skeletal hand stretched out with its flesh all but burnt away.
As the watchman continued to dig, Regecon paused to stare at the hand, somehow sensing that this had been more than a simple fire. They were on the threshold of something far deeper and more mysterious. Mathagarr too, seemed to sense something amiss.
“Something isn’t right here.”
Regecon nodded. “I know. Something went wrong here ... very, very wrong.”
With a loud grunt the two men heaved up the
fallen beam and tossed it aside, then looked down at their find. Crushed under the weight of the beam and almost completely consumed by fire, the remains of a man in armor could be seen. His chain armor was blackened and sooty, his sword at his side was broken at the hilt, and his face was a charred and grinning skull.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 2