Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin)

by Matthew D. Ryan

  They are huddled around a fire in the center of the river. The distance to their refuge is only thirty paces, but it could just as well be thirty miles. A look to Silgaren, shrouded by clouds, verifies my doubts. Midnight is long passed, and I am thwarted until the dawn. By then I will be too vulnerable to engage in battle. Alas, that tides do not affect the stream to my advantage.

  The river bank is soft and moist, covered with the raging spray. The spray itself cannot harm me, but the torrents ... Carefully, I step back to Clarissa’s side. Tyrgon, the great grey, nuzzles my leg. He licks my hand in a subservient manner and seems ... apologetic. A faint smile skims across my lips. He is only a wolf, after all, and they are devious, devious men. I relay as much to the wolf with my mind. They are cunning adversaries, Tyrgon. Do not worry about your failure, but prepare your pack for the river’s bite. He whines and whimpers. He is not fond of water. No matter. He will obey.

  Clarissa motions to me. “They have spotted us. Perhaps, they will try to flee and leave their safety?”

  “No. The warrior knows of roses, I assume he is conscious of this as well. As you said, he brought them here deliberately ... they intend to wait us out.”

  “Is there nothing we can do? If we fly ...”

  “Up a thousand feet and over? We will be on the other side, but they will still be safe. No.” I watch a snowflake drift slowly from the sky. It spirals once, twice, then lands on the wet grass. It melts, but there will soon be others. “A compatriot of mine once said, a very, very long time ago, ‘If the cat plays with the mouse too long, then the cat may dine at an empty table.’ Perhaps my old friend was right. Perhaps we let our sport go on too long, and the mice have slipped right out from beneath our claws. Then again, we are not without resources.” I turn to Tyrgon and point across the river. The great grey wolf immediately comes to attention. “Go, my pet,” I say. “Seek them out and kill them.” Tyrgon barks in command and the pack yowls in excitement. They rush the river in a mad frenzy, a flood of black shapes surging forward to obscure the raging stream. I watch the charge with grim devotion. If the cat plays with the mouse too long ... I turn away in fury, my rage growing as I contemplate my mistake. Curses and Blood through all Hell. I let these men come to my castle, to my home, to my lair, and then I let them go! Like smoke from a fire, they are slipping through my fingers. Bad enough that I revealed myself without delivering a single fatal blow, now they will return to Drisdak and inform the guild of my presence. Yes, I erred. My mistake is quite evident now. The guild will soon know where I am, and that leaves me with but a single recourse ... War. A struggle to the death. My old friend also said ‘Fortune favors the initial blow’—not the words of a poet, but they may yet have some wisdom.

  “Clarissa.” She turns to me, expectantly, but my eyes ignore her. They are locked in focus on the advancing wolves. “Watch them. Keep them here all night. If they try to flee ... kill them all. If the wolves can take them, all the better, but I distrust the luck of our elusive foes. They are relentless, devious men—warriors through and through.”

  “Where are you going?’

  I shift my gaze to her and hold her with my eyes. My voice is calm, like the emptiness of a tomb. “I have some wizards to kill.”