Chapter Twenty-Two
There is someone creeping quietly ahead of me, moving down the corridor around the bend. I can tell that it’s a woman. She gasped once, not loudly, but with enough pitch to reveal that feminine taint to her voice. If I listen carefully, I can hear her heart beating, strong and fast—very healthy.
She is creeping slowly, staying close to the passage wall. Something soft is muffling her footfalls in a poor attempt to mask her retreat. To a mortal creature, her feet would be silent beyond notice, but it takes more than slippers to fool ears as acute as mine. Apparently, she suspects this too. She is picking up her pace. Indeed, she is nearly running.
Should I chase her down? My real target is the mage Regecon, and his circle of wizards. This woman, though she smells of magic, is not one of those. If she is, she is very late for her meeting and has a long way to go. As the guard informed me, there are several passages and two flights of stairs before the High Council Chamber.
A walk down the corridor brings the woman’s scent more strongly to my nose. She wears a pleasant perfume tonight, one that mixes oddly with the scent of magic and sweat that still lingers in the air. If I were a man, I suppose I would find her perfume enticing. In a way it is still enticing, but mine is not the lust of a simple man. I have fed once already this evening, but the pangs of hunger are quick to return; they never stay sated for very long.
Glancing toward the crumpled guard, my thoughts consider his body and the blood it harbors. No. The man is dead and the precious fluid grows cooler by the moment; it is losing its flavor and texture with great rapidity.
I turn from the corpse.
Ahead of me, the woman is now running at full speed, no longer making any effort whatsoever to hide her presence. My feet carry me after her, quickly and quietly, but not in a rush; it is much more desirable to stalk, to play, to savor the terror of one’s victim.
Up ahead, a door closes and the lock clicks into place.
She has sought a hidden refuge, foolishly thinking a wooden barrier can keep me from her. How enchanting. What else might she try? A spell to ward the door, perhaps? Another ready in mind?
I approach the barrier. It is solidly built, made of some wood I don’t recognize and reinforced with bronze; the scent of magic wafts delicately up from the handle of the door, the markings of a sorcerous trap. A strong trap, too, given the time this woman had. Zarina herself could hardly have done better on such short notice. Not that it matters. Even Zarina could not keep me at bay with a spell like this; I do not need to use a handle to enter a room.
My foot steps forward, then stops in midstride. There is a commotion at the far end of the hall and the distinctive ring of chain mail links clanking together echoes down the passage. Another guard, doing his nightly rounds, approaches.
He hasn’t seen me yet, seemingly more concerned with the storm outside than with the duty he has chosen. To him the storm is an oddity, an aberration of nature, something to enrapture his mind on a long and tedious night. It sends no warning to his thoughts; it heralds no rising of my power. If it did, he would flee in terror.
My gliding form makes no sound; it draws to within five paces before the man turns. With a strangled shout, he reaches for his sword while my body hurtles forward. My clawed hands rake across his chest and slam him forcibly against the guild house wall. There is a snap of breaking bones and a sudden strained outflow of breath from his lungs. The guard retains his sword, but the wheezing for lost air has driven all thoughts of resistance from his mind.
My feet glide forward and my hand grabs his chin in a grip of iron. Slowly, deliberately, I lift him up, digging my claws into his cheeks and scraping his metal helm against the wall. Realizing his danger, the mortal slashes with his sword. The unhindered passage of his weapon through my chest brings his eyes wide with surprise and shock. Desperately, futilely, he slashes toward my neck, striking a blow to sever my head. Again, the weapon passes through without resistance. A third time he strikes, this time toward my shoulder. Such a puny mind cannot comprehend the paradox that confronts it: I hold him up, but his weapon does not touch me.
A warm rivulet of blood flows from his cheek down the backside of my hand. A crimson drop splatters on the cold stones of the floor.
My smile is one of mocking contempt, challenging the man to solve the riddle. With deliberate slowness, I use my other hand to trace a drop of human blood pooling on the crevice of my thumb. The dumbfounded eyes watch my finger in confusion as it lifts up and carefully draws a circle on his head. Will he make any connection whatsoever?
Indeed, he does. The sword clatters to the ground and he swings his fist toward my chin. We both feel it, not the ineffectiveness that marked the sword, but a trace of resistance—like a special piece of iron passing near the lodestone. Neither stone nor iron is harmed, but there is contact of a sort.
I shove him farther up the wall, drawing sparks from his helm and producing a tremendous screeching sound.
Desperately he lashes out, trying to drive me back with his fist. It avails him not. The contact is frail and tenuous, like two clouds passing through each other, then moving onward in the night. In a final gesture of defiance, he grapples for my arm. His groping fingers pass through my shoulder, my elbow, then suddenly find purchase near my wrist. They slip a moment, sliding through, but he finally manages to dig his fingers into my thumb, hoping his puny mortal strength can force a loosening of my grip.
A brief thought and my hand becomes as mist to him, matching the rest of my body. The man’s fingers slide through my flesh, clattering loudly against the chain links of his armor. He stumbles to his knees. Ironically, he leans over and sticks his helmet through my leg.
I reach down, turn his face toward mine, then grip his helm with both my hands. A brief moment of exertion, and it crumples inward spilling blood and gore. I twist his head around one final time, then let his body slump to the guild house stones.
Turning, I glance back to the door behind which the woman still hides. It would seem this man has saved her life, unwittingly or not. My time is short, and I have dallied far too long. It is the man Regecon that I seek, not a frightened school girl, no matter how enchanting her tricks may be. I must move on, sparing not even the time to make a proper feed.
Whirling about, my feet carry me from woman, man, and hall. I move around a corner to the first staircase the guardsman mentioned and climb down one flight of steps. Three more passages bring me to a second staircase leading to the ground level floor. From here, it is but a brief walk to the waiting wizards.
As quiet as autumn moonlight, I slip through the guild house halls. One more guardsman meets a gruesome end tonight and his corpse finds rest in a secluded niche, one which will keep him hidden until after I am gone.
At long last, I stand before the door of the High Council Chamber, peering cautiously through the crack between iron door and wall. It is such a fine line, I must insert my head partially into the room to get a clear view.
Inside, the wizards sit in earnest debate. I recognize Jacindra, but not the others. She is quietly sitting in the corner, apparently distant from the ongoing discussion. I will have to speak to her about that—she must become more active, more vocal to my cause. Perhaps, if I bit her this time ...
There is a commotion as one mage rises. By his dress, I’d say he was a fire wizard. By the respect he’s given, I’d say he was Regecon, the guild master. He seems to be dismissing the mages, yet only two of them are leaving. Jacindra is heading toward one of the distant doors and one of the other men is marching in my direction.
If I let this one wizard past, that will leave three inside the chamber. Can I handle three? I am fairly certain I could, but dawn draws near. It could be fatal to find oneself embroiled in battle with the rising of the Sun. Although I will have a guild between myself and His rays, the proper spell, a well-placed mirror, or the crumbling of the stones could rob me of my strength. Best to find another means to strike my blow.
I
could stalk Jacindra, but I already hold sway over her heart, if not her soul. That leaves the man approaching. Now, then, what of him?
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 43