Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin)

by Matthew D. Ryan

  I make a third circle around the guild. It is a long and lazy circle, since there is little need to rush. Clarissa is stalking the streets and will meet me at midnight. It should take very little persuasion to have Jacindra invite her in. In the meantime, there seem to be ample opportunities for entertainment.

  To the best of my knowledge they have only added more guards. Where one man with sword and helm could not stop me, they expect two with the aid of a mage to succeed. I am almost insulted. Surely, they can do better than that. Do they not know what I am? If those guards aren’t at least armed with silver weapons, I will be half-inclined to go home. They will have taken all the fun out of this. Perhaps they need to be better instructed in exactly what it is they face.

  I dive silently through the sky, a black shape hidden by darkness and the raging storm.

  There is one group of guards in a passage ahead of me. I’ll come from above, go through the window, and take out the mage before they know what’s happened. If they have silver, one guard will die quickly, and the other will be tortured slowly and left for the whole guild to see.

  The wind rushes past me and the scents of the night fill my lungs. There is the distant smell of pines from the forest, the scent of muddied filth from the city, and flesh, sweat, and the oh, so sweet odor of blood from the wizards guild. The window draws near, and the men are coming into view. They have their backs to me as I hurtle forward—What is that? There is another scent, the distinctive smell of magic, strong magic.

  Too late.

  I crash through the window in an explosion of fire and earth. Even as my form changes shape, bits of enchanted stone tear into my flesh, and infernal fires engulf me. My screech of pain tears through the night like the thunder of the gods themselves. A sigil! The cursed wizards trapped the window!

  So much for the silent approach.

  I stagger to my feet as the men turn to face me. My left leg and forearm are charred and numb. Bits of dead flesh hang down the side of my face and a long jagged gash mars my chest. My clothes are tattered and my cape is aflame.

  One guard freezes with his face contorted in horror while the other draws a dagger and lunges toward me. Dazed, I watch as a glittering metallic blade drives into my stomach. There is a sharp jab of pain, and a thin tendril of smoke rises from the wound. Silver.

  The guard drives the blade in to its hilt while behind him the wizard chants his words. Ignoring the agony, my fingers circle around the watchman’s elbow, then give a sharp and violent twist. There is a snapping sound and the man screams.

  “Alrithiel duon kal zamir,” the wizard cries, pointing his wretched finger. I raise my arm to shield my face, but it avails me not. A bolt of blue fire the size of a man’s arm rips through the air, splashing across my chest and stomach. Searing pain drives me choking to my knees and the smell of burnt dead flesh fills the air. I gag on the acrid fumes, but not so much that I fail to see the wizard as he smiles. The arrogant mortal begins another chant.

  His mouth forms the second syllable when my fingers close around his throat. A smile. Yes, even as his body falls his face still wears that gleeful smile, apparently not cognizant of the fact that he’d lost.

  One guard is injured, and the other is terrified. The first rises slowly to his feet, desperately searching for his weapon. Unfortunately for him, it is still embedded in my stomach—odd, that through the harm it has inflicted it has been negated as a threat. Beside the first, the second guard is staring at me with rigid eyes and mouth. I smile at him. He backs away.

  There is a sound down the left-hand corridor, then another from the right. I have two more groups of guardsmen bearing down on me. Four men, two mages, and myself wounded. There is neither time to fight, nor even time to feed.

  It takes three heartbeats for me to break the window sigil. That is almost one heartbeat too many. A crossbow bolt tipped with silver sinks into my thigh. It causes pain, but it is nothing I cannot endure. However, the sound of arcane chants fills the air, carrying with it a promise of a far more certain destruction.

  Grasping the outside wall, I swing cat-like onto the window sill, then up. My hand is the last part of me to exit from the hall. Unfortunately, it is a trifle slow. A grip of iron encircles my wrist. Startled, I give a brief tug to loosen its grasp.

  It holds.

  What could possibly be strong enough to thwart my power? Snarling, I heave with the strength of a god. Surprisingly, it still resists, but only for a moment. There is a loud crash and a grinding sound as my hand comes up, dragging a second hand that had thought to retain me. It is made of dark grey stone and its fingers encircle my wrist like a noble’s bracelet. Blue sparks flare along its broken edge, then fade. Without the magic to aid it, the stone cannot grip me against my will. It passes through my flesh, then falls into the darkness below.

  There are shouts from the corridor and a head pokes out the window. There is very little time. Fortunately, I am an exceptionally fast and agile climber.