The sparkling spring water ran down the hillside in a thin, narrow runnel. It collected in a small pool at the base of two jagged teeth-like rocks, then burbled forth in the cascades of a diminutive waterfall. From there, Toreg knew, it continued its winding journey, all the way to the forest floor.
It had been many years since the water mage had last seen this place. Many years. Growing up, this secluded spot had offered a safe refuge from the village bullies when they had bothered him. Now, when he looked about himself, Toreg felt stunned to find the small glade as enticing and as comforting as it had been so long ago.
A small village, Azerlock held barely seventy households within its bounds. The cozy community had proved to be a fine place for a young boy to grow up in; a fine place with many memories. Most vividly, Toreg remembered the many long days spent with his father, fishing in the bay. He had known so much of fishing then: the proper bait, the proper cast, even how to tie the line in the proper way. All that was forgotten now. Something else had consumed his interest, his passion. Unfortunately, he could not remember what.
“I’m forgetting something,” Toreg said to himself. “Azerlock ... I’m not in Azerlock. Where am I?” He tried to think, to remember, but clouds fogged his mind.
A crash sounded to his right. Turning, he saw a small footpath leading into the trees. The obviously well-used path struck him as particularly odd; he did not remember such a path being there in his childhood days. No, he’d always followed the streamlet from the valley floor.
Intrigued, the water mage walked down the path, delighting in the warmth of the spring air. He saw colors everywhere and a great abundance of vibrant life. He watched in fascination as a butterfly landed on his nose, gently flapping its beautiful wings. The gossamer-thin membranes looked alive with orange and yellow colors, laced about with black lines, very much like the black trim on Reg ... A name tugged at his memory, then slipped away. Orange with black lace. Those colors meant something to someone. What? Who? He groped for the answer, but it eluded him.
The trees changed.
Where before they were the budding heralds of awakening new life, they became something else, something forbidding and sinister. They writhed about with their limbs twisting and contorting like the struggles of a dying beast. The spring day passed and a winter night arose. Shadows played across limbs and leaves, enshrouding trunks and covering the whole forest in gloom. Roots ripped up from the earth, twisting in violent coils and the leaves themselves curled into blackened husks. Toreg shivered.
A voice called to him from amidst the gloom. “Toreg, my son.” He recognized the voice as his father’s.
The aged man stood alone in what appeared to be a prison cell. Nearly bald now, he looked just as he did on the day he ... died?
Dressed in ragged clothes, torn and disheveled from his labors in prison, his father had a searing burn across his chest, a wound in his leg, and gruesome scars across his arms and face. Surely, he was suffering from excruciating pain. However, Toreg knew that his father’s agony would soon come to a long-anticipated end. The hangman’s noose waited and with it, the Scythe-Bearer and his ever patient Sickle. Toreg looked up at the darkened night sky. Dawn. Dawn would bring Death.
Toreg returned his gaze to his imprisoned father. The guards had certainly done their best to lock him up; however, he found it odd that they didn’t use metal for those chains. What were they made out of, anyway? Leather? Toreg squinted to take a closer look. No, not leather. Plants. Around and around the dark green stems coiled, up his father’s arms and across his legs. Interspersed amongst the coils he could see flashes of brilliant red, the last petals of the plant’s radiant flowers. Toreg stepped closer.
His father stared at him, then spoke. “Let me in, Toreg.” The voice seemed to echo over and over again in his head. Clearly, his father, an unjustly accused and convicted man, wanted out of his cell. If Toreg let him out, they could be reunited. The thought of father and son together again, fishing in the bay of Azerlock, brought a gentle tug on the strings of the water wizard’s heart. Toreg reached forward.
“Break the sigil first, my son.”
Toreg looked down. Someone had scrawled a strange pictogram beneath the prison’s window sill. Somehow, he knew it was a danger. Likewise, he knew he could destroy it. He did so.
“Now, the rose.”
There was an apple on the sill. Is that what his father meant? Was he hungry? He lifted the apple and stretched it toward his father. Shedding his vine-like chains, the man stepped up and took the small fruit from him.
Everything shifted.
Toreg found himself swimming now, floundering in an old, stinking swamp with murky waters that threatened to consume him. He saw a fallen branch ahead: a thick limb of a dead tree, lurking just above the water. He struggled toward it, through muck and slime while something slithered past his leg causing him to shiver.
Reaching out with his hand, Toreg grabbed the branch. He sighed in relief as his fingers closed on the rough, damp bark, but then his breath caught in his throat. A large leech crawled along the branch. Long, brown, and covered with slime, the leech clung to the side of the branch like a malignant fungus. It lurked near his hand, and waited patiently for its opportunity. Toreg stared in concern, contemplating what he should do. Perhaps he should crush it? Grind it up beneath his fist and hurl it into the swamp? Another flash of movement swept across his legs, and sent shivers dancing up his spine.
Toreg peered anxiously into the murky depths, but whatever had brushed past him was no longer visible.
A leech posed only a small threat, he decided. Crawling forward, the water mage put both his arms over the side of the branch, and then relaxed. He could rest here. Safe from the threat of the swamp and whatever lurked in its foul waters.
Safe? He wasn’t safe.
The leech crawled toward Toreg’s neck. The water mage sighed, and tried to brush the creature away. Oddly, he couldn’t grab it. His hand passed through as if it were a ghost.
What did it matter? He was in a comfortable position and so very tired. What possible harm could a leech inflict? He could rest now.
A distant part of his mind tried to rouse him, but weariness won out.
The leech crawled forward and attached itself to Toreg’s flesh.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 55