Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was the icy touch of the early chill wind that returned Toreg to his senses. He could feel it dance across his face and neck, driving sharp icicles of cold into his shivering flesh. Slowly, groggily, he opened his eyes.
In the grey of the early dawn he could see a cobbled city street below him. It cut across his vision like a strange grey-scaled serpent and he stared at it in confusion, desperately trying to grapple with the unusual sight. He blinked his eyes and refocused, but the street remained. A lonely peddler wound along its length, the first of the city denizens seeking to sell his wares in the early morning. On either side of the man, huge banks of snow reared up like canyon walls, giving the road an appearance more suited to a ravine than that of a city street. Toreg could only stare.
All that snow. It must have been ten feet high in places. It was a wonder that the city streets were clear at all. Surely, the roads out of Drisdak were beyond passage.
Slowly, Toreg came to grips with his situation. His eyes flitted from the street to the huge mound of snow at the base of the guild house wall, then followed it up. At the halfway point the snow gave way to the dark grey stone of the man-made wall which continued until it reached the window sill the water mage was strung across. He did not know how it had happened, but he found himself draped across the ledge like a fallen warrior. His arms hung before him, fluttering uselessly in the air and his chin scraped the stones of the outer guild house wall. Behind him, he felt his knees rubbing uncomfortably against the opposite side of the same wall and he was painfully aware of the pressure created by the weight of his chest across the sill. What could have happened?
He tried to recollect, but he could only remember an eerie dream in which a leech the size of his arm had detached itself from around his neck. He had brushed the thing away, clawing frantically at its retreating form, and the horrid thing had disappeared in a whirling cloud of darkness.
Toreg slowly pulled himself to his knees and braced his arms against the window. His head throbbed and his joints ached. Looking up, he squinted painfully. The normally dull morning sun, despite the fact that it was partially obscured by the writhing storm clouds, seemed to blaze in the sky with twice the fury of any sun at high noon. He shaded his eyes and looked away, staggering to his feet. Wave upon wave of dizziness and nausea slammed into him, reeling him backward with almost palpable force. Carefully, he moved across the room, comforting his throbbing temple with one hand and walking as if he were crossing eggshells, afraid any sudden sound or motion would split his aching skull.
With time and patience, he reached his small dresser. Bracing both arms across the waist- high surface, he managed to raise his weary eyes to the level of the mirror. He frowned, seeing every one of his many years in his beleaguered reflection. I look and feel like I’ve been run over by a carriage, he thought, then turned away.
He let his gaze drop to the dresser table. He caught sight of a flash of red to his left and turned to look. Three roses, bound together with a thin cord of cloth, rested in view with their stems partially obscured by the wooden frame of the mirror. Suddenly, he remembered. Morcallenon had roused him yesterday, just after dusk. After his late afternoon nap he had found himself quite refreshed and even invigorated by the evening air. He had even been able to smile with ease when Morcallenon gave him that speech about the responsibilities of a soon-to-be council member and the importance of the meeting he had so carelessly slept through.
After the reprimand, Morcallenon grimly handed him four roses and explained to him about the presence of a vampire. He’d gone over the details of Regecon’s plan then left, leaving one of the roses on Toreg’s window sill and instructing the mage to take the other three to the windows in the library. Toreg had intended to deliver the roses, but as soon as he’d taken the plants in hand his earlier weariness returned with a vengeance. He had deliberated a moment, then decided to lie down for another brief rest before going about his business. Twelve hours later he awoke hanging out his window sill.
A horrifying thought worked its way gradually into Toreg’s mind. Slowly, he lifted his injured left hand up to be examined. The two small holes were fading finally and covering slowly with darkening scabs. Toreg sighed in relief, then froze. Just perhaps ... He carefully brushed aside several locks of his greying hair to expose the bare flesh of his neck, and examined it in the mirror.
Whatever relief he had felt before vanished completely. Two small holes, slightly bigger and slightly farther apart from those on his hand but identical in all other aspects, marred the pale flesh of his neck. Toreg stared long and hard at the injury, soundlessly working the muscles of his mouth.
I have been bitten. The thought stabbed into his heart like a dagger. A vampire had come into his room and sunk its teeth into his flesh, not once, but twice. The rat he had chased off had been no simple breed of vermin, but a vampire disguising itself as a common rodent. Very clever. Toreg turned and faced the door. Very, very clever.
What was he to do now? The vampire would come back that was obvious. When it did, he would have to be prepared for it. How could such a creature be stopped?
Toreg glanced back at the three roses on the dresser. If he were to secure one to the window it would no doubt meet whatever fate had befallen the first plant. What about the sigils?
Toreg walked over to the window and frowned. The sigil the fire mages had placed on the sill was gone. He supposed that was fortunate in a way—he would not have wanted to wake up draped across the window inside a raging ball of fire. Still, the sigil may have offered some form of protection against the vampire; with it and the rose removed, his room was defenseless. That left a nagging question in his thoughts—how had both sigil and rose been removed?
The water mage felt another wave of weariness wash over him, forcing him near a sudden swoon. He steadied himself on the edge of the sill, then turned his head toward the sky. This time he found a remarkably sinister meaning in the overwhelming brightness of the sun. He snarled in sudden fury, then straightened, alarmed; too much animal lived behind that anger, too much of something he could not control.
He turned back to face the door. Could he tell the other mages? How would they react? They were already sworn to destroy this vampire, so his affliction would not spur them any further toward that end. What benefit could he obtain from telling them? Perhaps they could protect him, secure him in a room safe from the vampire’s reach. Then again, what if they decided he was a threat and drove a stake through his heart? That was not how he intended to end his mortal days. He could talk to Regecon, perhaps. The man was a fool, but he probably would not be eager to destroy his strongest water mage. Probably. There was still that shadow of doubt. But what chance did he have alone? He could not run or hide, because the vampire could find him all the same. He could not protect himself anymore than he had last night and that had proven to be a disaster—it was rather difficult to secure one’s safety when one was totally unconscious. No, Regecon had told the guards about the undead because he had thought they’d had a right to know. Despite their differences, the guild master would not order Toreg killed. He could not; it was not in his nature. Toreg sighed. No matter how much it went against his personal desires and his strong dislike of the man, the water mage needed to ask Regecon for help.
That would not be wise.
Toreg jumped. They were his thoughts, but they had come without warning, without provocation. Somehow, strange words had burbled into his head from some forgotten corner of his mind, as if a second consciousness lurked within him, voicing ideas at random. Shaking his head, he started toward the door.
Return to bed, slave. The contempt was clear, as was the fact that the thoughts were being consciously directed at Toreg and his actions. What was going on? You are my slave, you will do as I bid you to. A second consciousness?
Toreg froze. The vampire was in his head. He did not know how, but the creature was communicating with him, reacting to his actions and thoughts. Now Toreg fe
lt certain, he had to find Regecon and tell him.
The water mage took one more step toward the doorway then dropped to his knees with pain lancing through his head. I told you that the guild master is not to be informed. If there is any more disagreement in this matter you will suffer until it is thoroughly resolved. Do you understand?
“This is my head ... my mind ... my soul,” Toreg wheezed through gritted teeth. His hands gripped his skull between them, squeezing inward as if trying to keep it from splitting. The agony was tremendous.
I nearly killed you last night, drinking blood sufficient to heal my wounds. All that blood, all that soul, is in me now. You have no secrets, no defense. I can move you like I would a puppet drawn by strings.
Toreg gasped for breath and lurched forward, catching himself with one hand on the floor. “I have seen the sun! I am still a mortal man!”
That, the voice growled, will soon be rectified. The agony mounted.
Desperately, Toreg struggled with the pain. Each moment dragged like an eternity in Hell, every breath felt tortured. A scream threatened, building, growing, swelling to the point of rupture. “I am ... a water ... mage.” Agony wedded with determination. Groping inside himself, focusing inward on his own thoughts and mind, Toreg reached out grappling with an unseen adversary. He could feel shadowy fingers rake across his soul, twisting the channels of his thoughts. He searched them out, struggling to loosen their grip. As he did so, his breath rasped loudly in struggle but the pain lessened, then fled completely.
Impressive, mortal, but not enough. Observe.
Something sticky flowed around Toreg’s hand. He glanced down and saw a pool of red spreading out from about his fingers. Blood. Toreg struggled to stand, panic growing in his heart.
Cold, icy fingers brushed across his mind, taking advantage of his momentary fear and distraction. Toreg trembled, and struggled to drive them back. A brief mental clash ensued, then the fingers withdrew.
The water mage struggled to keep a mental balance, desperately maintaining his grip on his own mind, but sparing just enough energy to take several awkward steps toward the door and study his hand before him. From the wrist down, the flesh of his palm wore a slowly congealing film of drying blood. He scrubbed and wiped it, searching for the wound, but found no hint of broken skin or injury. Even as he watched, the dried blood began to fade and disappear, as if flowing backward to be absorbed by the flesh of his hand.
Distracted by the oddity of what he’d just seen, the water mage let his concentration waver. Again, the ethereal fingers stabbed inward, driving into Toreg’s mind. The water mage winced and his grip slipped. Cursing his own foolishness, Toreg fought his way back and secured his hold. The fingers drifted away to wait, bubbling with patient malice.
Shaking his head, Toreg stumbled forward. While the blood on his hand had disappeared, the blood on the floor had not. It still sat, undisturbed, a small circle of red fluid covered by a thin film of a hardening, dark brown, crust-like substance. Like a scab. Toreg felt his stomach quiver.
The scab ruptured.
A small fountain of red liquid burbled upward from the floor. The circle rippled, growing outward in expanding rings. It grew as wide across as the length of the water mage’s arm, then stopped. Toreg stared at the pool, his mind shocked by the horror of what he’d witnessed. The floor was bleeding.
Even as he watched, the pool quivered, and ripples spread out across its surface. Suddenly, more ripples appeared in tiny widening rings, each centered around a different point. Drops of blood were falling.
Looking up, Toreg saw crimson fluid dripping from the ceiling. It fell slowly at first, but soon became a thin cascading stream, and the circle of blood expanded with an ever-increasing vigor. It grew until it touched his robes, and then was drawn upward along the hem by the fibers in the cloth. Horrified, Toreg stepped back. His foot landed in something slick and his balance wavered. Flapping his arms desperately, the water mage fell, landing heavily on the stones. A spray of crimson erupted about him, staining his clothes, his body, his hair.
He tried to stand, but the slick blood covered the stones like water on ice. He fell again, landing on his side and smashing his elbow on the rock. This was madness. Madness! Struggling to his hands and knees, he could barely keep his balance.
Slowly, Toreg inched toward the door.
The blood covered all the floor now and fell from the ceiling like red rain. He could feel the pitter patter of the droplets as they landed on his back. The door. He had to reach the door.
Fleshy, decayed hands grew up from the stones beneath him and wrapped rotting fingers around his wrists. They held his arms like shackles with unyielding grips of steel. Up ahead, the door shivered. Blood erupted from cracks along its surface, running down its length like sap from a tree. A face formed in the blood. The face of a man. Smiling. Laughing. Evil.
Toreg screamed.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 57