Toreg opened his eyes and struggled to his feet. He stood in a room he did not recognize, dressed in blood-stained blue robes. Ahead of him, he saw a small wooden door; to his left, a small window. Making a poor attempt to smooth his garments, the water mage moved to the window and looked outside. A maze of city streets spread out below him, branching throughout an unfamiliar snow-covered landscape. Above, dark clouds masked the sky and spat forth a continuous deluge of icy flurries. He squinted. Though the reflected light on the snow outside was not very strong, to him it shone with the intensity of a thousand suns. Rubbing his eyes painfully, he turned away. He walked several steps, bumped into something solid, heavy, and unyielding, then opened his eyes.
The disheveled image of a beleaguered old man stood encased in glass before him. Startled, Toreg stepped back—the man in front of him did as well. It took a moment, but when he saw the man continue to move as he, Toreg realized he looked at his own image in a mirror. He sighed, straightening his ragged hair as best he could.
Two small holes flashed abruptly from the side of Toreg’s neck. He peered closely at the mirror to study them in detail and found that they were ragged puncture wounds; little circles of pinkish flesh with whitened edges. He felt a moment of nagging suspicion, convinced that those small wounds were important, perhaps even diabolical in nature. This passed, however, and soon they only succeeded in making him feel uncomfortable, as if he stood naked and exposed. The unease grew so great that he let the shanks of his greying hair loose to obscure the wounds from view.
Looking down, Toreg saw three roses bound within a cord of cloth. He picked them up, smelled their delicate fragrance, then hurled them to the floor. Disgusting plants. Why would anyone put flowers in his room?
It was his room. The realization came like a splash of cold water on his face. He glanced around again, noted the bed, the window, the small lampstand and chair in the corner, and grew certain that this mysterious chamber was none other than the room in which he slept. Yet, even as he studied everything, he realized something was amiss. The objects of his room took on an alien, unfamiliar air. His chair, lampstand, dresser, and even the bed looked less and less like the simple furnishings of a water mage’s private study. Rather, they looked shadowy, unearthly, and surreal. The prosaic objects of his chamber had become grainy and ethereal in nature, looking less like solid furniture and more like half-dreamed things of an incorporeal realm. Fascinated, Toreg traced his hand along the length of the dresser.
It felt real enough, but at any moment he expected the wood to fade in a cloud of mist.
In contrast, the walls of his chamber seemed all too concrete. Where the room furnishings appeared ephemeral in nature, the walls and ceiling of his chamber seemed to slam into existence, stretching upward and outward in rigid solidity—an iron prison would have looked more fleeting.
Walking forward slowly, Toreg approached the door. It, too, had taken on that transient, flickering half-real quality that marked his bed and other possessions. However, when he reached to grab it, the door felt as solid and unyielding as any other barrier hewn of wood.
Toreg straightened his bloodstained robes, then opened the door and walked into the quiet hall beyond. Dim light flooded into the corridor through the windows along the wall.
The light, though dim to common men, forced the water mage to shield his face and eyes as the walls came alive with brilliant golden fire. Overwhelmed, Toreg staggered down the hall, until he finally reached the far door at the end of the corridor and passed through into another passage filled with cool darkness. Relieved, Toreg let out a long anticipated sigh.
In darkness, he felt safe, secure. The pain of the bright light dissipated, replaced by the relaxing, soothing dance of shadows. Here, the water mage walked slowly, savoring the luxury of peace and tranquility. Unfortunately for him, it did not last long.
A distant laughter echoed faintly down the hall, causing Toreg to start in fright. Other sounds followed: voices, cries, distant crashes, and snippets of ordinary conversations carried through the waves of the air.
Toreg shook his head, but the sounds remained. In fact, they grew stronger the farther he dared to tread. At last, frustrated, the water mage clamped both his hands over his ears to ward away the frightful, rising din. Only when thus protected did he continue on his way.
After winding his way through several more passages, the water mage came to a stop before a door. He knew the door opened onto a flight of stairs which would lead him down into the bowels of the earth, but he did not know why he had come here. In fact, he had forgotten exactly why he had left his room in the first place. He had no destination in mind, and no plans that required his attention.
Perplexed, Toreg dropped his hands to his sides in thought, but as he did so the din returned, shattering his concentration. The water mage scowled and shook his head at the deluge of random noise. After a few brief struggles, he at last found that he could block it out in part. It took a tremendous amount of concentration, but he could ignore the sounds and focus on the thoughts that troubled him.
What was he doing? He had awoken in his room, looked around, and then come down here; for some odd reason, though, he had not the slightest clue of his own intentions.
To his right, a louder noise than most snapped Toreg to attention. A young man dressed in white robes shuffled down the hall toward him, raising quite a ruckus with his rustling robes, his clapping feet, and the snifflings of his nose. Toreg frowned at the apprentice as he approached, but the man seemed absorbed by his own private thoughts.
At last, the young apprentice looked up and saw the mage. “Greetings, Mage Toreg. How are you this morning?” It was Astagon, one of Toreg’s own students.
“I am ... fine.”
“That is good to hear. May I ask when our next lesson will be? I know you are often busy, but you didn’t even assign one of the more advanced students for the last two lectures. Several other apprentices and I showed up, but there was no teacher. We were never informed that the classes had been canceled.”
Canceled? Toreg struggled to remember the last few days, but his mind drew across a blank and empty wall. In fact, the previous week seemed distant and vague. He could remember snippets, flashes of images, but nothing more.
Looking up, Toreg saw the trace of a smile resting lightly on the apprentice’s lips—a leering, sardonic grin, hinting of a silent mockery being had at the water mage’s expense.
Toreg could not believe the man’s insolence; Astagon stood there, quietly laughing at his master. He knew the water mage could not recall the classes and he contemptuously mocked him, thinking him a doddering, incompetent, old fool.
Toreg took a belligerent step forward. A look of shocked surprise flashed across Astagon’s features and the young apprentice stepped back in alarm. “Mage Toreg, what is wrong?” The feigned compassion in the voice merely angered Toreg further; it did little to cover the sneer in Astagon’s face and eyes. Indeed, even as Toreg raised his fist to strike at the man, a subtle, diabolical change came over the young apprentice’s appearance. His sharp, vulpine features became clearer, more precise ... less human. His eyes took on a shadowy, sinister look, a nefarious gleam of evil, and his thin lips parted to reveal row upon row of jagged, glittering teeth.
Toreg’s anger slipped away from him, and cold fear rose up in its stead. The water mage stepped back with heart pounding from growing panic.
Astagon took quick advantage of Toreg’s fear, leaning forward, rolling his glance across Toreg’s torso and licking his thin lips with a reptilian tongue. Looking down, Toreg saw the blood splattered across his robes and could only guess at what the young apprentice intended. Turning, the water mage whipped open the door and fled down the stairs. Behind him, the shrill voice of the young apprentice rose in false concern. “Mage Toreg, what is the matter? Where are you going?”
Toreg reached the bottom of the stairs and burst through the archway. He stopped long enough to slam the door shut
behind him, then turned and started to run. Even as he did so, his keen ears detected the distinctive sound of rustling robes and the soft padding of an apprentice’s slippered feet as someone descended the staircase. Astagon followed, pursuing him.
Howling in fright, Toreg raced along, weaving in and out of corridors and rooms trying to evade his pursuer. Strange voices followed him, echoing along the halls and dogging his footsteps with malevolent laughter. It was Astagon. It was all Astagon. He pursued the mage like a demon from Hell, racing behind him and cackling. At long last, out of breath and weary from the chase, Toreg stopped and leaned heavily against a passage wall. He peered intently down the corridor he had just come, but nothing followed. For the moment, it seemed, he had escaped.
The water mage sighed, drew a deep breath, then started forward again. The voices returned, coming from every direction around him, but they had lost that maniacal edge. They seemed more like distant conversations on which he had unwittingly obtained the power to eavesdrop, not the rantings of a diabolical madman. Still, that was no reason to let down one’s guard. Toreg passed the next corner only after chanting a brief ward against evil and cautiously peering around into the hall beyond. Fortunately for him, it was empty.
Casting a sharp glance behind, Toreg moved into the corridor. Suddenly, he could hear it—the rustling of robes. This time, it came from ahead of him, around another corner only a few paces away. It dragged slowly forward, rustling, rustling, like forest trees in a storm.
Toreg backed away. Whatever it was, it moved toward him on soft, padded feet. He could hear the muffled thump of footfalls, at sharp, regular intervals of a much shorter stride than that of Astagon’s. That could only mean there were two of them. Astagon behind, and this horrible thing before him. He was trapped and there was no way out but to fight.
Toreg crept cautiously forward, edging to within arm’s reach of the second bend in the hall. He pressed himself firmly back against the stones, then summoned his energies into his right hand. It was his favorite method of attack—desiccation—not only efficient, but exceptionally painful. A cold thought lodged inside his skull. What if the creature had no fluid in its body? After all, he should not expect a demon to have a normal bodily composition. Without such a convenient supply of water, he would be in dire straits indeed. The most potent forms of water magic in combat required the use of some kind of water source. In the corridors of the guild, he was a long way from any type of water, save that which floated invisibly in the air. Unfortunately, that would hardly be enough to make a proper battle.
The sigh of a woman startled Toreg. He should have realized that the shorter strides marked this second creature as female, but he still felt surprised when the lithe figure strolled around the corner. He recognized the wavy, black hair almost instantly. It was Korina, the student of Ambrisia’s the Mistress of the Earth was so fond of boasting about.
The young woman started when she saw the water mage. “Mage Toreg. I was just looking for you.”
Toreg eyed the young woman suspiciously. Just looking for him, was she? His voice rose in accusation. “You’re in league with Astagon!”
The young woman paused before Toreg with a perplexed expression on her face. “Excuse me?” she asked. “Astagon?”
Wild-eyed, Toreg looked long and hard at the woman, desperately trying to discern any hint of the alien, demonic features he’d witnessed on his own apprentice just moments before. Finding none, he shook his head. “Never mind. It’s not important.” He turned to walk away, but the young woman reached out to restrain him.
“Guild Master Regecon would like to see you. We have to begin work on a containment jar for the vampire.”
“Vampire?” Toreg looked down at the woman with a puzzled expression.
“Yes, the vampire that killed those guards and Durek. Don’t you remember?” Korina stared at him strangely now, perhaps even suspiciously.
Toreg straightened. “Oh, yes, of course. Please lead.” He really didn’t have any idea at all what the young woman was talking about, but he was not about to let her know that. Better to feign understanding and divert her suspicions; it would give him time to think, to plan, and to make ready for his escape.
“As you wish, Mage Toreg.” Korina turned to lead him down the hall. She kept two paces ahead, but always off to his right so she could keep a careful eye on him as they walked. More than once, Toreg saw her glance back then quickly look away before their eyes could meet. The water mage could not suppress the feeling that he was a prisoner and she the jailer leading him to the gallows.
Tunnel after tunnel passed them by, and they plodded on through what seemed like an endless labyrinth. The passageways, empty and tomb-like, were devoid of the usual scurrying occupants that one would have expected to be present at this time of day. Only once did another apprentice appear before them; the young man started as Toreg suspiciously cast his eyes in his direction, then he ducked his head and hurried off, shuffling into a branching passage on the side.
After what seemed like an hour, but which measured less than ten minutes by Korina’s count, they arrived at a large oaken door. Consisting of nine separately carved planks of heavy wood, bound together with thick cords of bronze and steel, the door seemed a truly imposing and menacing obstacle. Arcane symbols scrawled across the wood at the level of Toreg’s head added to the effect.
Korina put her hand on the handle and shoved the door wide. She stepped within and the water mage quickly followed.
Inside, nearly a dozen mages scurried about the room engaged in a variety of sorcerous activities. Four mages, split into pairs, worked in opposing corners on the far side of the chamber inscribing two circles of protection on the stones of the floor. They chanted and hummed, reciting strange incantations under their breath, and diligently scrawled a series of sigils around the rings traced in gold. Toward the center of the room right before the door, five other mages worked in concert with both Ambrisia and Regecon. Their task involved similar circles, but larger and more ornate in design and appearance. The rings they drew were formed of grey powder, and the sigils inscribed, chiseled from rock.
Toreg watched in awed fascination while understanding slowly dawned. Rings of binding. The floor was being transformed into a magical cage to trap and imprison some type of creature. The pair of circles in the far corners provided protective measures for whichever wizards would do the binding.
Regecon glanced up from his work. “Toreg, there you are.” It was Regecon’s voice, but there was a hint of something alien in it.
Toreg took an uneasy step backward, suppressing the urge to run. “Yes, Guild Master.” It would be best to play along, to pretend he did not understand until they made their move. Then he could strike back with the advantage of surprise.
It was a trap, he knew. A very cleverly devised trap. The young woman Korina had lured him here under false pretenses, claiming to need his assistance to construct some type of containment jar. Now, he stood alone, surrounded and heavily outnumbered. A half score of wizards were in this room, but Toreg doubted if any of them were truly human. They all waited for him to make his move. He could feel the weight of their eyes like hammers on his chest. If he took so much as a step, he knew he’d stumble and he could hear their mocking laughter before they even voiced it.
A sharp glance to his right caught Korina by surprise as she fingered the fabric of the robes around her throat. In that brief moment when she straightened, he saw a flash of something metallic hidden at her breast. Mortal eyes should have missed it, but somehow Toreg saw, Toreg knew. Engraved in metal, borne on the face of a medallion, the head of Lubrochius shielded her heart.
Toreg backed quickly away with a look of stark terror on his face. Surprisingly, his countenance of fear was echoed by a similar one on Korina. Her face grew pale; her hand spasmodically clutched at the object beneath her robes. The young woman, or whatever she was, licked dry lips and glanced frantically around the room. Except for her eyes, she sto
od as rigid as a statue, sure to shatter at the slightest touch.
Regecon walked forward. “Toreg? Are you well? You look a little pale.”
Toreg screamed. For the first time ever he noticed what gave the guild master’s robes their reddish hue. Blood. It seeped slowly out of the man, dripping from his robes as he walked, and formed a ring of crimson globules around the wizard’s feet.
Regecon’s lips parted in a feral snarl. “Toreg! What’s wrong?” The globules of blood on the floor began to move. They skimmed across the chamber like mice, darting this way and that. Hideous, hairy legs sprouted from the drops and they scurried toward Toreg, burrowing through stone and crawling across the walls.
The water mage pressed his back hard against the stones behind him, his gaze transfixed by the swarm of tiny red horrors approaching. This was too much. His enemy was too strong, too wicked.
The door on Toreg’s right opened, and a demon strode through. Huge and reptilian, with vast leathery wings, the creature turned its malevolent gaze toward the water mage. “Toreg?” The voice was Morcallenon’s, but the face resembled a thing from nightmare.
Hope withered from Toreg’s heart and despair set in. With the advantage of numbers, they would surely take him. He almost collapsed, right then and there, quivering from the horror that threatened to overwhelm him. Shaking he groped inward, fighting the fear and reaching inside himself until he found one final reserve of strength; they would not take him without a fight. The words came, tumbling from Toreg’s lips like liquid honey. It started as a murmur, then grew into a roar; a final shout of defiance. Toreg stepped forward screaming, stretching his hands toward the diviner that had become a demon.
His fingers wrapped about the leathery throat.
“Tor—” Morcallenon’s voice broke off into an inarticulate gasp and shouts of panic erupted throughout the room. The demon’s bug-like eyes widened in shocked surprise, and if Toreg was not mistaken, severe agonizing pain. White frothy bubbles spurted from the hideous reptilian neck, and runnels of warm water ran down the back of Toreg’s hands. It fell, cascading in a thin stream to form a pool at the water mage’s feet. Choking and gasping, the demon writhed in Toreg’s grasp and flailed at the water mage’s arms. But with the magic in effect, the blows of the demon were useless. Even as the demon’s body sagged forward, the light began to grow dim in the creature’s eyes. Then, without warning, Hell itself broke loose.
A ring of fire sprang from the fabric of the air and surrounded Toreg in a deadly, burning circle. Roaring flames licked up to half again the mage’s height and a huge serpentine head formed, rising from the flames on a snake-like neck. It rose to the height of the ceiling, then struck forward, lashing tongues of fire across Toreg’s arms and wrists. His flesh seared in the heat and the water mage pulled back, dropping the body of the demon to the floor. It was too late, however. The body of the demon flickered, and Toreg caught a brief glimpse of Morcallenon’s corpse. His head, neck, and shoulders had been withered to a dried and flaking husk.
The fire guardian—for that was what the foul serpent of fire was—circled protectively about the body of the diviner and hissed violently in Toreg’s face. However, it did not attack.
The corpse of Morcallenon lay in a small pool of water; the very water whose extraction had brought about his death. Though not a large amount, there was sufficient quantity to take further advantage of the corpse.
Toreg murmured several more words beneath his breath and the puddle of water began to bubble and froth. And grow. Drawing strength and substance from the corpse of Morcallenon and the very air itself, the small pool quadrupled in size, then unleashed a mirror guardian of its own.
Spiraling upward, a snake-like head arose, borne by the undulating sinews of a serpentine pillar of glistening water. It rose to the full height of the serpent of flame, then opened its mouth to scream in its face. The fire guardian roared in answer and the two serpents clashed together.
Fire and Water. Equal and Opposite. The coils of each element wrapped into the other, sizzling and steaming with the contact.
Equal and Opposite.
As quickly as each had come, both guardians vanished in a puff of steam and smoke.
The words of a spell started to tumble from Toreg’s lips. The water from the guardian had evaporated into the air, but if he was quick about it, he ought to be able to salvage it.
Earthen coils like steel wrapped around Toreg’s wrists, interrupting his spell. The water mage turned to look, then scowled. He had been so concerned with fire, he’d forgotten about earth. Hands of stone sprouting from the wall held his arms in a grip no mortal man could ever overcome. Struggle as he might he could not break free. They took his legs as well, wrapping them up in shackles of stone. Even his mouth they gagged with a thin sheet of rock forced between his teeth. He tried to howl. He tried to scream. He tried to rage. But it was all for naught. That thing which he had once known as Ambrisia, Mistress of the Earth, had snared him beyond escape.
His captors moved forward.
He could not resist them, but he could still glare with malice. His eyes moved to the stones at his feet. If he could, he would have smiled. At least one of the demons would not enjoy his capture.
The diviner’s corpse was a pile of dust.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 63