Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin)

by Matthew D. Ryan

Chapter Thirty-Six

  Mathagarr fingered the hilt of his sword as Toreg’s fingers began to twitch. The man had stopped breathing nearly ten minutes ago, yet, somehow, he still moved. In fact, his movements were not diminishing as one would expect, but were actually increasing and growing stronger. The mage hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but Mathagarr sensed he soon would. When he did, the watchman knew it would not be pleasant. He had never been fond of Toreg, but he had never wished him death. He certainly had never wished him this.

  A shudder ran up the mage’s body and the night watchman took an involuntary step toward the door. Should he get Regecon or one of the other mages? The man had stopped breathing after all. Perhaps he had died and was now reawakening as an undead creature of the night.

  Mathagarr felt icy fingers dance up his spine. No, that wasn’t possible. Vines of garlic flowers coiled around the window and the bedposts. Methoin had said that the vampire’s spirit could not enter him if the plants were present. Surely, there must be some other explanation.

  Toreg buckled again and opened his mouth to scream. It was a high pitched shriek, quite unlike anything the guardsman had ever heard from human lungs. Wondering if there was something he could do to help, Mathagarr stepped forward. The mages had removed the gag on their stricken comrade in order to question him. Perhaps, if he gave the man some water ...

  Mathagarr glanced at the bedposts and froze in his steps, all thoughts of giving aid draining from him. Toreg’s eyes flicked open. “Mathagarr. Help me out of this.” It was a soft and soothing voice, but the guardsman did not hear the words; his mind had gone numb. The strings of garlic wrapped around the foot of the bed were beginning to wilt. Even as he watched, one of the flowers sprung alight and a tiny blue flame danced across its length.

  Toreg had passed over. He could not be saved.

  The night watchman looked up and met the newly formed vampire’s stare. A twinkle shone in Toreg’s eye: a nefarious gleam of twisted delight. “Well, Mathagarr. How does it feel? Here I am bound and helpless. You finally have your chance.”

  “Wha-what?””

  “Kill me. You’ve always wanted to.”

  “You’re mad.”

  Toreg sighed and flicked his tongue across the sharpened points of his canine teeth. “Is that it then? You prefer to see me suffer? I should have expected such from you. Always the coward, the lackey on Regecon’s heels. Are you afraid to face me alone? Come. Release my bonds, and we shall settle our old dispute the way it should be done.”

  Mathagarr slowly shook his head. “Only Ambrisia can break your bonds.”

  Toreg stared at the guardsman in sudden confusion, then began to chuckle. “Really? Only Ambrisia? I can think of at least one other.”

  Mathagarr turned to the door, coming to a sudden decision in his mind. He would have to find Regecon and inform him of Toreg’s transformation. The mages would know what must be done.

  “Abandoning your burden, old friend?” Toreg’s eyes had taken on a maniacal gleam. “Afraid to make a real decision? Let me guess; you’re going in search of the guild master to inform him of my condition.”

  Mathagarr turned to face the mage, locking his hand on the hilt of his sword. To draw and strike, it would be so easy ... “At this point, Mage Toreg, if it were truly up to me, you’d be dead. However, you are the responsibility of the guild master and it is his decision.”

  “You cannot win, you know.” The words were barely discernible between the sudden outbursts of malevolent chuckling. “He is coming.”

  “Regecon doesn’t know—you mean Lucian?” Mathagarr felt a chill grip his heart and his breath grow quick. He’d heard something in the wizard’s voice, an impression of certainty. “Can you sense him?”

  Toreg simply smiled. “He is coming, and with him Death. That is all you need to know.”

  This posed a quandary for Mathagarr. The sun had recently set, and it was quite possible that Lucian would be on his way to the guild. There had been several reports in the preceding nights of the vampire trying to gain entrance; but so far the sigils had held him out. Plans had been made to set an ambush, but had just as quickly been discarded; the vampire was too adept in his movements and totally unpredictable. If, however, Toreg could sense the other vampire’s presence the mages might be able to turn that to their advantage. But would they be able to coerce Toreg into assisting them? Better yet, would it be safe for Toreg to be left alone? If the water mage could sense the presence of the master vampire, might not the master vampire be able to sense the mage? Might not Lucian want to release his imprisoned ally?

  Mathagarr stared at Toreg. The mage had withdrawn and closed his eyes. His mutterings were low, but not so faint that the watchman could not hear. “Master. Help me, I am trapped by the sorceress Ambrisia’s spell. Tell me what I must do.”

  Mathagarr’s heart began to thud inside his chest, reverberating like a ringing bell. What was he witnessing? Were the two vampires communicating with each other? Was Toreg actually talking to Lucian? Another cold chill ran up Mathagarr’s spine and his stomach fluttered inside. How close did they have to be to do that?

  “Master. I don’t understand. What do you mean by ‘mist’? Help me, I am trapped.”

  Mist? What mist? Mathagarr glanced frantically about the room looking desperately for some type of fog or mist that might be entering. Jacindra had said that Lucian had changed shape into such a cloud when he had first accosted her. Would he be trying to do that now? Was that what he was telling Toreg—that he would be with him momentarily?

  Without provocation, Toreg laughed. “Oh!” he said, and then grew silent. Mathagarr turned on the water mage and moved forward to scrutinize the man. He had closed his eyes as if resting peacefully, but his brow was furrowed in concentration. Suddenly, understanding dawned.

  The guardsman drew his sword, but even as he did so he realized that he was too late. The silver weapon lifted just as the wizard began to shimmer. There was a brief hissing sound, like the boiling of a pot of stew; then Toreg’s form dissolved into a nebulous cloud. Tendrils of white vapors mushroomed out into an expanding, billowing, white curtain. Like an ill omen, the stony fingers of the earthen hands clicked delicately together; even with the aid of magic, they could not hold the mist.

  Toreg was free.