Mathagarr slammed backward into the door and felt the wooden frame give way. He half slid, half tumbled down the entire length of the stairs, bouncing along as he went. Each step felt like an iron cudgel driving into his spine and every blow was worse than the one before. At the bottom, he shook his head to shake off the pain, then struggled to his feet.
His silver sword lay to the left; above him, Toreg started to descend the stairs. Wiping his gauntlet across his bloodied nose, the night watchman reached over and grabbed his sword. He took hold of the weapon, then turned to face the advancing vampire.
Toreg licked his lips. “I’ve wanted to do this for many years now, Guardsman. Many, many years.” The vampire mage glided slowly down the stairwell with his gaze on Mathagarr’s throat.
“Then shut your mouth and get on with it,” Mathagarr replied. The guardsman raised his sword and readied his shield. Again he tried to shout, but as of yet no one had answered.
The vampire hurtled down the stairwell and launched itself at him with its fangs extended. In response, Mathagarr turned his shield toward the mage, then slashed out with his sword. At the last instant the mage stopped short and let the blade swish past him. Then, before Mathagarr could recover, Toreg moved in.
One swipe of Toreg’s hand sent the sword skittering off into darkness. A second swipe knocked the guardsman back against the passage wall. Again, the vampire chuckled, then moved in to finish his work.
With desperation growing, Mathagarr lifted his shield and tried to shoulder the creature to the side. To his horror, Toreg reached out, grabbed the shield, and gave it a violent twist rending it asunder with a tremendous sound of tearing metal and splintering wood.
Toreg flung the useless pieces of metal and wood to the side and reached forward to grab Mathagarr by his lapels. As if he were no more than a child, the guardsman felt himself being lifted into the air. Desperately, he looked about for his sword, but all he saw were moving shadows in the distance.
Toreg looked up into the anxious eyes of the guardsman and laughed. “Where is your haughtiness now, watchman? Where is your strength of arm? Your prowess of battle?” He hurled Mathagarr backward down the hall, and the guardsman landed heavily on his back. For a moment, the darkness seemed to grow and unconsciousness threatened. Gasping to retrieve his breath, Mathagarr could barely move. He was beaten, and would soon be dead. The vampire was toying with him now; merely prolonging his torture. “As the ancient saying goes, ‘Come, come Mighty Warrior, show thy strength.’”
A voice sounded from the darkness. “As you wish.”
Wearily, Mathagarr lifted his head and saw the monstrous shadow of a man move forward with a silver sword in hand. The startled vampire turned in surprise, and Borak swung the guardsman’s blade with all his strength. Silver metal drove deep into undead flesh, slicing through rib and lung and bone.
Toreg screamed, recoiling as the flames raced across his chest. Again, Borak pulled back and slashed, this time bringing the blade down on the mage’s shoulder. Bone snapped, and flesh parted, driving the vampire to his knees. As the creature crumbled, he flailed wildly about himself, frantically trying to keep the warrior away.
“Die, you cursed thing,” Borak screamed as he sidestepped a claw. “Die!” He swung again.
“Elethera.” Toreg spat the word out as the blade descended, wringing one hand in an alien gesture. In mid air, between blade and vampire, a thin curtain of white took form. The silver metal struck the shield of ice with an ear-splitting crack. The hallway echoed from the impact and fragments of the translucent substance scattered about in all directions.
Taking advantage of the brief moment of confusion, the vampire retreated from the warrior and moved to the wall. Looking back, he sneered once as he clutched his crippled shoulder. His tongue flicked out across death-colored lips and his eyes shone with an insatiable hate.
Growling, Borak moved in for the kill. The vampire, crouched defensively against the wall, pulled back his fist. Only then, did Mathagarr realize where the vampire was positioned. On the mage’s right, at the level of his head, the shutters of a window were held closed together. Beyond that window, the streets of Drisdak were covered with snow. In most cases, the snow would be a boon and would prevent an enemy from escaping. Toreg, however, was a water mage.
Borak stepped forward, and the vampire’s hand lashed out. The wooden shutters of the window exploded before his fist, and for a moment the bright white brilliance of a mound of melting snow filled the window. Then, without warning, all was fire.
The explosion hurled Borak heavily against the far wall and sent a wave of heat washing over Mathagarr. Caught in the center, the vampire disappeared within a billowing curtain of flame. Moments later, he emerged screaming with his hair ablaze and his robes on fire. The smell of burning flesh filled the hallway and Mathagarr winced when he saw the creature’s tortured visage. One eye hung out from his face, suspended in the air by a thin gooey strand of some gelatinous substance. The vampire’s cheeks were blackened and burned, and half of his upper lip was all but blown off. Every inch of him looked tortured, and every angle bent and twisted.
Clawing desperately at his face, the vampire collapsed on the ground. Borak hesitated, lifting his sword as the creature began to convulse. The flames had spread along its whole body, blackening its legs, its arms, its torso. It still lived, but it was nearly helpless. The sigil that had been on that window was more than the creature could handle. It lacked even the strength to change its shape.
Shaking his head, Borak stepped forward and plunged the sword through the creature’s chest.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 76