The Redemption of Desmeres

by Joseph R. Lallo

  The thick wooden planks of the roof rattled and splintered, wisps of coiling black energy threading between them. Desmeres hefted the potion globes and judged the distance not only to the ceiling, but to the surface of the soil above. He typically preferred not to kill people when there wasn’t a substantial payoff involved, but he couldn’t risk having a cluster of soldiers following him down the tunnel. All of the weapons that would make for suitable traps to merely slow his pursuers had already been stowed in the cart. If he was going to make it back to the cart without being harassed he would have to discourage the soldiers personally, or else unleash something that they weren’t likely to survive.

  “I don’t imagine this is the most direct way to absolve myself of my supposed sins…” he muttered, keeping his reddened eyes on the planks.

  Dark energies eroded the planks, causing them to rot as though exposed to a century of the elements. Desmeres knew that the morning had broken, and by now would have expected to see daylight sifting through the weakened planks, but through the widening holes there came only more billowing blackness. Splinters of sizzling wood clattered to the floor along with icy chunks of dislodged soil. The wood finally eroded to the point that it could not support its own weight and collapsed in a heap of dry, powdery wreckage. Black tendrils of vapor spread across the floor, thinning to nothingness as the spell came to an end. The grim magic left a gaping hole in the ceiling shrouded in black haze.

  Desmeres waited. Though it seemed unlikely the timing of their arrival—and, moreover, the timing of their entry—was a coincidence, they couldn’t know precisely where he was. Therefore he had the element of surprise, if only in that the soldiers didn’t know that they did not have the element of surprise. His own timing would be critical.

  He knew the proper moment had come when a coil of rope dropped through the foggy breech in the roof. If there was a rope, there was also a cluster of soldiers who, if they were intelligent at all, were arguing over who should would be unlucky enough to climb down into a chamber that had already illustrated itself to be highly dangerous. The rope slapped to the floor. He tossed the potion vials up from whence it came and dashed for the bundle of books. Above him, startled outbursts turned into cries of fear and yelps of pain. A brilliant burst of light flared bright enough to shine through the lingering mist. Pounding footfalls traced the retreat of the men. He glanced back to see drops of his mystic concoction sprinkle down and burst to flame on wooden floor.

  “Ah. Flame potions age like wine. A valuable lesson,” he said.

  The flames spread slowly across the floor. It was now doubly important that he get the remaining books clear. He groaned and wheezed in effort, hoisting the bundle to his back. Three steps from the door, he heard a thump and turned.

  Against all expectation and good sense, one of the Elites had dropped inside. It was Stocklin, and he stood with a look of unnerving calm on his face. He held the wand in one hand. Its gems were very nearly depleted, only offering the barest flicker of light. The soldier’s eyes shifted and locked upon Desmeres after not so much as a glance elsewhere. A look of challenge came to the man’s eyes.

  “Desmeres Lumineblade,” he said.

  He flicked the wand down and the flames at his feet were snuffed like so many candles.

  “You are sought by Queen Caya. If you return to face justice, you have my word that you shall be treated fairly.”

  Desmeres moved with slow care, wary of the danger that the wand represented and unwilling to turn his back on it. “Twice now I’ve set members of her Elite aflame. You will understand if I feel that justice is at this point something I’d rather avoid.”

  “Of course I will understand that. But I cannot allow it. Fortunately for you, I need to take you alive.”

  He thrust his hand forward and the wand flashed. A lance of the same black mist spewed forth and coiled about the hole leading to the weapon room. Desmeres dropped the books and dove aside.

  “You don’t seem overly concerned with following those orders,” Desmeres said, both sword and dagger now in hand.

  “Oh no, Desmeres. I am quite dedicated to following orders. But the line between life and death is so very wide. Far wider than most would realize. Hold still, though. It’s so easy to push someone farther across that line than one intends.”

  He slashed the wand through the air again. This time a crackling violet burst of energy rushed toward Desmeres. He rolled aside again, now backed against the wall.

  “You speak much more eloquently than I would have expected for a common soldier.”

  “Have you no respect at all for the Northern Alliance, Desmeres?” He stalked forward. “I am no common soldier. I am an Elite. We are the most experienced and best educated soldiers the north has to offer. And the Alliance Army has a long history of maintaining only the finest among its ranks.”

  Stocklin sent another blast at Desmeres. He dodged aside and slashed his sword through the mist blocking the way to the weapon room, slipping inside.

  “The most experienced and best educated?” Desmeres said from within, the only light in the room coming from the gems of his sword and the still smoldering floor behind the soldier. “Tell me this, sir. If you are so educated, why make such an obvious tactical blunder.”

  “You are cornered. Your means of escape is blocked. And you face a foe armed with magic you cannot begin to comprehend. Where, in that, lies a tactical blunder?”

  “You chose to corner me in a very unwise place.”

  Desmeres snatched a trio of throwing knives from the wall and dashed back toward his foe. He hurled them in a neat spread. Though combat was never his focus, at so short a distance even his hasty and poorly aimed throw delivered one of the blades to its target. The knife sunk deep into the man’s leg, piercing effortlessly through the armor. The man growled in pain and dropped to one knee. Desmeres continued his charge, snatching the hammer from where it stood and swinging. Stocklin turned his stricken fall into a dodging roll, using his own body as a stumbling block for the sprinting elf. Desmeres in turn extended his stride into a leap. Even before he’d reached the ground he’d begun plotting where each subsequent step would take him. One to the right, drop the hammer, snatch the books. Two to the left…

  His calculations came to a sudden stop as a gauntlet tightened around his ankle. Desmeres’s momentum carried him forward and he sprawled across the floor. His dagger clattered into the corner of the room. Before he could wrench his ankle free and recover, Stocklin was on top of him, the tip of the wand pressed to Desmeres’s neck.

  “Overconfident,” Stocklin stated, the pain in his expression now entirely replaced with calm. “The word litters every account and assessment of you. Overconfident, smug, and arrogant.”

  Desmeres glanced briefly to Stocklin’s leg. The throwing knife had certainly sunk deep enough to meet flesh. There was even a splash of blood trickling down the armor. The trickle of blood wasn’t nearly what it should have been, and the blade seemed to be backing out of its own accord. The wand had to be to blame, as its weakly flickering gems pulsed with each tiny motion of the blade.

  “Judging from my level of success over the years, I submit that my present level of confidence is well warranted.”

  Stocklin shifted his free hand to grip Desmeres’s throat. “There is some truth to that. If we didn’t need what was floating around in that head of yours, you can be certain we would find a reason to kill you. But the orders are sound. So you’ll be coming along with us. But not before I get these blasted charms off you.”

  He slid his grip down to the tangle of chains about Desmeres’s neck. Desmeres shut his eyes and turned his head aside. The motion prompted Stocklin to tighten his grip on both chains and wand in expectation of some attempt at escape. It was prudent insight, but a poor choice of action. One of the charms flashed and sparked, some manner of potent enchantment triggering at the attempted removal. It wasn’t much, barely enough to cause Stocklin to flinch, but Desmeres took full advantag
e of the distraction and heaved himself to the side. Stocklin tumbled aside and Desmeres pinned him to the ground.

  The shift in fortunes was painfully short-lived. Desmeres tried to bring his weapon across the soldier’s throat, but the blade had barely drawn blood when Stocklin conjured a blast from the wand that struck the half-elf in the side. Searing pain shot through him and the impact knocked the wind from his lungs. A raw mystic impact that would have killed a man lacking Desmeres’s protection. Instead it sent him hurtling across the room to clash painfully with the opposite wall.

  Both men coughed and fought their way upright, but each was much the worse for wear.

  “Those charms,” Stocklin muttered, on hand clutching his throat. “The first thing we’ll need to learn is where you learned to make those charms.”

  Desmeres drew his sword. “I don’t think you’ll be learning much of anything. That’s a nasty slash you’ve got on your neck there. If you get the others to treat you, you might not bleed to death.”

  “I have all the treatment I need right here.”

  Stocklin raised the wand and gripped it tight. Nothing happened. Its gems were dim, its power drained.

  “Always count your arrows, soldier,” Desmeres said, sliding his sword from its scabbard. “There’s no quicker way to an early grave than to reach for an empty quiver.”

  The soldier wavered slightly. His wound was quickly taking its toll. The skin of his face was pale and his eyes were fluttering. Unwilling to admit defeat, he raised the exhausted wand.

  “Really now. You can at least die with some dignity,” Desmeres said, advancing with his sword to deliver the final blow.

  Two strides away, Desmeres stopped. He couldn’t place his finger on it, but something was wrong. His foe remained shakily on his feet, looking as though a breath of wind could knock him over, but still Desmeres refused to advance any further. Then the corner of Stocklin’s mouth twitched ever so lightly into a weak grin.

  Desmeres rolled aside half a heartbeat before a blast of raw mystic energy that dwarfed those earlier in the battle tore through the air. The blast buckled the wall behind him. Stone fractured and wood splintered. The masterpieces of weaponry stored in the room behind clattered to the floor or embedded themselves in the far wall.

  Above them, the roof began to crackle and sag. Between the digging the Elites had done and the damage to the wall, the integrity of the storehouse was badly compromised. Yet the threat of the roof collapsing and burying him beneath heaps of frozen earth was the least of his concerns.

  The dust of the blast settled to reveal Stocklin standing solidly. The gems of the wand had a brilliant, almost blinding glow, casting his long, crooked shadow across the floor and wall.

  “What’s that you were saying, Desmeres? Something about an empty quiver?” he growled.

  Desmeres stood and shuffled aside. He edged with his back to the wall and let his gaze flit back and forth between soldier and ceiling. One of them was likely to kill him. Right now the task was determining which would do it first.

  “You’ve got your share of tricks up your sleeve, I’ll give you that. I wouldn’t have imagined anyone but a D’Karon to be capable of using their spells like that.”

  “And to think, I’ve always admired your imagination. As long as we are dispensing vital wisdom, I have two pieces of advice for you. The first is to come long now before this storehouse becomes your tomb.”

  “And the second?”

  “Always be certain of precisely who you are fighting. Now… charms off, weapons down.”

  Desmeres backed away one step at a time. He was making his way unsteadily through the widened hole in the wall between the wealth and weapons.

  “No… No, I don’t think I will… You want me alive. And from what I’ve seen, you could have easily killed me if you wanted to. And anything else you might have wanted to do, my charms have made impossible. As far as I’m concerned, keeping me alive is your problem.”

  “That’s quite a gamble.”

  “As you’ve observed, I’m not short on confidence.”

  The soldier thrust the wand at Desmeres as he retreated fully into the weapon room. Though there was no visible evidence of the spells at work, the raw intensity of the magic was undeniable. The already-icy air took on an unnatural, soul-curdling chill. At the same time, three of the charms became scalding hot against his chest as their protective properties were pushed to their very limits. Desmeres slipped behind the damaged wall and looked desperately about. Again, the only light came in the glow of the sword. Its gleam in the polished blades of the fallen weapons painted blotches across the walls. Though any number of the weapons left could turn away standard magic, most were made long before he had been tasked with specifically countering D’Karon spells. They were subtly different from traditional magic and had a nasty habit of slipping past otherwise impenetrable warding runes.

  The ragged hole that led to the tunnel was to his left. He could try to escape. But that would mean a long, straight run with a well-armed magic user behind him. Worse, it meant leading that warrior to the cart he’d loaded with irreplaceable books and artifacts. It also meant that he’d have to leave the last bundle of books behind, and if there was one thing Desmeres couldn’t abide, it was leaving a job half done. If he was going to leave this place, he was going to do it with the last of the books, and with the knowledge that his foe wouldn’t or couldn’t follow. Unleashing a spell from his own sword’s gems would be suicide, damaged as the walls were. A blade had not proved sufficient to stop his foe, nor had a bit of fire. As his options were limited, he had but one tactic available to him. More of each.

  He navigated to the dark corner and pulled up the edges of the velvet in the potion chest, gathering a dozen ampules at once. Stowing his sword back in its scabbard, he instead selected a battle ax from the floor. Stocklin appeared in the slowly widening hole between rooms. Desmeres heaved the ax at him. A flicker of magic raised a glimmering shield. It was not enough to fully stop the weapon, but it slowed the attack enough for him to dodge.

  Desmeres rushed into the soldier, knocking him to the ground. He dashed to the pile the books and hoisted them to his back. One hand gripped the improvised satchel of potions, the other the bundle of books. Fresh soil rained down through running cracks along the roof. The fallen soldier slashed again with his wand. Weighed down as he was with the books, Desmeres suffered a glancing blow stumbled into the damaged wall. The impact loosened his grip on the potions and they slipped from his hand.

  If not for the cloth they had been wrapped in, the globes would have surely shattered. Instead they bounced and rolled, picking up weak cracks and flaring with light. He rushed through the weapon room and paused just long enough to shove the chest with the remaining potions in front of the door and snatch a final one. He squeezed into the tunnel and watched the walls around him flash with the red of bursting potions and the violet of his foe’s wand.

  “You will not escape me, Desmeres!” called the man from behind, his wand now casting a bright and steady glow down the tunnel. “I will have what I am after!”

  Desmeres turned to see him, smoldering char marring his armor and madness in his eyes as he rushed for the entrance to the tunnel.

  “Not you, and not today,” Desmeres said.

  He tossed the final potion, aiming not for the soldier but the chest at the tunnel’s opening. The potions ruptured and filled the air with scalding heat and a blinding flash. He tumbled forward from the force of it, then found himself in utter darkness as the rumble and crackle of a complete collapse of the storeroom assaulted his ears. The sound continued. The ground quaked beneath his feet. He ran in the darkness until he was able to slide his sward from its scabbard again, lighting the way with the gems he’d thankfully not exhausted during the battle. Having made it this far it would be a terrible shame to have the tunnel come down on top of him due to an inability to see.

  After a full minute, the rumble came to an end. No violet g
low. No flicker of flame. Nothing. Desmeres took a deep breath of the cool, clear air of the tunnel and continued forward. He moved along as quickly as he could with what little strength he had left. His steps echoed through the tunnel… and shortly after, the skitter of tiny feet…

  “The oloes… The smoke!” he said.

  In the chaos, he’d lost the smoke flare, and the spare was missing as well. The lingering smoke on his clothes, and that from the explosion, might be enough for a time. But more than likely, the tunnel was going to become a very unpleasant place.

  “Well… this will be exciting…”

  #

  Genara squinted at the glare on the snow from the rising sun and waited impatiently for it to imbue at least a dash of additional warmth to the field. She’d lived her whole life in the Northern Alliance, and thus had endured far worse cold than this, but when there was nothing to do but wait, the cold always cut that much deeper. As much as she disliked the hairy bundle of slobber that Desmeres had left in her charge, Genara found herself sitting in the cart with the puppy in her arms. If nothing else, the little beast was wonderfully warm.

  “Where is that fool?” she grumbled.

  She glanced nervously to the center of the field and back again. Here and there, as the glow of the sun had given her a better look at the expanse of white, she’d seen a dark form scamper across its surface. Catching even a distant glimpse of an olo was closer than she’d ever hoped to get to the horrid creatures. Right now there was definitely something dark heading toward her, but the size and speed both greatly surpassed any of the fleeting glimpses of oloes she’d had. Reluctantly she pulled a gloved hand from Dowser and shielded her eyes from both sun and glare as best she could. She could just barely make out figures of two men on horseback.

  “Lovely,” she muttered. “Just lovely.”

  Genara continued to mumble angrily as she set Dowser on his back on the floor of the cart and pinned him between her feet. It was a position she’d learned the puppy was unable to escape from, and had thus become her default way of keeping him out of mischief when she needed both of her hands and didn’t want to have to brush snow off his coat afterward.