

DRASMYR

Matthew D. Ryan

The Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Matthew D. Ryan

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**Author's Note:** This book is not recommended for children under the age of 13.

Fiction by Matthew D. Ryan

From the Ashes of Ruin

Drasmyr (The Prequel)

Book I: The Children of Lubrochius

Book II: The Sceptre of Morgulan

Book III: The Citadel*

Short Story Collections

Of Dragons, Love, and Poison

Novellas

Prism

Non-fiction by Matthew D. Ryan

Delusions of Grandeur

*Coming soon.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Glossary

About the Author

The Children of Lubrochius Excerpt

### Prologue

There's a woman in chain mail standing across the room from me; her sword is leveled at my chest. I can smell the enchantment on the blade, it's a strong one; maybe even strong enough to cause me harm. Still, I'm not too concerned; it's at least a ten-foot lunge and I know I move faster than she does. Indeed, she's the one who is looking worried. My display of strength and the death of her comrade have shaken her resolve.

She's got a pretty face, flushed with excitement but strong and in control. It is her neck that really draws me, though, so soft and inviting, filled with the warm blood I desire. The curve of her flesh glistens, waiting for a well-placed gentle kiss.

She's breathing rapidly now, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her trek up through the castle has sapped much of her strength. And the fear she feels is naked in her eyes. Now, she's getting ready to pounce, just a little too much tension in her stance, her eyes just a little too focused. She couldn't give me more warning if she were to ask my permission first.

She moves in with remarkable speed, her blade striking out like a serpent's tongue. Even winded, she still manages to cut my cape, then prances away with her back toward the wall, ready for anything. Anything, except me.

I close the distance and with a clean sweep of my hand knock her sword clattering across the room. Stepping forward, I place myself between her and her weapon. What will she do now, I wonder? Oh, the dagger. That's good. There's no enchantment on that one. Not much good that, even if she could grip it well in her bloodied hand.

I laugh a little, loud enough so she can hear me, exulting in the terror I see contorting her features. She's backing toward the door, looking for escape.

I move toward her with the speed of my kind. My hand closes over her wrist and with a quick snap, the bones are shattered and the useless dagger is sent to the floor. Vainly she flails at me with her other hand. Despite the pain in her wrist she is trying to pull free. In desperation, she brings her knee upward in a fierce jab. If I were a man, I'm sure I'd be on the ground right now. Unfortunately for her, I am no longer a man.

Her struggles are growing weaker. Perhaps the pain or the fear is wearing her down. She collapses on the ground. Her helm falls to the floor with a loud metallic clang and her long, golden tresses drape down to shroud her face. Reaching down with a lover's touch, I cup her chin and raise her eyes to mine. Tears stream down her cheeks, sparkling in the moonlight. She's really quite beautiful with a face befitting an angel; it is a great irony that she should fall to a devil such as I.

For the first time this evening, I speak. "Well, intruder, did you not know there is a penalty for trespassing in my lair?"

"Please, please, let me go," she begs. "I'll never come back, I'll do anything you want."

"Then tell me why you are here. Who sent you?"

"We came for the sceptre." She glances askance at the crumpled ruin that was once her companion.

I nod in the dead man's direction. "Yes, perhaps you can reach him. Perhaps you can take the wooden stake from his chest and drive it through my heart, thus ridding this pestilent world of my accursed presence ... and perhaps I will rip your arm off if you try. Now answer the question, my dear. Who sent you?"

The naked terror in her face highlights her beauty. For a fleeting moment, I am loathe to wreck such a delicate flower. Indeed, it is the irony of her reply that seals my decision.

"It was Arcalian ... the mage. Please ... I don't want to die."

A warm, almost human smile crawls across my lips. "Don't worry, my dear, you won't."

A brief flash of relief evaporates from her face changing into the gruesome horror of realization as I lunge for her throat. My teeth pierce her neck, freeing a flow of warm, sweet blood. As I feed her body goes limp in my arms and her struggles cease.

Time passes.

She is very nearly drained and quite ready. A quick movement of my hand and my left breast is exposed. Another slash and a gentle trickle of rapidly cooling blood is flowing down my chest. I gaze at my victim. Her breath is coming in ragged gasps; a moment more and she will expire. Ever so slowly I pull her to her knees before me. With my hand behind her head I pull her up and force her lips to my breast. She murmurs a weak protest, but her will, as her blood, is all but gone.

I whisper softly in the woman's ear, "Drink, my love, and the pain and the weariness shall pass from you forever. I know you are thirsty, my love, I know you hunger. I can ease your suffering, your unendurable torments. Drink, and you shall cast off this paltry existence, this mortal shell of such feeble constitution and you shall become as I: strong, immortal, invincible."

A moment passes before she begins to suck on the wound. I feel the blood flowing from my chest. As time slips away her strength begins to return. The flow from my chest grows stronger and I am forced to restrain her. At long last, she is finished and I lift her in my arms. Several long strides take me to the old bedchamber. She can rest here for the remainder of the evening. It may be several nights before she can hunt on her own, and I have other business to attend to.

Arcalian the mage. I had so hoped our dealings would have been more profitable, but it seems the allure of the sceptre proved too strong for him. I should have known better than to grant a wizard mercy. I should have killed him outright when he first turned up snooping around my lair. But no, I listened to that whining old man beg for his life in exchange for what? The promise of young fresh victims? An apprentice here and there plucked from the guild at the appointed times. No one misses the occasional apprentice. Wizards' apprentices run away or die all the time. Very few survive to become a true mage. It was a brilliant plan: diabolical in every detail, sadistic in every nuance. It impressed even me with the depths of its perversity. Perhaps, after I dispense with Arcalian I can induce another member of his sorcerous guild to go along with a similar plan. After all, my newfound love may need a little practice before she starts hunting on her own. I'll have to be more careful, though. No one can be allowed even a hint of where my lair is; that is one mistake which will never be repeated. In the mean time, I believe it's time I paid Arcalian a visit.

A quick glance assures me my love still lies upon the bed as if fast asleep. The room is dark, the windows shuttered with the curtains drawn; the Sun shall not touch her when He rises. Silent as death I move through the chambers and halls of the long abandoned keep. Nothing stirs save the wind outside and the rats dining on my newfound bride's late companion. Irritated with the mess, I throw his carcass to the courtyard below and look out into the night.

Silgaren, the great moon, hangs in the sky, full and bright. Its smaller companion, Neerie, is not yet visible, although a golden glow limns the clouds far to the southeast. Spread beneath the greater moon, the Forest of Shrouding Mists fills the valley brim to brim. It is an old and ancient woodland whose unnamed horrors have always been sufficient guard to keep my castle safe—that is, until that treacherous wizard sent those assassins into my keep. Arcalian must die, as must all others who know of my existence. I'll wring his foul neck for names.

I change shape and take to the air. It is a clear, cold night, with no clouds to hinder my vision. Below me, the dark canopy of the forest bears an even darker scar: the trail of the old river and its sister road to town and Arcalian.

Despite my near limitless power, I am cautious about openly wandering in a human city on a clear night. I have had run-ins with them before and I have no wish to draw undue notice. I soar in a long gliding circle to free my mind for concentration.

It takes but a moment.

Then the storm begins to build, drawing in clouds from the distant sea. They roil and churn in the darkening night, reaching forth with long writhing tendrils as if to grasp the town with a shadowy hand. A chilling gust of wind sweeps through the forest trees and the mists boil forth from the valley floor. All told, I spend an hour circling the town while the storm gathers its strength. Then, as the first lightnings begin to flash and the rains begin to fall, I descend on shadowy wings into the heart of Drisdak, the city on the Sea of Sorrows.

The mages guild is easy to find; its rancid stench of magic can be smelled from blocks away. It's a tall building, made of stone, looking more like a miniature keep than a guild house. Five circular towers loom up from a central stone edifice. I have no doubt that Arcalian can be found in the highest tower in the room of the guild master, undoubtedly basking in the luxuries my services provided.

At the gate of the guild house, two armored men, spears at the ready, stand sheltered in an alcove as the rain begins to pour. I take a moment to consider my options, then wrap my dark cape about myself to hide my current attire. As I approach the guards, their spears lower to bar my way. I could kill them, of course, but that would not help me get inside.

"Oh please, sirs." My voice takes on a pitiful, pleading tone. "I know it's past curfew, but I was resolving some important business for my master on the far side of town and I got held up ... and then the storm came ... Now I'm all soaked-through without the coin to get a room."

One guard snorts disgustedly. "So what? You know the rules. Spend the night in the gutter for all I care."

The other man is somewhat more inquisitive. "Business? Who's your master?"

"Why it's the guild master Arcalian, sir."

They exchange glances, and the first guard snorts again. "You, you're always looking for favors, you make me sick."

The second guard smiles. "Of course, my friend, we'll be happy to let you in. Ignore my rude comrade here, I'll let you in the gate myself. Just remember ol' Peredrin, and I'll be happy to help you anytime." Not a noble invitation, but it will appease the ancient stricture.

The guard pulls out a key and unlocks the gate. Within moments I am inside a dry hall lit by an oil lamp hanging on the wall. If the guards were truly observant, they might notice that I cast no shadow. But guards being guards, they notice not. As they start to swing the gate shut, I turn and face them.

"Guards ..." I say.

The first guard, looking perturbed, does not reply, but the second brightens immediately. "Yes, my friend ..." he answers.

Their minds are weak, and the compulsion is easy. "You will not remember me."

A glazed look comes into their eyes as I retreat down the hall. In moments, I have vanished from their sight and the first guard shakes his head. "Peredrin! Are you daft, man? Close that blasted gate."

Peredrin's reply is muffled by the clanging sound of iron slamming into stone. From the shadows, I smile. "Have a nice night, gentlemen."

Turning, I proceed down the hall. After a few moments in solitude I encounter a young apprentice doing some of his own late night wanderings. He manages a quick glance in my direction, then tries to hurry past. I grab his arm.

"Do you know the way to Arcalian's chamber?"

"Uh ... yes."

"Good. You will take me to him at once. Take the shortest route and waste no time. And when I take my leave of you, you shall have no memory of ever having seen me. Is that understood?"

His voice comes out soft, airy, almost lifeless. "Yes."

We make rapid progress through the quiet halls until at last we reach a winding staircase. "Arcalian's chamber is on the highest floor," the apprentice says, pointing. Having no further need for him, I send him on his way and start climbing the stairs. They end in a large oak door smelling faintly of magic, guarded by a lone man in chain armor, long sword at his side. He bars my way with hand on hilt.

"Master Arcalian is not to be disturbed."

Annoyed, I kill him.

I move to sniff the door. Yes, there is a ward, but it is far too weak to affect me. Arcalian is not the mage the former guild master was. In a playful mood, I knock on the time-worn wood. There is no reply. I knock again.

Finally, Arcalian's voice answers. "Guard, I told you I was not to be disturbed. Guard ..."

I hear a second voice, muffled by the door, but still loud enough for my ears to discern. "Perhaps, the guard is asleep or indisposed."

"Then we shall find a new guard. Answer the door and get rid of whoever it is, Aristoceles ... and then find that guard."

Footsteps approach the door from the far side. "Sir, didn't you put a ward on the door?"

"Yes, but it was just to ward off common thieves and such—it would have no effect on any of the higher mages—now open the door!"

"Perhaps a stronger ward may be warranted. Talamarius always preferred the ward of concealment to hide his private study."

"I am not Talamarius, nor do I have any wish to seclude myself to the extent that even the council cannot reach me if the need arises. Now, for the last time Aristoceles, open the door!"

"As you wish, sir."

The door swings inward. A grey haired man in pale yellow robes stands in the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other on the doorframe. "The master wishes not to be distur—"

Stepping forward with hands extended, I snap the man's neck with a violent twist, then turn toward Arcalian. "Greetings, wizard." The body drops to the floor.

With a startled yelp, Arcalian leaps back from his desk. "Lucian, you're ali—"

"My dear friend, I have not been alive for a thousand years. You of all people should be aware of that." I step slowly and deliberately past the robed man's body.

With obvious effort, Arcalian regains his composure. He sinks slowly back into his chair and rests his elbows on the oak desk, his hands folded beneath his chin. The tome splayed out before him is thick and leather-bound. The oil lamp flickers in a draft and the mage's shadow dances across the wall. "You have killed Aristoceles."

My hand motions to the doorway. "And your guard. Their deaths amused me."

"The guard will be easy to replace, but Aristoceles may prove more difficult."

"Oh really, why is that? He didn't smell particularly strong." I fold my arms across my chest; there is no rush to kill this man. Indeed, it is enjoyable watching his discomfort grow. "What use was he to you?"

The wizard makes an explanatory gesture with his left hand. "Very little in the magical sense, he was always more interested in philosophy than the true arts of sorcery. But he was naive enough to be considerably loyal to me, and he had a knack for many things others might find difficult."

I glance down at the crumpled body. "Philosophy? If I had known, I could have made him immortal. Many a lonely night have I spent pondering the mysteries of the universe. It might prove amusing to have someone who thinks he is learned in such affairs to talk to. Could you imagine, though, an immortal vampire wandering the world spending half his time drinking blood and the other half trying to justify his existence as a murderer of men? I'm sure the emotional turmoil would be agonizing, far more so than any caused by any one of his ridiculous paradoxes, be it on place, motion, or the meaning of time."

"Lucian, my friend," Arcalian says, leaning back in his chair, "you always seem to amaze me with your knowledge of things both common and obscure. Are you truly as well-read as you seem?" He masks his fear well, but the smell of magic has a new companion, the odor of human sweat. A lonely bead of perspiration dripping from the wizard's brow betrays the man's true feelings.

"A thousand years leaves one ample time to read."

"I suppose it does. I am curious, however. Something you suggested intrigues me. If you were to change my friend into a vampire—"

"It is too late. He is dead and I didn't even bite him."

"Yes, but if he were to become a vampire would he retain that much of his original identity? Would he still be a philosopher in mind, yet a vampire in body?"

"I'm not really sure. It's been so long since I was mortal, I truly don't remember."

"It's a shame that you killed him so quickly, perhaps if you had been more patient."

This discussion is growing tedious. It will be best if I end it. "It doesn't matter, I can always find another philosopher if I become overly curious. Perhaps even a mage."

Arcalian's lips thin and his complexion pales. Nevertheless, he still tries to continue the charade. "A mage? What an interesting idea. Imagine, a vampire with the power of magic at his beck and call ..."

"Don't worry. It won't be you. I intend to kill you outright. I don't like you enough to give you that much power. The woman you sent to destroy me, though, she, I intend to keep."

Arcalian looks at me with a forcibly puzzled expression on his face. There is a hint of panic in his eyes. "The woman I sent... I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."

"Come now, don't you remember? She had blond hair, blue eyes, and a magical sword capable of severing my head. And I mustn't forget her companion—the small dark-haired fellow with the wooden stakes—awfully handy to have around when you're hunting _vampires_. They almost succeeded too, but tragically, they were running just a little late. Imagine my surprise this evening when I awoke to the grating sound of my own coffin being opened. Well, the rogue now wears his favorite stake, and the woman ... she is now my bride! Do you remember now?"

"You are mistaken. I ... have no knowledge of these ... things." He makes a furtive glance toward the wand lying beside the book on his desk, within easy reach if I moved as slowly as a mortal.

"Mistaken? I think not. 'Lucian, you're alive!' Your performance at my entrance has already convicted you of your crime." I place both my hands on his desk and lean toward him, snarling. "And with no court at hand, I am forced to pass judgment myself." I straighten, locking my eyes with his.

With human slowness, he makes a lunge for his wand. I too lunge, hurling his desk aside like a desiccated leaf in the autumn wind. My left hand clasps his right and twists it back almost to the point of breaking but not quite, not yet. He gasps in pain and a bolt of energy unleashed from the wand goes awry to reduce a far bookshelf to a smoking ruin.

"Before I send you to the grave, old friend, I need to know one thing. Who else amongst your scholarly kindred have you told of my existence? Answer me!" I apply a trace more pressure to his wrist, grinding the bones together with excruciating force.

His face contorts in pain, yet he still manages to work defiance into his glare. "I'd rather swallow my own tongue."

"I had so hoped it wouldn't end like this," I whisper gently in his ear. With a sudden twist I snap his forearm and crush his wrist, eliciting a scream of pain echoed by a lightning flash at the window. Ever so gently, I wrap the fingers of my right hand around his throat.

His eyes glow with hatred. "Burn in Hell, you undead bastard." Shrieking, he thrusts his other hand toward my face, a hand which bursts into flame as it touches my skin.

The pain ... The little mortal _hurt_ me. He hurt _me_. I shove him away and step back. My vision in one eye is gone and my face is wracked with agony. I see him there, leaning against the toppled wreckage of his desk, panting. His left hand is wreathed with fire and a silver ring on his finger pulses with a liquid light.

"Not as easy as you thought, am I, Lucian." He has an evil, almost confident look in his eye. A small gesture from his left hand and the flames sprout into a sword of fire.

I finger my left eye and the side of my face; it is quite numb now. I return my attention to the wizard and his sword. "Your late master gave me worse."

"Talamarius? He was a knave. I could have taken him myself. I didn't need you. I don't need you."

He lunges forward swinging his sword in a wide arc. With my right hand I catch his wrist, with my left I grasp his throat.

"You haven't ... won ... yet," he says, gasping.

The five fingers of his left hand open wide. The sword of fire melts into a wave of flames rolling across my arm, coursing toward my shoulder. Agony erupts along my body and with a howl I lunge, sinking my teeth deep into his neck. Still he struggles on, scourging my arm with his unearthly fire. But though the pain is great, my probing teeth have found an artery and I know his time is short. In violent spurts his lifeblood gushes from him, smearing my face and shirt and running in warm rivulets down my throat. Within moments, the flame dies down. The pain, however, remains; it is much slower in the ebbing.

For nearly half an hour I remain there, feeding. When his white body finally sags to the floor, my vision is beginning to return.

"Well, Arcalian." I say, studying his corpse. "It was almost a battle, but I will not honor you by calling you adversary. No, I will treat you as you deserve; my ravens are always hungry, and I'm sure you'll make a fine repast."

Minutes later, I am leaning out the window clutching Arcalian's body with one hand. My gaze lingers in the center of the room where a conflagration is beginning amidst a pile of broken furniture and broken bodies. The scent of old magics mingles sickeningly with the scent of burning flesh. With one last parting smile and a leap into the night, I scurry across the roof of the guild house dragging the old wizard's body in the rain. With his corpse in tow, it may take several hours to reach my castle, but Silgaren is only an hour past its zenith. I have time.

### Chapter One

A gentle rapping echoed in the chamber.

Regecon stirred under the sheets of his bed.

The rapping on the door continued.

With a weary sigh, Regecon sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I'll be with you in a moment," he called. A glance toward the window told him it was still dark out—many long hours until the dawn. "This had better be good." Mumbling to himself, the fire mage slid his feet over the side of the bed.

He stretched and yawned loudly. He stood, wrapped his red-orange robe about his shoulders, then strode toward the far door to open it. In the hallway outside, a young man in servant's garb stood trembling in excitement.

"The night watchman sent me for you, sir," he said. "There's a fire in the High Tower. You must come at once."

"A fire? Is it a large one?" Regecon asked, all thought of sleep vanishing. "What of Arcalian?"

"It has gutted the upper level, sir, and no one has seen or heard from either Arcalian or Aristoceles since it was discovered. Please, sir, you must come at once."

"I'll head there immediately. Go and wake Toreg." As a master of seacraft, Toreg possessed skills with elemental water that could prove useful if the fire got beyond Regecon's control. "Quickly, now."

With long hurried strides Regecon headed down the hall, his thoughts troubled. A fire in the guild master's quarters was a serious matter. Arcalian possessed considerable knowledge of flamecraft as well as seacraft; if a blaze was beyond his control, something must be terribly wrong. What could have possibly happened?

It was only a short distance to the High Tower, yet by the time Regecon arrived a small crowd of servants and white-robed apprentices had gathered before the steps of the great staircase. After several moments of searching, Regecon at last spied the night watchman in quiet debate with a young apprentice. The conversation became audible as Regecon approached.

"I don't care if the mages can handle it. We're not about to sit by and watch. The fire could gut the whole tower by the time they get here. Now take your friends and some of those servants and start hauling up buckets of water from the cellar well."

"That won't be necessary, Mathagarr," Regecon said, interrupting the watchman. The apprentice smiled in a quiet I-told-you-so fashion, but a shrewd glance from the mage wiped the look from his face. Abashed, the apprentice looked down at his feet.

Mathagarr and Regecon had known each other for nearly twenty years, ever since Regecon first came to the town of Drisdak to study magic. And though Regecon was born of noble blood and Mathagarr had been little more than an adventurous commoner, they had become and remained fast friends.

Regecon turned to the night watchman, his expression sober. "If you would just fill me in, I believe I can handle things, although I have sent for Toreg just in case."

"Certainly, Councilman," Mathagarr said in a formal tone; in the company of others, the guardsman took care with his speech, primarily because of a certain episode he had had with Toreg a few months back. Mathagarr had been addressing the Council of High Mages on a simple matter concerning several late night pilferings that had occurred. In the middle of his speech, the watchman had made the mistake of referring to Regecon by name. Toreg had become irate, calling Mathagarr to order and insisting that all mages be given the respect they deserved when being addressed by the "commoners." To a certain extent Regecon had agreed with Toreg, at least when the council was in session. However, there was such a thing as taking propriety too far. Toreg had pursued his case to the extreme, even insinuating that Mathagarr was somehow involved with the thefts—an insinuation Regecon found patently absurd. It was not until Morcallenon, the head diviner, had cleared things up and the real thief placed in custody that Toreg had even begun to speak directly to Mathagarr again. Since then Mathagarr took great pains to address Regecon in public as 'sir' or 'Councilman.'

"If you would just follow me to the staircase, sir," Mathagarr continued, "I'll give you the details. I was doing my usual rounds when I heard a loud crash from above. I went up the stairs to investigate and found Guild Master Arcalian's chamber doorframe collapsed and his room ablaze. The heat and smoke were far too intense for me to brave alone and I could hear the floor beginning to crack and give. I called loudly for Master Arcalian and with no answer forthcoming, I returned downstairs to get help. I sent one of the servants to fetch you and I gathered several others and was about to send them off to get buckets of water when you arrived."

"Thank you, Mathagarr," Regecon said, "You have done we—" A horrendous explosion and crash reverberated down the hall from above, shaking the staircase and sending an apprentice stumbling to his knees. "What was that?"

"It must be the chamber floor, sir," Mathagarr answered. "It has probably collapsed, no doubt spreading the fire to the storage room on the lower level."

"Then I mustn't waste my time further in discussion. Mathagarr, disperse the crowd and send Toreg up after me as soon as he arrives."

"Yes, sir."

With nothing else to delay him, Regecon turned and took the first three steps in a single bound, then proceeded in a similar fashion up the winding stairs. After two complete spirals, he came to the level of the storage room. Already smoke could be seen issuing from the crack beneath the heavy door. He placed his palm flat on the surface of the wood, and then pulled it away thoughtfully as he felt the gentle warmth.

He took time to cast a brief charm against possible backdrafts, then turned the great door handle and gave a firm shove. A moment's worth of mild resistance gave way with a groan and the great door swung inward. A blast of thick black smoke sent Regecon staggering back onto the staircase, coughing to catch his breath. Waving the smoke from his face and hacking loudly, Regecon murmured a second incantation, took a deep breath of fresh air, then strode into the chamber to gaze upon a hellish scene.

At one time the chamber had been simply furnished with a variety of wooden shelves and crates lining its walls, stock full of clean linens and the occasional odd old clothes. Now the room resembled the abode of the most hellish fiend of nightmare. The wooden floor of the mage's study above had collapsed, scattering debris everywhere. Two of the linen shelves on opposite sides of the room lay on their sides under the crushing weight of the largest intact slab of the fallen ceiling. In the center of the room, as if in defiance, two smoldering crates stood stacked one upon the other while the rest of the chamber drifted in and out of view behind roaring flames.

Looking up, Regecon saw the remnants of the upper level floor reaching out to form jagged smoldering overhangs. Through the billowing smoke he sighted two such overhangs holding precariously in place what looked to be another large section of the floor—with a start Regecon realized this was the roof of the tower, his probing eyes spying the gleam of a star through a clear patch in the smoke. A groan from beneath his feet brought the mage's attention back to his own floor. With the wreckage of at least one and a half upper stories weighing down upon it and the fire growing in intensity with each passing moment, he knew his time was short.

Regecon strode purposefully toward the center of the room, the flames dancing around him as he walked. Shortly, he stood before the two burning crates like a devout priest before the sacred statue of his god. Placing his finger on the highest of the two crates he uttered a single word. He retreated three steps, then spread his arms wide and called out in a loud, powerful voice.

With a surprising suddenness, order appeared amidst the chaos. No longer did the flames flicker and blaze in the random fashion accorded by their nature, but rather each began to dance in harmony with the others to a strange and silent tune. While Regecon began to chant, a pulsing light filled the room, like the beating of a gargantuan heart. The fire, caught in his magic, thrashed and convulsed like a living thing filled with rage, bent on consuming everything in its path. Its fiery will locked with Regecon's forcing the mage to grunt from the strain. But he delved deep. He channeled torrents of magical energy, using his own body as a conduit to guide the fire and direct its movements. Slowly, sluggishly the flames responded. No longer wild and rampant, they became a guided force with purpose. Around and around they crawled, spiraling in toward the two crates beckoning from the center of the room. The flames embracing the crates grew brighter and stronger as their myriad brethren tumbled in to join them. And as the flames continued to pour in, those which were first to arrive were pushed further and further inward, until at last they were smothered under the continuing onslaught. The outer most edge of the fire diminished, leaving a trail of charred and smoking debris.

Slowly, inexorably, the monster lost its will and the fire began to die. Its heart continued to blaze, roaring up in fury, but its writhing tentacles shriveled away, fading into nothingness.

Finally, all that remained of the fire was its pulsing heart, beating in the center of the room, consuming the wooden crates in its hellish furnace. Uttering a single word, Regecon strode forward to strike the flames with his open palm. With a last desperate hiss, the fire went out and darkness closed in.

Regecon heard voices outside on the stairs and shortly, Mathagarr arrived carrying an oil lamp. Behind him came Toreg, arms folded at his chest, eyebrow arched in quizzical dissatisfaction.

Weary now, Regecon lacked even the energy to move; he simply bowed his head and stood amidst the smoking wreckage. All about him, scattered pieces of what was once Arcalian's floor lay tumbled in chaos. The gutted remains of wooden crates lay strewn about, blackened shelves littered the floor, and a lone half-eaten desk sat propped against a large slab of flooring near the back wall. Amongst all that wreckage only the center of the room seemed clear; where once two crates had stood, only fine white ash remained.

Regecon groaned, and stooped in pain, bracing himself with hands on thighs.

Kicking aside debris, Mathagarr rushed to the mage's side, grabbing his arm to steady him and keep him on his feet.

"It's all right. Just give me a minute," Regecon said, wearily.

Mathagarr placed one hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Really, I'll be fine. It was just the finishing touches on that one. The dousing at the end took a lot out of me. Just let me catch my breath ..."

Toreg approached through the tumult. "All things considered, Regecon, you could have waited." The water mage stopped halfway through the wreckage and stooped down to pick up something. He studied it a moment, then continued forward carrying what looked like a blackened piece of twisted leather in his hand. "It wasn't wise tackling that fire all by yourself. From the looks of it, it was an exceptionally large one ... and exceptionally hot as well." He handed the twisted leather to Regecon. "Look at this."

Regecon took the piece of leather in his hand and straightened his back, his weariness expunged by curiosity. With deft movements, he worked on untwisting the leather into a rough rectangle, nearly two feet long and half as wide. "Looks like a book covering ... Damn, it's one of Arcalian's spellbooks. The fire ate through the ward and everything ..."

"Yes, it did. And if that's all that's left of that one, you can pretty much assume his other spellbooks are ruined as well, not to mention all the other books he had which weren't magical but were nonetheless of immense academic value. They weren't even protected. It is truly an immeasurable loss."

"Unless, he managed to escape and take some of his books with him ..." Regecon regretted the words almost as soon as they left his lips. Why were they discussing books when there were men still missing?

"Escape? Councilman, your skill in flamecraft does not exceed Arcalian's by much, and I know he is much more learned about the ways of seacraft than you. He could have handled this fire long before we arrived; I have little doubt of that."

Regecon considered the thought a moment, then said, "You are probably right, Toreg, but—"

"Sirs," Mathagarr interrupted with a touch of uneasiness in his voice. "I think ... I see something." He motioned across the room. "It looks ... like a piece of metal of some kind."

Both mages watched as the guardsman waded through the still-smoking debris. He was perhaps fifteen feet away and up to his knees in wreckage when he finally stopped, set the lamp down on a blackened crate, and kneeled down to sift through a pile of rubble. "By the Sickle," he said, studying something in his hands. His back blocked the wizards' view.

Toreg snorted in irritation. "Well, what is it?"

Mathagarr turned, wiping soot from the mysterious object as he did so. He took a single step forward thrusting his hands before him to display their burden. Although still blackened and dirty, a portion of the object had been wiped clean. It was not difficult to identify. A small metal helm gleamed in the dim lamp light.

Regecon straightened in alarm. "Bloody Hell! Start digging!"

Toreg glanced briefly from the soot-covered floor to his clean blue night robe. "I shall gather some more help," he said, then turned toward the door.

"Toreg!" Regecon said, as he whirled on the older man. "There may be men buried in there. We have to get them out! If there is even the remotest possibility that someone is ali—"

Toreg returned Regecon's angry glare with a cool look of his own—an icy, passionless look, devoid of any trace of human emotion. "Don't be ridiculous. If you find someone, do you have any doubt about the condition they will be in? This room needs to be cleaned and the wreckage removed. Twenty-pair hands can do the work much faster than three."

Although irritated by his cold reasoning, Regecon again had to admit Toreg was right. It was foolish to think anyone they found could still be alive. He himself had seen the full fury of the fire. "Go then, but be quick about it ... and make sure you grab Morcallenon, I'll want him to do a divining as soon as possible."

"As you wish, Councilman. I will return as soon as I can."

With that Toreg turned and left.

"Well, Mathagarr," Regecon said, "it's just you and me for now."

"With all due respect to Mage Toreg, I kind of prefer it that way. I never much cared for his manners, if you don't mind my saying so."

Regecon nodded. "I've always had an open ear for you, old friend. I, more than anyone else, know Toreg is somewhat lacking in tact, but he's not a bad man, not really ... just a little cold."

"You are too lenient. He's not like you, he treats me more like a dog than a man ... and it's not just me. The servants, the other guards, even the apprentices have the same complaint. Anyone not a full mage is little more than dirt to him."

"If I remember, I'll try to talk to him. There's little I can do really, he's been with the guild too long and he's on his way to becoming a council member himself soon ... But come now, we must start digging."

It looked to be tedious work, slow and painstaking, but the two men threw themselves vigorously at the task. Lifting and tossing aside countless remnants of the destruction, they began sorting the wreckage into three distinct piles. Each blackened board, each twisted spellbook, they tossed aside searching for some sign of anything human.

"Look here, I think I see something." Mathagarr stooped down on to his knees, brushing aside a small pile of debris. "By the Scythe-Bearer's Sickle," he said. From beneath a fallen beam of oak, fingers spread wide as if waving a sad farewell, a charred skeletal hand stretched out with its flesh all but burnt away.

As the watchman continued to dig, Regecon paused to stare at the hand, somehow sensing that this had been more than a simple fire. They were on the threshold of something far deeper and more mysterious. Mathagarr too, seemed to sense something amiss.

"Something isn't right here."

Regecon nodded. "I know. Something went wrong here ... very, very wrong."

With a loud grunt the two men heaved up the fallen beam and tossed it aside, then looked down at their find. Crushed under the weight of the beam and almost completely consumed by fire, the remains of a man in armor could be seen. His chain armor was blackened and sooty, his sword at his side was broken at the hilt, and his face was a charred and grinning skull.

### Chapter Two

Coragan watched the gold coin spin in the air. It turned over and over several times, glinting in the light as it reached its apex, then began to descend. At last, his blue-cloaked comrade, Galladrin, reached out, snatched the coin from its course, and slammed it on the table.

"What do you know, it's the dragon's head," Galladrin said to their other companion, Borak, a muscle-bound giant of a man. "Come on, let's play."

Galladrin moved toward the knife board at the far wall, nimbly side stepping several of the inn's other patrons. Borak lumbered behind, less agile but far more intimidating; the patrons moved quickly out of the behemoth's path.

Coragan sighed. They played knives a lot these days. There seemed little else to do in the quiet town of Drisdak. They hadn't had a job in over a week, and Coragan was loathe to go back to his former employer. Needless to say, they were running out of money. He figured three, maybe four, more days and they'd be broke.

There was a thunk as Galladrin's knife stuck in the board just a few inches to the left of the bullseye. He could have hit it if he'd wanted to; the rogue's skill at throwing knives was only exceeded by his skill with the rapier at his side. A fair shot himself, Coragan was no match for Galladrin. He had learned weeks ago not to play knives for real money when Galladrin was around. Of course, he and Borak weren't really playing for keeps. They were just getting the game started, hoping to lure some unsuspecting victim in to earn a little extra coin.

One of Borak's throws went wide and sank deep in the post to the right of the board, loosening a large splinter of wood. Coragan winced. The innkeeper would not be happy about that. It was hard work keeping any inn in a hospitable condition, and _The Maiden's Blush_ was no exception. Of course, Galladrin was not one to give up coin without need. With a quick but casual step he maneuvered to block the blade from the innkeeper's view and deftly removed it from the wall. He then turned and handed the knife back to Borak, frowning sourly. A quick glance and his eyes met Coragan's. The rogue krinkled his mouth into an unsatisfied twist and slowly shook his head in annoyance. Coragan returned the look with an irritated frown of his own, then slid three more coins toward the money they were leaving for the innkeeper's tip.

_That should cover it_ , he thought. It was a pain cleaning up after Galladrin and Borak, but he'd rather do that than live with that uncomfortable nagging twist in the pit of his stomach that he'd encountered so often of late. Some doubts were inevitable in his profession, but lately he was having a difficult time with his chosen career. So much so, he had called it quits on his former employer and taken up to find work elsewhere. He was a bounty hunter by trade, and a good one. Lately, however, he had begun to feel more and more like a hired assassin.

It had started when he was young on a simple farm in a small town in northern Esperia. His parents had been hard working, loving, and kind. One night, a wounded man staggered onto their farm. His father, Mortugan, a deeply religious man, had known his duty to the stranger. Without a word he opened up his house and offered a bed and food to the wounded man. Sharine, Coragan's mother, cleaned and bandaged the man's wounds, gently removing the arrows from his thigh and shoulder. As it turned out, the stranger was a bounty hunter, hired by a local baron to hunt down and bring to justice several well-known thieves. A skilled hunter, the man had captured one of the thieves and was closing in on the others when they picked up his scent and laid a trap for him. He walked right into an ambush and barely escaped with his life. The story amazed the young Coragan. Through the rest of the week, while the man recovered from his injuries, Coragan sought him out to hear tales of his exploits. Every spare minute he had he spent listening to those stories, savoring them. Of course, given the life of a farmer's son those minutes numbered few indeed, but that just made them all the more precious. Ultimately, the stranger recovered from his injuries and took his leave from the farm, but all through the rest of that summer Coragan continually found himself daydreaming as he tilled the fields and milked the cows. Who else was there to bring down the fabled Draknar the Black, or Urthar One-Eye but Coragan the Brave, Coragan the Mighty, the fiercest bounty hunter of all? From that point on, he set his heart on becoming a bounty hunter.

As the seasons passed, he made every effort he could to make his dream a reality. In what little spare time he had he joined the small town militia, hoping to learn the weapons of the trade. It was hard work, trying to become a bounty hunter while still managing to help on the farm. More than once he found himself wishing he could be rid of the farm forever and be on his way to fame and glory. However, he remained loyal to his parents, working diligently to bring in each season's harvest. In his seventeenth year, though, things changed forever.

He returned home from the militia one day to an empty field. He searched about the farm and through the house, looking for his parents, yet they were nowhere to be found. He called out for them, but they did not answer, and the rapidly descending darkness was making the search more difficult by the minute. Finally, just as Neerie, the miner's moon, began to peak over the horizon, he found them in the shed. His father had been bound, beaten and gagged. His face was scratched and smeared with blood, his eye blackened, and several teeth were knocked out. His mother, however, did not fare so well. She was quite dead. The raiders had raped and killed her while his bound father was forced to watch, helpless.

In the few months that followed, Coragan gave up on becoming a bounty hunter. His father needed all the help he could get to run the farm and even that wasn't enough. With the death of his wife, something had died in his father as well. He stopped eating, he barely slept, and he moved without focus, mindlessly working the fields without conviction. He spoke to no one save Coragan, and then only briefly. Coragan could do nothing but watch over the following weeks as his father withered away. It was three months to the day of his mother's death when her husband went to join her.

Coragan had wept bitterly that night. The next day he swore vengeance over both his parents' graves. Within a week he sold the farm and began the life that was his childhood dream. The three men who had destroyed his family were the first of many to fall before Coragan of Esperia. They were the most difficult too, although not in a physical sense. It had been nearly all he could do not to kill the men himself. However, the self-control was well rewarded; he took great pleasure in watching the men hang.

That was nearly nine years ago, now, and since that time he had remained true to his childhood aspiration. Many a long night he had spent in run-down inns eavesdropping and asking the occasional shrewd question, always in search of some wanted criminal. Many a hardened killer had met his match in Coragan—Coragan's skill with both sword and crossbow made him deadly in a confrontation.

In the beginning, he found the bounty hunter's life nothing short of glorious. His fame spread quickly and the offered quests seemed noble, just, and ripe with opportunities for heroism. He developed a formidable reputation as a man of both honor and determination with a knack for capturing even the cleverest of foes.

But the glory did not last.

Somewhere along the way—Coragan could not remember where or how— something changed. More and more often he found himself on the more dubious side of justice. Slowly, the seedier side of nobility seemed to infiltrate his many contracts. Again and again he found himself on the hunt of some poor soul whose worst crime may have been an insult to some noble's petty honor. All the same he hunted the men down and brought them before the courts of nobility naively thinking that justice would prevail if the men were truly innocent. One by one he watched the men hang, his stomach twisting with revulsion at what he had become. The last man he had dragged in had been a humble porter accused of seducing the Count of Torine's wife and plotting the count's murder. Since the start Coragan had had serious doubts of the man's guilt and never encountered anything to convince him otherwise. Even if he had, given the countess' whispered reputation, he hardly thought the porter alone deserved to bear the brunt of the punishment. That man's death had been the last in a series of disappointing revelations about the nature of noble law; a law without mercy, without compassion, and very often, without even a trace of justice. He remembered watching the porter before he died, a pitiful sight, standing alone on the scaffolding of the gallows, his tattered clothes whipping in the early morning as the sun rose at his back, his last look borne not by the eyes of a cold and hardened killer, but by the desperate eyes of an unjustly punished man whose gaze simply asked why. Coragan had seen those eyes looking at him and felt his stomach flip over in his belly. The next day he collected his coin from the Count of Torine and left swearing never to be on the wrong side of justice ever again. That was two months ago.

The question of evil—that was the problem. Nothing he hunted seemed evil anymore, just another victim of the maelstrom of life whose only fault lay in finding himself on the opposite end of a tug-a-rope against a noble with all the power. There was nothing evil in the men he hunted; nothing twisted beyond the limits of human compassion. What he needed was someone as dark as darkness itself, someone he could hunt and not feel guilty about killing. Until then, he had no intention of being a bounty hunter ever again. As poor as he was now he felt much better, still burdened by guilt, but not the emissary of unrighteous doom. No amount of money was worth that feeling. He'd rather starve in the gutter.

He looked over at Galladrin and Borak engrossed in their knife game, his recently acquired companions. He'd met them about a month and a half ago, at a run-down inn in Sestak. Galladrin was a little too roguish at times, but not altogether bad. A ribald and a scoundrel, the man sometimes surprised Coragan with a touch of softness in his heart. Borak, on the other hand, was strange. Coragan had known the man a week and thought him mute before he first used his tongue. Of his skill and strength in combat, there was no question—Coragan had once seen him cleave a man nearly in two with that great axe of his—but the man just never spoke.

A blast of cold air drew Coragan's attention to the tavern door. A man dressed in chain armor with the bearing of a guardsman struggled to close the door against the howling wind outside. The man completed his task, then turned to scan the room. He took several steps toward the bar and almost immediately a large group of men deliberately scattered out of his way. Only then did Coragan notice the yellow sash tied around his forearm: an expensive sash, made of fine silk. Hanging down from his arm a lone square bore an easily recognizable symbol traced in black lace—an upright staff thrust into the earth, around which two serpents coiled and above which two ravens circled—the mages guild. Coragan snorted in disgust and turned his attention back to Galladrin's knife game.

They had found a few takers after all: a man and a woman. The man had long blond hair tied back in a strange knot at the base of his head. He wore a travel-stained cloak and had a short sword at his side. The woman had short cropped hair and a cloak of fine black fur. She had no visible weapons, but she walked with a fluid grace that hinted of deadly strength. _May prove to be an interesting bout after all_ , Coragan thought.

Borak went first. Apparently warmed up, his aim had improved; he succeeded in hitting the board with every throw. Only one landed relatively close to the bullseye and Coragan suspected that had been more a matter of luck. The golden-haired man went next. His was an even spread: one complete miss, one shot to the midboard, and one bullseye. Now, it was Galladrin's turn. Always the showman the rogue turned up one bullseye and two shots to the midboard just edging past the blond man's total. The woman followed. With gentle ease she extricated the knives from the board and stepped back, weighing each blade carefully in her hand. She made a brief survey of the room and passed a warm smile to Galladrin. Then she whipped off three shots to the bullseye in rapid succession. Coragan started in both surprise and worry; they could not afford a loss.

The next round passed in a similar manner with Galladrin scoring three bullseyes, the woman scoring two with one shot the midboard, and both Borak and the golden-haired man performing much like they did before. The following round saw Borak and the golden-haired man eliminated leaving Galladrin—set back again by a single awkward throw—trailing the woman by two points.

"Coragan of Esperia?"

Coragan turned at the sound of his name, his eyes catching a flash of yellow. Looking up, he saw a man in the garb of a soldier, his right arm adorned with staff, serpents and ravens. Coragan's face dropped into a deeper frown. "Yes. Do I know you?"

"No, you do not—but I was wondering if I could have a word with you. Do you mind?" The man motioned to the vacant chair on Coragan's left.

Coragan thought a moment, looking the man over as he did so. The patch on his arm marked him as a mage's guard; that alone meant trouble. However, at least he didn't bear the mark of the Count of Torine; that man had set a price on Coragan's head. "You may sit there if you wish, but if you intend to share my table, you will also share your name."

The man sat down as he spoke. "Fair enough. My name is Mathagarr and I work for the mages guild—"

"I can see that." Coragan nodded toward the yellow sash then turned his gaze back toward the knife game. Quite a crowd had gathered to watch the struggle. Galladrin had cut the woman's lead, but still lagged. He stood, poised for the drama, two blades in his left hand, the other ready to be thrown in his right. The blades flew effortlessly from his hands. Three bullseyes. The crowd gasped. If nothing else, Galladrin was enjoying himself. The woman stepped up, blades at the ready. With as much poise and grace as Galladrin, the woman sent the knives into the center of the board.

Mathagarr stared at the bounty hunter, who in turn seemed engrossed in a nearby knife game. The man was of average height, but of a well-muscled build. His dark cloak and grey clothing gave him a forbidding air, one that agreed well with his reputation. Mathagarr cleared his throat and spoke, trying to set a casual tone. "Looks like quite a game."

"That it is." The bounty hunter barely glanced at him.

Mathagarr looked around in the uncomfortable silence, not knowing what to say. In truth, he didn't like this part of his job and he really wished Regecon had chosen someone else to find this man. The council had met and decided they would hire outside help to investigate the fire and the two deaths. Someone had mentioned the bounty hunter's name, saying he was in town at _The Maiden's Blush Inn_ and after a quick vote the council had dispatched Mathagarr to find him. Now here he was, trying to strike up a friendly conversation with the man only to find each attempt answered with a sharply curt reply—not necessarily rude, just abrupt enough to stem the flow of conversation. The whole effect left Mathagarr feeling very uncomfortable and somewhat unwelcome.

"If you intend to use your tongue for anything other than drooling over barmaids, sir, I suggest you do so soon." The bounty hunter spoke without taking his eyes from the knife game. "I do not intend to stay here long."

"Well, since you brought it up ..." Mathagarr began. The knife game seemed to be drawing to a close. Mathagarr had not been paying attention enough to gather any more than that the dark-haired man and woman were skilled competitors and had drawn quite a crowd. However, the slight frown on Coragan's face suggested it was not going quite the way he would prefer. Realizing he had trailed off, Mathagarr quickly turned his attention back to the bounty hunter and began speaking. "As you have noticed, I work for the mages guild and have done so for many years now. The guild has stood in this town for quite some time and has earned a respectable reputation. Well, to get right to the heart of the matter, they have run into some rather peculiar difficulties of late. They sent me here to find out if you would be capable of offering them some discreet assistance."

The bounty hunter turned toward the guardsman, his eyes sharpening into suspicious points. "I stopped working for nobles because they were arrogant, power-hungry scoundrels who didn't care a whit about the common people. Do you now expect me to work for a mage? They are twice as bad as any noble. I have yet to meet the wizard who wasn't convinced I should be licking his boots clean while we spoke."

Mathagarr did his best to ignore the comment and continued on in a patient tone. "I have only been asked to bring you to them for an audience. The guild master Regecon—" for a moment, the watchman forgot all about the bounty hunter's belligerent tone; he stumbled over his own words as he tried to grapple with the notion that his friend of many years was now the guild master in Arcalian's absence. "The guild master Regecon has authorized me to pay you twenty gold dragons if you would just come and speak with him about the matter."

Coragan arched his eyebrows in obvious surprise. Mathagarr understood. Twenty gold dragons was a considerable sum for a mere audience. Nevertheless, the bounty hunter was in no mood to deal with a wizard, guild master or not. "Come to meet him? Why? So he can ensorcel me and coerce me to go along with his plans? I don't think so."

That went too far.

Mathagarr erupted in a rage, surprising both himself and the bounty hunter. He leapt up from his chair, and slammed both his fists on the table. "Regecon is a good man! How dare you suggest that he would even be capable of such a thing!"

"Easy, friend." Coragan said as several stares were drawn from across the room. The bounty hunter raised his hands in a placating manner, his tone softening. "Perhaps I was too quick to judge. I've had a couple bad experiences with wizards, that's all. Just relax a bit. Tell you what, even though I'm not going to take you up on your offer, I'll buy you a drink so there's no hard feelings. What do you say?"

Mathagarr relaxed, sinking slowly into his chair. He let the anger subside and unclenched his fists. He hadn't been expecting the man's words; commoner's were often distrustful of magic, but no one was ever so insulting. Not like that. Never. He raised his head to look at the bounty hunter, his voice taking on an inhospitable tone. "Then that's it. You won't even hear Regecon out? You won't even listen to what he has to say?"

"Like I said, the less I have to do with wizards, the bet ..." Coragan trailed off as the pair of knife-throwers approached the table. The man, lithe, nimble and sporting a blue cloak, wore a face twisted in an unusual perplexed frown. The short-haired woman followed closely on his heels, a smile resting lightly on her features. The man nodded once toward Mathagarr in greeting.

"Uh, Coragan. I don't mean to interrupt, but ... uh, how much of that gold do you still have left?" The man offered a weak grin, first to Coragan, then to the woman who moved up on his left.

"You lost?"

"Yes, he did, but he put up quite a fight." The woman appeared amused. "He's a fine knife-thrower."

"Apparently not fine enough. How much do we owe you?"

"Twelve dragons."

"Twelve dragons!"

"Yes."

Glaring at the man standing before him, the bounty hunter reached into his money pouch and counted out the remaining coins—nine gold dragons, seven silver griffons, and a smattering of copper ravens.

Coragan turned. "Uh, Mathagarr?"

"Yes?"

"Did the guild master authorize you to give us a small advance?"

Mathagarr smiled, contemplating the ironies of fate. "You'll meet him then?"

"Apparently."

"How much do you need?"

"One gold and three silver will suffice."

Mathagarr counted out the coinage into a small pile and pushed it toward Coragan. Coragan in turn collected it with the gold and silver from his own pouch and counted it out to the woman a coin at a time. When he finished, the woman smiled yet again. "Thank you, gentlemen," she said. "It's been a pleasure. Now, good night." She bowed, then turned and strode back into the crowd.

Mathagarr stood, pushing his chair back from the table. "If you would follow me, Coragan, I will take you to Regecon. Although not required, your friends may follow if they so desire."

Coragan looked toward the blue-cloaked man. The man shrugged his shoulders. "Count me in, unless you want me to go play knives some more. Maybe I can lose our weapons."

"Well, grab Borak." Coragan turned once more to face the guardsman. "Lead on, Mathagarr."

### Chapter Three

A cold wind whipped Coragan's dark cloak behind him as he stepped outside. He wrapped the cloak about himself while beside him Galladrin and Borak did the same. Thus prepared, they followed Mathagarr into the winding streets of Drisdak.

The setting of the sun marked the end of the market day for most people and it would be several hours after sundown before the more sinister element of the city emerged. Until then, the streets would be nearly empty of townsfolk, making the journey from the inn to the guild short and nearly free from incident. There was but one brief interruption.

Shortly after leaving the inn, a small disheveled child ran up to them and tugged on Galladrin's blue cloak. Her grimy paw spread its fingers wide and her large bright eyes stared up from a dirty face. She wore a sad frown, but her eyes sparkled with a hint of hopefulness. The rogue stared at the pathetic creature, then cast a sidelong glance toward Coragan.

Coragan handed the money pouch to Galladrin and the rogue upended it, emptying their few remaining coppers into the young girl's hand. Glancing furtively around, the girl stuffed the coins inside her ragged garment and scampered away into the shadows. Galladrin followed her with his eyes, but said nothing. The others too, seemed loathe to break the silence and the small party traveled on, each man alone with his thoughts.

Not long thereafter, the guild house loomed before them, a huge edifice, made of stone. Its massive walls cast ominous shadows in the waning light and its five stony spires stretched like fingers toward an ashen sky. High above the gate, rippling in the wind, a yellow banner spread along the length between two windows. It hung there in the gloom, a testament to the wizards' power, bearing the symbol of the guild in its center.

"We are here," Mathagarr said, then motioned the companions toward two men in armor standing by the gate.

The guards called out a formal challenge as they approached: "Who wishes entrance into this Guild of Wizards? Identify yourselves."

"It is I, Mathagarr, Captain of the Nightwatch. I bring with me Coragan of Esperia and his two worthy friends, all of whom seek an audience with Guild Master Regecon."

The guard paused a moment as he studied the men. At last his gaze fell upon Mathagarr and he nodded once in recognition. "Proceed as you wish, sir," he said, then swung the gate wide.

In the hallway beyond, several oil lamps shed a brilliant aura of light across the grey stones of the walls and floor. Cut in perfect rectangles with precise edges and glass-smooth surfaces, the well-worked chunks of granite provided a remarkable testimony to the skill of the masons that had carved them so long ago. As they proceeded down the hall, Coragan reached out and gently dragged his fingers across the wall, feeling the polished texture. _Extraordinary_ , he thought. His eyes scanned the ceiling and the walls as his thoughts turned cynical. _How many men ... how many men did it take to build these walls? Generation upon generation of broken backs, laboring from dawn to dusk, laboring for the glory of this man Regecon. What did any of those men get for it? No doubt an unmarked grave and the glorious title of 'commoner.'_ Coragan felt his stomach twist inside. _Such is the mark of both the mage and the nobleman, to spit on the dirt that built his home._

Mathagarr led them straight down the corridor, ignoring several side passages. After a time, they came to two large double iron doors in which the hallway terminated. A small wooden door stood to their right, its brass handle glinting in the pale light. Mathagarr opened this smaller door and led them into the corridor beyond. A short distance in, he turned down yet another passage, then another, until, at last, he brought them to a small room which held a stone staircase spiraling up into darkness.

"This is the staircase of the East Tower," Mathagarr explained, his voice dropping low as if he wished not to disturb anyone. "Guild Master Regecon's room lies on the first floor. I'll announce you to him, then return to fetch you. Please, wait here." The guardsman grabbed an oil lamp from the wall, and clambered up the stairs.

Galladrin glanced around. "What do you think, Coragan?"

"I think you ought to work on your knife game," Coragan answered, looking back in the direction they'd come. He felt sorely tempted to just leave.

"Huh? Well, the lady was good," Galladrin replied. "I can't win every time."

"Obviously not."

"Hey," Galladrin said, turning his head in Coragan's direction, "if you're going to be like that, why don't you throw the knives next time."

"I couldn't do any worse," Coragan said, meeting the rogue's angry stare.

Galladrin turned his whole body to look at Coragan squarely. "Look, Coragan ..." he began, then sighed and shook his head. "Oh, never mind."

The next few moments passed in silence; Coragan stood with his feet planted squarely, lost in thought, while Galladrin constantly shifted his weight, his eyes restlessly scanning their surroundings. Only Borak seemed unconcerned at the events transpiring, his face a dull mask of disinterest. He yawned, once, and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, his back arching.

Shortly, the sound of footsteps on the staircase echoed from above and the curving staircase wall glowed with an approaching light. Moments later, Mathagarr appeared. "The guild master will see you now. Follow me."

The guardsman turned and led them a short distance up the stairs to a large oak door reinforced with bands of bronze. He knocked twice, then pushed the door open. It groaned loudly.

He stepped into the well-lit room beyond and the companions followed. "Guild Master Regecon," Mathagarr began, "may I present to you Coragan of Esperia and his two worthy friends."

A man sat at a desk before them, seemingly young for a mage, perhaps in his late thirties. He had dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and robes of a fiery orange-red in color, laced with intricate black designs along the edges. The man sat in a large comfortably cushioned chair with his hands folded together before him. He had obviously been waiting.

"Thank you, Mathagarr—"

Galladrin stepped forward. "My name is Galladrin, not 'worthy friend,' and this is our companion Borak. He too, prefers to be addressed by his name."

Coragan gave a sharp look to Galladrin, but the rogue ignored him. Borak for his part, seemed completely unconcerned.

Regecon spoke before Mathagarr could say anything on his own behalf. "Please excuse any insult ... Galladrin, for none was intended."

Galladrin paused just a moment to meet the mage's stare. "It shall be forgotten this time," he said, "but keep in mind that I am my own man with my own achievements and pride, not some lackey content to bask in the shadow of my accomplished friend Coragan here."

"Your concern is noted, and I apologize for any insult," Regecon said, then turned to Mathagarr. "Mathagarr, you have performed your services well. You may go."

"Thank you, sir," the man said, then nodded once to the others as he left.

"Well, gentlemen, I suppose you are wondering why I invited you here." Regecon stood to walk around his desk toying with the voluminous black-laced sleeve of his robe.

"You could say that," Coragan replied.

The mage paused to look briefly at Coragan, raising both eyebrows at the bounty hunter's tone. "Indeed. Well, let me satisfy your curiosity. I would like to hire you, all of you—for I fear it may be too daunting a task for you, Coragan, to handle alone. I was not expecting your friends, but this works out well enough." The man nodded once to himself as if reaffirming the outcome of some silent debate in his head. "Let me explain. Last night, we had a fire which gutted and destroyed most of our main tower. Two men have been found dead, one a guardsman, the other unidentified. A third man is unaccounted for. The cause of this fire remains a mystery to us and we, that is, the guild and I, would like you to investigate this matter. We are willing to pay your group an initial fee of six hundred gold dragons if you accept, and another six hundred if you resolve it to my satisfaction."

"Twelve hundred gold ...!" Galladrin's mouth opened in surprise.

Coragan, however, had been preparing his answer ever since he'd left _The Maiden's Blush_. With a bow, he stepped forward, "I'm sorry, wizard, but we will be unable to help you."

Astonished, Regecon blinked. "But we have barely begun to discus—"

"Coragan, are you mad?" Galladrin interrupted. "That's twelve hundred gold dragons! Do you know how long we could live off of that much money?"

"I wouldn't care if it was twelve hundred platinum eagles, I'm still not interested. I promised myself that I would do no nobleman's dirty business for him ever again. And I will not make an exception for a mage."

"It's a bloody fire, Coragan. What is so heinously evil about looking into a bloody fire?"

"I don't know, and I certainly don't want to find out."

"Well," Regecon said, "I am uncertain how a bounty hunter who refuses to work for nobles or for mages, intends to make a living in his trade. However, if that is your final decision I can look elsewhere for help. Here is the remainder of the money I owe you. You may go." The mage tossed a small pouch of coins on the desk. It clanked loudly as it landed.

Galladrin picked up the pouch. "Hold on." The rogue tied the pouch to his side, then turned back to the mage. "He may be out, but I'm in. If you're willing, sir, I'll be more than happy to look into this little fire of yours for you. Just give me a few more details and I'll be right on it."

"I was really more interested in hiring the renowned Coragan of Esperia—"

"He's a bounty hunter. What does he know about setting fires and murder that I don't? I worked for the Thieves Guild in Pallernia for four years, I think I might be able to help you."

Regecon lifted one hand to interrupt. "Who said anything about murder?"

"Well, you have a couple of dead bodies and a fire. The possibility of murder and a cover up is there. If not, give me some more details and I'll get to work on it and see what I can find out."

"I still think you are making a rather large leap of logic by assuming murder is involved. In all likelihood, the fire was accidental."

"If you really believed that, I don't think we'd be here right now. Even so, if it was truly an accident, an investigation will settle the question ... for good."

Regecon studied the rogue a moment, gently scratching his beard. "I'm not sure I like the idea of hiring an admitted thief."

"Former thief, sir. Former thief. My work with the guild is ancient history. Although I can draw on what I know from my experience, I am quite reformed from my ways." Coragan snorted in the corner, stifling a chuckle.

"Former thieves have a notoriously bad habit of turning up dead overnight. May I ask why you think you are immune to such an 'affliction?'"

"You may, but I'll say no more than I'm a little more creative than both my predecessors and the illness that stalked them. Now, please tell me a bit more about this fire."

"There is not much more to say. The fire gutted our main tower. Two men are dead, a third is missing. If you would like to sift through any of the wreckage that can be arranged; we have not disposed of it yet."

"Yes, I think I would like to do that a bit later. However, in the mean time it might help if you told me more about the dead men and the man who is missing." Galladrin stood in the center of the room, scratching his chin, almost in mockery of the Regecon of moments before. Coragan had to look away, nearly shaking with laughter at the rogue's newly assumed role of fire constable.

"One of the dead men was named Havarin. He was a guard who had been with us for some three years now. A decent man as far as I can recall. I can think of nothing especially noteworthy about him, although Mathagarr might be able to help you more in that regard."

"Hmmm. Perhaps I shall talk to him as well. And the other dead man? What of him? And the man who is missing?"

"This is where it gets a trifle more difficult. We are uncertain exactly who the other dead man is, his body was charred beyond recognition—we only identified Havarin by his armor which survived the blaze. From what we do know, we have surmised that the dead man could be one of two men, both mages. The first is the philosopher Aristoceles, the other the guild master Arcalian. Both men were last known to be in Arcalian's chamber on the evening of the fire. Arcalian had a habit of working late into the night and Aristoceles often helped him. Both men are now missing. We would like to identify the body for certain and find out where the other is."

"Hmmm ... a difficult dilemma."

"Might I ask a question?" Coragan interjected from the corner. Both Galladrin and Regecon turned to face him. "How is it that you mages have so little information? Isn't this a guild of sorcery? Couldn't someone just cast a spell and find out? I have had some little experience dealing with mages before and if my memory serves me right, I believe there was a field of study called divination which dealt primarily with instances of this nature. One of you must surely have a crystal ball or other such device he could use."

"Your memory serves you well, Coragan of Esperia," Regecon said, a smile on his face. Coragan had the nagging suspicion that, like it or not, he had just passed some sort of test. He was going to be dragged into this against his will, and there was nothing he could do about it. He resisted the temptation to head for the door as the mage continued to speak. "There is a field of study called divination, or seercraft, which under normal circumstances would be ideal for investigating this matter. In fact, our best diviner made such an attempt just today but failed to gain any useful information. He hit a pocket of black time in his search, rendering his and any future divination futile."

"Black time?" This time it was Coragan's turn to raise his eyebrows. "What do you mean? Could you explain that?"

"Of course." The mage turned and seated himself on the top of his desk. "You might understand better if you had a clearer conception of how divination works. Allow me to provide that for you. Any event or series of events, our conversation for example, leaves an impression in time as it unfolds. You as you sit here in this room, are surrounded by a vast myriad of fluctuating energies. Your action in the world determines how these energies coalesce and create events. Any event that occurs causes a definitive rhythm in these energies which binds the event and makes it real—"

Coragan lifted his finger to interrupt the man. "I said I had a little knowledge of magic. You are completely losing me."

"Let me see." The mage paused, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Let me try to explain by analogy. Suppose the universe, or rather the future, is made of mud. As you experience time, you as a living entity move through this mud. As you do so your presence and your actions change the mud to stone, thus determining how reality unfolds. What divination does is allow us to look at the stone after the fact. Try to imagine the mud being laced with thousands upon thousands of strings which shiver and stretch as the mud hardens, thereby recording the event in the context of the whole universe, that is, the mud pit. Divination uses a complex process to locate these strings and trace them back to the original event or impression in the stone, rather. This allows us to view past happenings. Understand?"

"It's still a little shaky, but it will have to do," Coragan said. "Now what of this black time?"

"Black time is a phenomenon which renders divination useless. Imagine the strings being cut, or perhaps intricately twisted. The more twisted the string is, the harder it is to send energy along to gain access to the event. If the string is twisted and looped around enough, it becomes virtually impossible to control and retrieve any energy sent along its path. This severs the event from possible divination, creating a pocket of inaccessible time. We call this black time."

"And this black time was somehow involved in your fire last night?"

"Exactly. As far as we can tell, the fire began at some point during which Arcalian's chamber was engulfed in black time. Morcallenon was able to observe Arcalian at his desk perhaps an hour or so before midnight. He appeared to be involved in some research. The time following this, however, is obscured by black time. It does not clear until the fire is already burning and well on its way to consuming the floor."

"What causes such a thing?" Galladrin asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Oh, it can have numerous causes. It may in fact have been a natural phenomenon caused by the normal shifting of energies, the eddies in the mud if you will. Alternatively, it could have been caused by some powerful magic. No one in this guild would be capable of such a feat, but it is said that Zarina the Black was a sorceress of sufficient power when she lived. There are, of course, other possibilities—some creatures generate auras of black time around them as they move, such as demons, some dragons, some of the more powerful undead, as well as pixies and winged unicorns. Also, the activities of a deity or its minions might be responsible. It is difficult to be certain—our diviner Morcallenon is still working on the problem, but it will be at least several days before he can learn anything more... _if_ he can learn anything more."

"So we got our choices," Galladrin began. "A god, a demon, a dragon, an undead king, an archmage, or a cosmic bubble ... I vote for the cosmic bubble theory—sounds a little safer to me."

Coragan nodded in agreement. So much for the innocuous fire. "Then you'll agree with me that mages should be left to their own problems?" The bounty hunter's hand drifted toward the doorframe.

"I don't know ... Twelve hundred gold dragons is a lot of money. I might dance with a demon or two for that much money. However, the first sign of a god, and I'm out of here," Galladrin said, once again scratching his chin.

"Then you'll do it?" Regecon asked.

"Sure, why not? I need a little excitement. What do you say, Borak? You in?" The huge warrior nodded his head once in agreement. "How about you, Coragan. Think you can handle it?"

Coragan stood there a moment with three pairs of eyes staring at him. Oh, how he hated mages. He didn't want anything to do with them. The bounty hunter shook his head. He might not like mages but his friends had decided to accept this task, and they would need his help. He snorted once to himself. "Sure, I'm in."

### Chapter Four

Regecon stretched and yawned loudly. It had been a long, tiring day. Still, he enjoyed his late night talks with Ambrisia too much to retire yet. The sorceress of earthcraft sat nearby reclining on her couch and toying with a cork from a bottle of wine. Even dressed in simple brown robes, she still possessed a stunning figure for a woman forty years old. Full-figured and slim at the waist, she had kicked her feet up on the couch and lay with her back against a pillow propped on the armrest. Her dark hair hung in long tresses around her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled with an icy blue fire. They were a compelling sight, those blue eyes. They stood out against her hair in a startling, yet pleasing fashion.

"Interesting piece, is it not?" The sorceress motioned to a painting hanging on the wall.

"Truly fascinating ..." Regecon replied, returning his gaze to the picture he had been studying just moments before. It was a large painting, as long as the mantel piece, and it portrayed a massive battle. Multi-colored pennants whirled in a tumultuous wind, while heavily armored men waged war across a field stained in blood. "What is it anyway? It's obviously a major battle, but I'm not sure which one."

"You always were a little lax in the histories, weren't you?" Ambrisia teased. She placed the wine cork on a small table next to a bottle and two crystal goblets filled with wine.

"Am I supposed to know what it is by sight alone?" Regecon asked in a bewildered tone.

"It is called _The Fall of Morgulan_. One would think the figure in the center of the field would give it away. What, with the Battle Helm and the glowing sceptre in his hand. If you look closely, you can even see Zarina behind him—dressed all in black, of course."

"Oh, yes. There she is. And that's the infamous Morgulan with his sceptre. Who's that next to him? The armored warrior who looks like he's about to take the sceptre from him?" Regecon peered closely at the figure noting the man's blue tabard covered in myriad fantastic beasts etched in silver. The amount of detail was astonishing.

"That was one of his generals. I forget his name—Lucane or Lucius or something like that," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Regecon nodded as if in understanding, then glanced about at the rest of her paintings. "You have a truly warped sense of art, woman," he said as his eyes came to rest on another of her treasures. "Why in the blazes do you have a portrait of the Scythe-Bearer on your wall?"

Ambrisia's face held a wry smile. "Does the Death Lord not appeal to you?"

"No, he does not," Regecon answered, still studying the picture. It was well-made, he would give it that. It hung on the wall to the right of the fireplace in an ornate frame made of gold. The Death Lord's robes were a long and flowing black, and his skeletal visage bore an uncharacteristic grin. His pale green eyes burned with a preternatural light and his bony hands gripped an immense scythe stained with dark red blood. Regecon shuddered and looked away, his gaze coming to rest on Ambrisia, a more pleasant sight by far. "The thought of death is not something I would wish to remind myself with every day of my life."

"Is that all you see in the Scythe-Bearer? Death?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. She reached over and picked up one of the goblets.

"Is there anything else to see?"

"Power. For one. Respect for life is another. I've always felt that the mortality inherent in life merely makes it all the more precious. What better way to ensure that you make the most of each day than to start it realizing the Scythe-Bearer could soon be knocking on your door?" She gestured with her hand for emphasis.

"You are a strange woman," Regecon replied, studying her. Once again, he found himself wondering what a life with her would have been like, if they had decided long ago to pursue a deeper relationship. That was the price of magic, he supposed— solitude. It was a shame, really, but he found some contentment in their lasting friendship.

"I am a magician, dear. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less." Ambrisia took a sip of wine and began absently twirling her finger in one of the longer tresses of her hair. She wrapped it several times around, then let it go to begin anew.

"Excuse me, Mistress ... Councilman." A woman stood in the archway, her hand holding back the thick black curtain. Regecon recognized her immediately; it was Korina, another beauty. One of Ambrisia's finest students, she possessed another set of intriguing eyes. They were green, like emeralds, but Regecon suspected they glittered more. They sat back high above a fine aquiline nose, framed by a mass of swirling raven-black hair. Another heartbreaker claimed by Magic.

"What is it, Korina?" Ambrisia said, her head turning toward the younger woman.

"I don't mean to interrupt you, Mistress, but I thought I'd tell you I'm all done with my nightly meditation and that I'd be heading back to my room now." The young woman's voice was crisp and clean with a lilt reminiscent of a set of rare wind chimes.

"Thank you, Korina. I will see you in the morning, then," Ambrisia said.

Korina curtsied, then retreated from the room.

As the woman let the curtain fall, Regecon turned back to Ambrisia. "A polite young girl," he said.

"Yes, and very bright too."

"I know. You've told me."

"Have I? I suppose I have. Did I mention I'm thinking of sending her to you? She's already exhausted all I know of flamecraft," Ambrisia spoke almost absently, carefully stirring a sprinkle of spices into Regecon's wine.

When she finished, Regecon reached over and picked up the glass. He sniffed it once but did not drink. "I thought earth was more in her focus," he said.

"It is, but she picks up the others well enough."

"Is she really that bright?" Regecon asked, his curiousity piqued. "When will she be testing?"

"In truth, she could probably test right now with little difficulty," Ambrisia said, "but I intend to make her wait a couple months. She'll appreciate becoming a full mage that much more."

"I did not realize she had advanced so far."

"Yes, as I've said before, she's quite brilliant. But enough about her, how did your meeting with the bounty hunter go this evening?" Ambrisia asked, suddenly very interested.

Regecon shrugged, then began to relate the early events of the evening and his impressions of the three men he had hired. He had been satisfied with the meeting, actually impressed that the bounty hunter had had the insight to ask of divination. The warrior had remained silent, but Regecon had sensed a change in the man's mood when black time was discussed; the warrior had become an intrigued and attentive listener. Even the rogue he found appealing in his own peculiar way.

Ambrisia took another sip from her glass. "Why was Coragan so reluctant to take the job?"

"I'm not really sure about the specifics, but he gave me the impression he was not very trustful of mages."

"That's it?!" Ambrisia exclaimed. "No one trusts us. Not even the nobles, but they still give us respect. And he ought to at least know the honor of working for us." Like most mages, Ambrisia had a high opinion of herself and the art of magic, and she could be easily aggravated when others did not show her the respect she thought she deserved.

"Apparently, he didn't feel quite so honored," Regecon said, in a matter of fact tone. He, at least, would not overly concern himself with the man's opinion, as long as it caused no serious problems.

"Well, he's only a bounty hunter after all. Perhaps his judgment's a bit fuzzy." Ambrisia nodded once to herself as if satisfied with her conclusion.

"Perhaps," Regecon said, taking a sip of his own wine.

After that, their conversation turned to the problem of the fire itself. They debated its possible causes as well as the likely source of the mysterious black time. At one point Ambrisia intimated that their old rival, the guild in Alvaron, may have been involved, but Regecon dissented. There was a great deal of distrust between the two guilds, but it had never fomented to the point of open violence. Besides, no one at the guild in Alvaron was strong enough to invoke black time.

As the discussion drew to a close, Regecon's gaze returned to the portrait of the Scythe-Bearer on the wall. Its burning green eyes stared across the room, seemingly at him. It was a cold and lifeless painting, but Regecon could imagine the cloaked figure's presence all too vividly. The Lord of Death was watching them, and waiting.

### Chapter Five

There is nothing quite like having a reason to gorge. I took two tonight, since I am not dining solely for myself: the first, a woodsman, with fresh, salty blood and sweat smelling of pine and the outdoors; the second, a homeless street vagrant from Drisdak. The vagrant's blood, steeped in alcohol, nearly made me retch, but once I got past the first taste, I drained him all the same.

I am bloated now; my flight through the night air is little more than an awkward glide. Up ahead, Clarissa is coming into view, waiting on the parapet with her golden hair glittering in the moonlight. She is no doubt hungry from the long wait. Hungry, yet in turmoil. Her face is twisted in a strange mask of desire and self-loathing, a mask born from the conflict between her human soul and the sanguinary desires that now besiege it. The bloodlust will triumph, of course, but it is a fascinating show. Perhaps, I shall prolong her wait ... yes, I think I shall do a circuit—who knows what might be sneaking up on us?

"Lucian! Where are you—? I'm hungry!" Ignoring her, I fly by. She continues to call out, driven by the strength of the bloodlust, but I have other plans; she will not take her nourishment for granted—I have been far too indulgent with her. I pause for a moment, making one quick circle in the air to torment her before speeding off again, then chuckle with a bat-like chirp. Tomorrow she will be forced to hunt for herself and I will be free to visit the guild house. Arcalian had found some way to wipe my presence from the place and I would like to thoroughly entrench myself before someone else wipes it clean again. It is far too troublesome to get oneself reinvited every time one visits. I suppose that is the danger when toying with wizards: they always have some annoying little tricks to use. How many toils could I have avoided if not for man's scheming spells?

There is little sign of danger around the castle, no would-be thieves breaking in in the dark of night. The woodlands are much the same as usual, twisted and perverse, and I can hear the Children of the Forest howling in the distance—a plaintive song that stirs my soul.

Having completed my circuit, I land upon a balcony of the highest tower, high above the tallest trees. Clarissa runs toward me, leaping across crenellations and parapets in the night.

I take the wolf's form as I wait, and howl once to the Children, adding my voice to theirs. She is getting closer now, crawling up the side of the wall, almost upon me. I return to my human form as she crests the edge; she pulls herself onto the balcony with immortal ease.

Holding out my arm, I slash it near the wrist. Blood flows quickly from my bloated body, but she has attached herself to me before the first crimson drop hits the hard stone floor. Her teeth are sharp on my arm as she tries to speed her drink, but pain means nothing to me; I scarcely feel it.

Patiently, I wait.

She feeds a long time, drinking from my arm and licking the splattered blood from my wrist. At last, I deem she has had her share.

"Enough." I pull my arm from her grasp.

The bloodlust has gripped her and hunger drives her on. "More... give me more..." She grabs at my arm.

The back of my hand sends her careening into a wall. She is immortal and strong, but I have a thousand years on her—she is little more trouble than a man.

She screeches in rage. "Why? Why did you strike me?"

"You must learn your manners, love. One does not make demands of one's master."

"But I'm hungry! I need more blood."

"You have had enough. If you desire more, you can hunt for yourself." My patience is growing thin. I will not tolerate disobedience.

"It's too late. I'd never make it back from town before the sun—you know that."

"The forest is full of animals—not as tasty as a man, but nearly as nourishing in times of need."

"I don't want to eat a wild pig!"

"A couple of days ago, you would have never dreamed of consuming men—that has changed now, has it not, my love?"

"That's different. I am not driven towards animals as I am ... men." Her face twists in a perverted amalgam of rage, desire, and disgust. "I hate you for this," she says, motioning to her own form. Spying a stray drop of blood that managed to find the floor, she bends down to lick it up.

"Why is that, my love?"

"You ... made me. I had no choice. You could have killed me, but instead made me into this horrible thing. Curses on my soul, Lucian, I was a warrior, not a heartless murdering monster."

"You are fickle, dear. Which do you think more honorable—to kill in war for some noble's petty aims, or to kill for food?" She seems uncomfortable at that remark. I pause to stare meaningfully at her before I proceed. "Don't you remember that you specifically said you did not wish to die? I remember that clearly. I thought it very generous of you to willingly offer yourself as companion to me. A fellow immortal to provide some comfort through the coming centuries—"

"I made no such offer. You took advantage, you brought me into this hellish world of yours against my wishes. I was forced into this by you. You—"

"Condemn me, then. Howl my sins to the heavens and shriek my crimes to the wind. I am evil, my love. Your pronouncements mean nothing."

Silence greets my words. She does not know how to respond to someone who embraces his villainy. Irritated with my remark, she crosses her arms and purposely looks away. At last, she speaks. "Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Clarissa, not 'love.'"

"Because I care for you so deeply." My chuckle does little to lighten her mood. "In truth, I call you that because it amuses me and annoys you ... there is no other reason."

"Well, stop it, Lucian. I don't like it." She seems almost sad, in a human sort of way, almost as if she were reminiscing about an old romance.

An irritated smile crawls across my face. I have grown weary with her petty human mannerisms and her conviction that what happens to her actually matters. She will learn her place. "You have little choice in what title I call you by, my dear. I, however, have much in mine. By you, I prefer the term 'master' to my name. It has a much more pleasing ring to it."

Suddenly, her eyes flash in angry rebellion. "I will never call you mas—"

A moment's worth of concentration and she is on her knees gripping her skull. Her head bends back, eyes bulging, and she begins to shriek in an inhuman voice. The Children of the Forest go silent as she starts to writhe on the castle stones.

"You have a strong will, woman." I stroll away from her toward the balcony wall. Silgaren, high in the sky, glows bright white. In the east, Neerie, too, has lifted itself above the horizon. "But as you say, I made you. Against me, your will is useless. You are my slave." I turn to look in her direction and watch as she struggles to stand. Blood is seeping through her fingers as her own claws rake her face. "Would you like the pain to stop now? It can, if you like."

Her voice is a strangled whisper. "Please ... make it stop." Sneering with contempt, I release my hold. She collapses on the ground with an inarticulate cry, and then begins to weep; tears of blood streak down an already blood-stained face.

"We have learned a valuable lesson this evening, have we not?"

She looks up at me, face twisted with loathing and rage. She swallows once, and slowly forces the emotions from her face. "Yes ... master." She bows her head in submission.

"That's much better." Despite her current cooperation, I am still somewhat doubtful of her sincerity. Perhaps a further lesson is required. "The Sun should be rising soon; you may retire now, if you like. I, however, will stay up to watch Him rise."

She looks up puzzled. "The sun? You can watch the sunrise? But I thoug ..."

"What? That vampires fear the god of light? I see Arcalian was not as thorough in his research as he led you to believe. I guess even wizards can sometimes confuse myth with fact. Come, stay with me to greet the dawn and we shall rid you of your fears."

She still has a puzzled look on her face, but she does remain.

We wait through the night, watching the great Silgaren complete its course, the smaller Neerie following. A grey light begins to feed the eastern horizon, then the sky begins to turn in color; Clarissa starts to fidget, her nerves frayed. Rosy pinks streak across the firmament, vibrant stripes of orange spread out. I grab her wrist to soothe her—and to restrain her—and the sky begins to glow. I too feel the urge to run, the fear welling up in my soul as the night breathes its final breath.

At long last the fiery lip of the sun peeks above the horizon, blazing fiercely in the dawn. It glows with a brilliant light, forcing my eyes away. Beside me, Clarissa is transfixed in terror, unable to move. A shaft of morning light stabs across the sky, striking her in the shoulder. She screams, struggling against my grasp, and a thin tendril of smoke wafts up from her breast. I watch in fascination as a pale flame comes to life. It dances across her neck and arm, spreading across her chest, and reaches with fiery fingers towards her face. The smell of burning flesh rises in the air, filling my nostrils, and the stench of death fills my lungs.

"Liar!" She screams, kicking and pulling at me, struggling to break free.

I stand before her, quivering from the Sun's gentle touch. The blazing eye gazes across the sky at us and engulfs us in its glow. Clarissa shrieks in agony as fire scourges her flesh. For myself, the light does not leave me unscathed. I feel the strength of gods ebb from my limbs and the age of untold centuries weigh down upon my shoulders. The spirit of wolf and bat flee from my grasp and I am locked in my present form. Clarissa, her head and body bursting in flames, lands a kick on my shin. Surprised, I let her go. Burning and screaming she flees into the safety of the castle shadows. I watch her plunge into the depths of my keep, unwilling to follow. She will live. And recover. Perhaps, she'll even be a little wiser. She has learned to fear the Sun, and above all else, she has learned to fear me.

I turn to face the Sun, squinting at His brilliance. "Greetings, Lord of Dawn," I say with a hint of wary respect. "It has taken me nearly a thousand years to bear Your sight and stand before your power. Now, at last, after myriad trials and countless ordeals I can endure your dreadful touch." My voice drops to little more than a whisper. "Now, at last, I can look out across the wilderness sprawling beneath You and see it the way it was meant to be seen." I stare for a moment, studying the surrounding forest. It is much different beneath the light—alive, full of colors, and rippling with the sounds of early morning. The night has left, and the nocturnal beasts lie sleeping in their lairs. Indeed, the morning has brought an unexpected change to the woods. They seem almost ... peaceful. The tranquility, however, is fleeting. The light playing in the trees stirs ancient memories in my brain. The screams of men echo in my head and my vision is obscured by a field of blood. A woman's face floats before my eyes, a woman I once loved ... and feared. Turning, I face the Sun again. "Mighty One, after all is said and done, it seems the day is not something I truly miss. I leave You to it."

With that, I retire until dusk.

### Chapter Six

Coragan straightened the blackened piece of twisted leather he had removed from the wreckage surrounding him. Wishing a more comfortable position from which to examine his find, he dragged aside a charred wooden crate, upended it, and sat down. The storage room surrounding him, deep in the bowels of the wizards' guild house, held the wreckage of the fire. Several immense piles of debris, ranging from charred crates and chairs on one side, to cracked and blistered stonework on the other, filled most of the room. Several floors above, workmen were already beginning repairs on the tower chambers.

"What have you got there?" Galladrin asked. The rogue stood knee deep in soot-covered wreckage with one hand bracing his weight against a half-eaten mahogany desk, while his foot searched for balance a little further into the pile. After some careful maneuvering, he managed to clear a small patch of floor with his toe and gently eased his foot down to straddle several burnt boards that barred his way. Keeping his eye on the rusted old nails jutting from the board edges, Galladrin began to shift and test his weight.

"It looks like a book covering of some sort," Coragan answered. "It's made of leather but I can't read the writing on it."

"Maybe it's a spellbook," Galladrin said from the midst of his activities. "They're always said to be written in some tongue indecipherable to us simple folk. What'ya think, Reg ... Do you mind if I call you Reg?"

"Actually, I do. My name is Regecon." The wizard leaned against the door with his arms folded at his chest, watching the men as they worked. "If you prefer to be formal, however, Councilman or Guild Master will suffice. As for the book ..." The mage leaned forward to look down at the item in Coragan's hands. "Yes, it is a spellbook. One dealing with the numerous incantations Arcalian had acquired concerning the discipline of seacraft. You will probably find others of a similar nature ... they would be the only books of which anything might survive in the wake of the fire."

"Thank you for your insight, Councilman." Coragan tossed the book cover aside.

"Yeah, Reg. Thanks," Galladrin said, drily.

Regecon stared at the rogue with only a hint of irritation in his eyes. "As much as I would like to stay here and have my authority flouted by you, I have a meeting with several council members this morning. I will send Mathagarr to retrieve you for dinner—I expect to be informed of whatever you find after we dine. Until then, my friends, good day." The mage nodded once in farewell, and then turned toward the door.

"One question before you go, Councilman," Coragan said.

With his hand on the door handle, Regecon turned. "Yes?"

Coragan motioned to the surrounding debris. "We aren't going to find anything dangerous in here, are we? I mean, we aren't going to turn up something that might explode in our face, will we?"

The wizard shook his head. "Arcalian did not keep many items of great power in his chamber; a few, but most of those have already been removed." He glanced at the charred book covering. "Or destroyed. You may find one or two items possessing a minor enchantment of some type, but no more, and nothing exceptionally dangerous. Just be careful and don't start indiscriminately mixing any chemicals or powders you might happen across. Actually ..." The mage paused, considering. "If you wish, I could send one of the other mages down to assist you."

Coragan shook his head. He didn't want a mage leaning over his shoulder, watching his every move, even if one would be useful. "No, that won't be necessary."

"Very well, then. I shall await your report." The wizard strode from the room.

"You know, Coragan," Galladrin said, "having a wizard with us might be helpful." He certainly would feel more comfortable if there was someone present who knew more than a smattering about magic.

Coragan grimaced. "No. I hate mages." The bounty hunter returned his attention to the rubble, sifting through it with his bare hands.

"So you've said ... many times," Galladrin replied.

"You don't find them strange?" Coragan asked as he studied a second book cover he had turned up. Again, he found an abundance of strange indecipherable symbols on it, and again he tossed it aside.

"Strange? Yes. Worthy of my hate? No." Galladrin cleared his throat. "Actually, now that I think of it, Regecon seems relatively normal for a mage ... not that I've met very many."

"He's still a mage. Stick around. You'll see what I mean."

Galladrin stood motionless for several moments, still straddling the collection of jumbled boards as he pondered Coragan's words. He stared long and hard at the door through which the mage had departed. Then, with a quick shift of his weight and some contortions which would make a less agile man wince, he brought his second foot up and over the tumble of broken woodwork. He glanced at Borak reclining against the far wall. As the rogue before, the huge warrior seemed absorbed by the exit through which the mage had left.

"Well, are you going to help?" the rogue asked. "You could at least examine that old desk there."

Borak grunted once in answer and then lumbered toward the desk. He gripped it with both hands and heaved. The surrounding wreckage gave way with a crash and the desk rose high in the air. Borak turned, balanced it on one shoulder, and strode to a clear spot in the room. He promptly sat down and began sifting through the contents of the desk's few remaining drawers.

Satisfied that the warrior was fully engaged, Galladrin squatted down onto the balls of his feet to begin searching the wreckage from his new position. Gingerly, he reached down and picked up a small bronze candlestick holder. He wiped it with one hand, examined it to make sure it was only bronze, then tossed it aside. "You sure you want to inventory all this stuff?" he asked, grimacing at Coragan.

"Yes. There may be some clue to what started the fire in this mess, and we can't afford to miss it."

"It's going to take all day."

"At least. Maybe two."

Galladrin let out a sigh. It was a gargantuan task. The rubble in his corner alone piled nearly a foot above his head. A great deal of it appeared to be shattered woodwork and miscellaneous chamber trappings—not at all likely to be informative, but very time consuming if they were to examine and catalogue every object. Again, the rogue grimaced, this time to himself, as he considered the enormity of their chore. Reaching down, he picked up a small pottery jar which had miraculously survived the blaze intact. He studied it a moment, noting the texture of the grey clay and the strange markings on its surface, markings which bore a striking resemblance to those on the charred book coverings. He paused, considering what the wizard had said regarding minor items of magic. Holding the jar up before him, he tapped it with his finger, lightly at first then a little harder. The jar—actually it looked to be some sort of lidded mixing dish containing a foul smelling paste of some kind—remained firm. Galladrin crinkled his mouth in surprise; after a fire such as the wizard described, he would have expected the dish to be exceedingly brittle—unless of course it possessed an enchantment that made it more durable. Frowning thoughtfully, he lined up one of the wooden boards on the floor and held the jar up, at the height of his waist. He let it drop.

The jar struck the board with a clap and bounced away, apparently unharmed. Intrigued, the rogue retrieved the jar and examined it for scratches. Finding none, he hefted it into his right hand then tossed it toward Borak. It arced high through the air and traveled nearly half the room length before it landed with considerable force on the stony floor. It clattered loudly, skittering across the room, but still appeared undamaged.

Borak looked up, scowling.

Coragan also looked up. "By the Sickle, Galladrin, what are you doing?" The bounty hunter peered from the rogue to the jar, and then back again.

"Just testing that little dish there. It's got a whole bunch of weird symbols on it and it didn't break when I threw it across the room. I suspect it's magical."

"Regecon said they removed all the magic items."

"He said most, not all." Galladrin scrambled from his position and clambered over to the jar.

"Galladrin, what now?"

"Just one more test." The rogue reached the object and picked it up in his right hand. He tested its weight, then drew back his arm to throw. Only after it had left his grasp, and was hurtling full force through the air, did the rogue reconsider what he was doing; but by then, it was too late.

"Galladrin! Don't break—"

The small jar hit the stone wall with a clap. To the astonishment of all present, it bounced from the stones and rolled away unharmed.

"Impressive," said the rogue.

Coragan's eyes widened. "Very. But why would a pottery jar need so strong an enchantment?" The bounty hunter stood, then walked over to pick up the jar. He unscrewed the porcelain lid and sniffed the contents. "Ugh! All it contains is some really awful-smelling paste."

"Wizards are strange folk. Who knows why they do anything?"

"Let's put it aside and ask Regecon about it later."

The rogue nodded agreement, then returned to his previous position to continue searching. Moments later, he found another wonder. He brushed away some soot to reveal another leather book covering seeming more charred and scorched than the others. He picked it up, straightened it, then let out a grunt of surprise. "What in the ..." His voice trailed off as he studied the leather.

"What is it?" Coragan asked, looking up from his own rummagings.

"Look at this thing, Coragan. It's burned right through."

"It was in a fire, you dolt."

"Would a fire do this?" the rogue asked, and bent the book covering over twice to form a rough outline of a book. Then as the bounty hunter looked on, Galladrin stuck his hand through both sides of the covering and let the leather hang, suspended from his arm like some noble's strange armdress. "There's a hole on each side. They line up perfectly, and they are both the same size."

"What?" Coragan asked in surprise. Even Borak looked perplexed.

"Have a look yourself." Galladrin folded the leather together and awkwardly tossed it to the bounty hunter. Its odd shape caused it to fly in a haphazard fashion and land several feet from where Coragan sat, but it was not difficult to retrieve.

Coragan sat down and studied the covering a moment, tracing his finger along each of the circles that had been burned through the leather on opposite sides. "You're right," he said. "No natural fire could have caused that."

While Coragan examined the item, Borak moved over next to him. The huge warrior peered over the bounty hunter's shoulder to scrutinize the strange find. Coragan offered the leather to Borak, and the man took hold of it in his huge paw. After staring for several moments, he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"What do you think?" Coragan asked, not really expecting an intelligible answer.

"Strange." Borak's deep voice almost sounded rusty from lack of use. He grunted once, handed the leather back to the startled bounty hunter, and lumbered back to the desk.

"I guess we can ask Regecon about this as well. In the mean time, let's start sorting the rest of this stuff in earnest," Coragan said, standing up. "We'll need to make several piles, then write everything down." He paused to glance around. "We'll need at least one pile for all these book coverings alone, another for broken shelving and irrelevant furniture—like the crates and those boards over there, another for the stony rubble, one for broken furniture—like that desk, and one for miscellaneous trappings like your pottery jar. Once we get that done, it shouldn't be too hard to get everything written down and categorized."

"And just like that, he's giving orders again," Galladrin murmured softly to himself.

"What was that?" Coragan asked.

"Oh, nothing," Galladrin said, forcing a smile across his features. He began to follow the bounty hunter's instructions.

They spent several hours working through the rubble, sorting it into the separate piles of which Coragan had spoken. When they finished, they stood, covered from head to toe with dust, grime, and soot, to stare at the assortment of debris. A pile of broken stone slabs and loose rocks stood in one corner directly across from a pile of burnt wood and wrecked shelves in another. The desk stood nearly alone in the third corner, with but a burnt night stand and the splintered remnants of a small bookcase for company. The pile of charred leather book coverings filled the fourth and final corner of the room, but perhaps most interesting of all was the pile in the chamber's center. It consisted of the many varied trappings Arcalian had used to decorate his study. These odds and ends included items both common and rare, from a bronze candelabra to a small silver statue of a lithlyn forest god, a rare find indeed. Galladrin, who had found the statue, had been entranced by the detailed etchings along its body, etchings as fine as a field spider's web, yet far more durable. Such high quality work, no doubt the product of a lithlyn silversmith, made the small dancing figure worth far more than its weight in gold. Indeed, with the added value of the tiny emeralds circling its base the statue's coin value would probably put their pay to shame. Galladrin studied the figure for quite some time, until Coragan reminded him that Regecon would not be very impressed if the men he hired tried to steal from the guild.

Galladrin murmured that he had put aside malicious thievery long ago, and carefully placed the statue in the center pile. Nevertheless, it was a long time before he finally looked away.

"Now we have to start writing this stuff down," Coragan said, wiping his hands across his dirty, grey shirt. "Come, someone in this guild must have a set of quills and ink we can use."

Just then the door opened and Mathagarr strode in. "Dinner is nearly ready. The guild master is expecting you upstairs within half an hour."

Galladrin glanced down at his own soot-covered clothing, then at his companions, similarly covered in grime. "I think we'll need to get cleaned up first," he said.

"Very well," Mathagarr said. "I shall lead you to a bathing chamber. Come. Follow me."

### Chapter Seven

Mathagarr led the three men to a large bathing chamber complete with three small pools of warmed water. The companions stripped and scrubbed themselves down with soap and washcloths. While they were so occupied, two servants entered the chamber and laid out three sets of fine clean clothes for them. The servants then collected the companions' dirty clothes and left the room. Mathagarr remained, arms folded at his chest, patiently waiting. The companions finished washing themselves, dressed, then squabbled briefly over who would present their finds to the wizards. In the end, Galladrin relented and let Coragan take the honors. Then, Mathagarr motioned for their attention. "If you are ready, I shall take you to the dining room."

"Lead on," Galladrin said before Coragan had a chance to speak. It was a small gesture, but the rogue took some satisfaction from it; he had been getting a little irritated with Coragan lately, particularly when the bounty hunter took it upon himself to issue orders and act as if he were leading the investigation. It wasn't that he disapproved of having Coragan in charge—Coragan had been the leader type ever since he'd met the man—it was the fact that Coragan had had to be practically dragged into this adventure in the first place and was now expecting to be the one in charge. _After all, I was the one who first agreed to this thing_ , Galladrin thought. _If anyone should be the leader here, it should be me_. In the end, though, what really mattered was whether or not they could come up with anything to satisfy the wizards. Once that was done, they would receive the rest of their money and be on their way. He could put up with Coragan for twelve hundred gold dragons. For that much money, he could put up with just about anything. The rogue let his thoughts drift as he walked, exploring the possibilities of the wealth that would soon be his.

Mathagarr led them into a modest-sized room where a small group of people sat around a large cherry wood dining table. Galladrin recognized Regecon sitting at the head of the table, but none of the others. Three seats remained open, and at Mathagarr's direction, Galladrin sat on the cushion of a comfortable wooden chair on Regecon's right. His companions sat in the two chairs that remained.

A pristine white tablecloth decorated with intricate patterns and twisting designs covered the bulk of the table. Around the edges, fine silver cutlery had been placed side by side with exquisite porcelain dishware.

Galladrin wondered briefly if his current place of honor at the table had any deliberate meaning behind it, but quickly dismissed the thought. Although as highfalutin in their ways as any noble dreamed to be, the wizards did not seem to set as much value in the norms of etiquette... at least when dealing with such a trivial thing as supper. Some of them insisted on being addressed as "sir" or "Mage" or "Councilman" or what-have-you, but that seemed to be the extent of their snobbery in day-to-day affairs. Put them in a court or council, however, and Galladrin felt sure their true nature would show.

_They dress funny, too_ , he thought, taking note of the other individuals seated around the table.

At first glance, he was somewhat taken aback by the seemingly garish display of clashing colors amongst the wizards' raiment. Then, remembering a conversation he'd had with Coragan the previous night, he realized the colors were probably related to the respective disciplines of each mage. Coragan had said that there were many different schools of magic. From what he knew of the school in Drisdak it appeared this one concentrated on the studies surrounding the four elements of earth, air, fire, and water. If that were the case, and the color of their robes had something to do with their disciplines ... Galladrin stared at Regecon's red-orange robes with the intricate black-laced designs along its edges. _I suppose that make's you a fire mage_ , he thought, then took a moment to study a segment of black lace that looked like lettering. He wondered what all the extra adornment might mean; of all those present it appeared only on the fire mage. _Perhaps it is indicative of rank ... Guild Master_. Galladrin turned his attention to the other men and women seated at the table.

Opposite himself, on Regecon's left, sat a beautiful woman with dark hair and sparkling sapphire blue eyes. She dressed in simple dark brown robes which, oddly, seemed to absorb the surrounding dim light and shroud her in a cloak of darkness. This unsettling effect was only offset by the small beacons of light along her right sleeve cuff and left lapel where the insignia of the wizards guild glared, knitted in gold lace. Galladrin mused over the strange garb. _I suppose those deep browns make you an earth mage._

The next person in line, also a woman, wore plain grey robes. Short, pudgy and obviously well into middle-age, the grey-haired woman still had a distinctively regal air about her. As Galladrin puzzled over the robes, he once again noted the presence of the golden wizard sigil on breast and wrist. He considered it briefly, then tried to decipher the woman's art from the color of her robes. _Grey? Would that be air? I certainly wouldn't pick that color for water. I think that discipline belongs to this fellow here._

A man in blue robes sat kitty-corner to Galladrin with his elbow on the table and his hand propped up under his chin. An older man, with rapidly greying dark hair, he had a strange unhappy-looking furrow in his brow. Of particular interest to the rogue was the notable absence of any insignia or lacing of any kind. His robes were just a simple blue. _Definitely water_ , Galladrin thought. _I can almost see the ocean in his robes_. Fire, earth, air, water... yet another wizard sat at the table.

Galladrin looked to the far end of the table at the man who sat on Borak's right, no doubt the oldest individual present. With sparse bleached white hair and a long, flowing white beard, his countenance seemed the perfect image of the wizened mage. However, he wore robes of an uncharacteristic metallic silver in color, and bore what appeared to be etched runes and writings in addition to the golden mage's insignia—not nearly as much as that worn by Regecon, but enough to cause Galladrin to notice. Despite his ancient appearance, his eyes sparkled with a lively fire and he caught Galladrin's gaze and returned it with an appraising look of his own. Galladrin nodded once to acknowledge the old wizard's presence then returned his attention to the rest of his surroundings. For the moment, the man's discipline would remain a mystery.

The table they sat at stood in the center of the chamber. Across the way, a fire burned in a large stone fireplace set behind the mysterious elder wizard, and its warm glow suffused that portion of the room. At the opposite end of the chamber, two iron braziers burning on iron tripods provided sufficient, if somewhat dim, lighting. Several richly embroidered tapestries adorned the far wall, and Galladrin eyed them appreciatively, noting the vibrant dyes and expensive weaves of material. The tapestries stood out in sets of three on either side of a large glass mirror which harbored a copy of the dinner scene in its depths. Galladrin smiled at his own reflection and then started as a servant passed between.

The man scurried about the room, with several other servants, all doing some last minute preparations for the small repast. One clean shaven man dressed in exceptionally well kept clothes hurried over, carrying a cumbersome multi-pronged candelabra, and placed it on the center of the table, unlit. He fumbled for a lighting candle, but Regecon waved him aside. A simple sweep of the mage's hand and the seven candles sprung alight. _Definitely a fire mage_ , Galladrin thought. The rogue motioned for a plain-looking young girl with a pewter pitcher to fill his goblet and then focused his attention on Regecon as the wizard began to speak.

"I hope you will excuse some of these last minute preparations," Regecon said gesturing to another young girl carrying a tray of napkins for the table. "There was a small fire in the kitchen, nothing serious mind you, but it has caused considerable delay in the preparation of this meal. I am not one for excessive formality, but I do feel the need to apologize for your places not being set."

"You seem to be having quite the time with fires lately," Coragan said, with an amused smile.

"Indeed, I am," Regecon answered, then motioned for the pitcher himself. The servant girl quickly filled the wizard's goblet to the brim.

"Speaking of fires ..." The woman in brown robes brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "How goes your investigation, friends?"

Regecon spoke before Coragan could respond. "Please, Ambrisia, this is a dinner first. Let us keep talk of the inquiry until after we have dined."

"Very well, Regecon," Ambrisia said, patiently waiting for the serving girl to finish filling her own goblet. "However, you might wish to do some introductions before we get any further under way."

"Yes, that would be proper," Regecon said, rising from his chair. "May I have your attention, friends and guests." What little conversation there was immediately ceased. He gave a brief and courteous introduction, one which noted the honor and respectability of each of the three men before the council. The only notable difficulty occurred when he stuttered over Galladrin's chosen profession. After a brief cough, the mage finally introduced him as a man from Pallernia rather than something as unseemly as a rogue. Galladrin, amused by the whole ordeal, whispered a mocking comment in Regecon's ear, but the mage continued on unfazed. After the council nodded in welcome, Regecon turned and presented each one of its members to the three companions. The first to be presented was Ambrisia, the woman in brown robes on Regecon's left who had asked about the fire. When introduced with the title of Earth Mistress, Galladrin could not help but smile. He continued to smile as the others were presented: Jacindra, Mistress of the Air, Toreg the water mage, and the last, the elder wizard, Morcallenon, the guild's head diviner.

_Thus, the final wizard dons his hat ... Morcallenon, the wizard with the black time problem_. For some reason the rogue had pictured the diviner as a younger man, perhaps as young as Regecon, if not younger. He had obviously been wrong. Galladrin took a sip from his goblet, then frowned when he discovered it was only water. _You would think the wizards could afford something with a little more character_.

The introductions completed, dinner shortly appeared. It began with a large stuffed ham, a sumptuous platter of sliced fruits, and an assortment of buttered slabs of bread. As one servant began serving the food, a second, almost as if in response to Galladrin's private thoughts, brought out a large, dark bottle of wine and an array of crystal goblets. Starting first with Regecon, the man proceeded around the table in an orderly fashion, pouring drinks to each person in turn. Galladrin grinned as the man poured the dark red liquid into his goblet.

From start to finish, the meal was nothing short of extraordinary. The fruit tasted crisp and clean, the wine exquisite, and the buttered bread had a smattering of spices which accentuated its taste and brought out the flavor in the other foods as well. But of all the foods present, the one that stood out the most was the roast ham. Buttered and roasted to perfection, the smell alone made Galladrin's mouth water. The rogue had been so impressed with the fare he had asked for seconds, then thirds.

Galladrin sat back and stretched as the servants cleared off the dishes and silverware. They returned moments later bearing a large cake and a stack of small dishes. Within moments, the rogue found himself staring at a dark slice of cake desperately trying to imagine how he could eat it after the meal he had just consumed. Resolving himself to the task, he went to work with knife and fork. It was slow going, but the cake tasted good enough to make it worth the effort.

While he ate, Galladrin had ample time to look around and study the other people at the table. When he had first met Regecon, he had suggested the fire was a diversion for murder and now he wondered if anyone present might be the culprit. He stared at the sorceress Ambrisia as she took a drink from her goblet. She didn't look like the murdering type, but he knew that looks could be deceiving. _Perhaps she's a scorned lover_ , he mused, then was forced to repress a mischievous chuckle. This fire was proving interesting, ripe with possibilities of mystery and deceit. It was almost as fun as stealing the Red Eyes of Jakaran from the Pallernian Temple of Kos. That had been an adventure.

Galladrin took another sip of water from his goblet then stole his gaze to Jacindra _. A sorceress of the air ... might be able to fan a fire to a blaze_ , he thought _, but that would be unnecessary if she knew what she was doing._ Maybe she could make a quick escape out a window. He pondered the idea, then considered the next mage in line.

_Now what of this Toreg character. I've never seen a man before who could look so unhappy eating such a fine meal_. One would think the fact that the man's skills lay with water would count heavily against him using fire as a smoke screen. Then again, maybe that's what one was supposed to think. Galladrin stabbed the final bit of cake with his fork and lifted it to his lips.

_Well, that leaves Morcallenon ... and Regecon_. Galladrin licked his lips. They would seem to have the most ability to accomplish the task. Regecon, a fire mage, seemed to have the most ability to set the blaze. Of course, if he suspected Regecon, the man who had hired him, he might as well consider Coragan and himself as well. _Hell, maybe Borak did it_ ... No, if anyone had the position of advantage in this it would be Morcallenon. What better way to disguise a murder than to be the one designated to divine its happenings? Of course, then it would make more sense to lie rather than make up a ridiculous rumour about black time ... After deliberating for a few more minutes, Galladrin finally decided he was being precipitous; he needed more information before he started making accusations. However, if forced to guess right now, he would go with Morcallenon.

"Well, my friends," Regecon said as the last bit of cake disappeared from the table and the servants began clearing the dishes for the second time. "I believe it is time to return to the matter of the fire. How goes your inquiry so far? Did you find anything of interest in the tower wreckage?"

As agreed, Coragan answered. "As a matter of fact, Guild Master, we did ... several things, actually."

"Yes?" Regecon asked.

"The first object of note may be totally unrelated to the fire, but we found it strange enough that I thought we should ask you about it." Coragan pulled out the small pottery jar Galladrin had uncovered in the debris. "This innocent looking pottery dish seems to be protected by some rather powerful magic. Not only did it survive the fire, it seems very nearly unbreakable."

"Nothing is unbreakable," Ambrisia said.

"Yes, Ambrisia is quite correct," Regecon said. "No matter the spell, all things meet their end in time."

"What I meant was that this dish is much sturdier than your average pottery piece. Galladrin threw it at a wall down stairs with full force, and it bounced off unscathed."

"Interesting," Regecon said, reaching for the jar. "May I?" he asked, and took the jar from the bounty hunter's hand.

Regecon leaned back in his chair as he examined the item. "This is intriguing ..." he said, "All these symbols on the outside appear to be magical writings and wards. Nothing of flamecraft or windcraft from what I can tell, but these here look like earthcraft and seacraft sigils, and there is a whole slew of symbols I don't recognize at all. Where in the wreckage did you find this?"

"It was just buried near the back of the room," Galladrin said. "Not that it matters. The whole pile has been moved once already. Right?"

"True," Regecon said, conceding the point. Then he asked, "What's inside?" The wizard unscrewed the lid, took one whiff of its contents, then reeled back, choking. "Ghah! This is really foul!"

Coragan smiled thinly in agreement. "It's not exactly the most pleasant odor I've ever smelled either."

"May I?" Ambrisia asked, gesturing for the jar. Regecon screwed the lid back on and handed it to the woman. The earth sorceress took it in hand and began to scrutinize it while Jacindra peered over her shoulder in interest. "Those are definitely earthcraft symbols," Ambrisia said, "Strength and Reinforcement ... Yes, it would take quite a bit to destroy this little jar. I didn't think Arcalian possessed such learning in earthcraft. I wonder how he had this made? Here, Jacindra."

As Jacindra took the jar from Ambrisia's hand, Morcallenon spoke. "Wouldn't you think it best if I had a look at it? After all, this seems to be more in my field than any of yours."

Jacindra glanced toward the diviner, then frowned. "I suppose you do have a point." She handed the jar to the elder mage.

"Thank you, Jacindra."

"You are the diviner, Morcallenon, it is only reasonable."

Morcallenon lifted the jar up and began studying it in the light. "Your assessment is quite correct, Regecon. There are both earthcraft and seacraft symbols present. We have Ambrisia's expertise to tell us the earthcraft is for protection; the seacraft symbols, however, seem to deal with cleansing of some sort and unlike the earthcraft symbols, they are tied to a great number of these alien sigils. I am baffled, though. I do not recognize any of these other symbols. None of them come from any discipline in this guild."

"It is possible that Arcalian purchased the jar from another guild," Toreg, the water mage, said. "No doubt one which deals in magics different from ours."

"You forget, Toreg," Morcallenon said, "as a diviner, my discipline must necessarily cross a great many different fields. I can tell immediately that these symbols have nothing to do with woodcraft, soulcraft, seercraft, or any of the four primary elements. Whatever discipline they are from is one that is most obscure."

"Perhaps they are the product of Arcalian's own making," Jacindra offered. "He was a skilled wizard, prone to lengthy research."

"Are you suggesting that Arcalian invented a whole new discipline of magic?" Toreg asked with surprise. "I admit the man had talent, but what you are implying is absurd."

"Absurd to you, perhaps, but not impossible," Jacindra replied coolly. "We must not forget Aristoceles. With his help, who knows what Arcalian could have accomplished?"

"Yes, we mustn't forget the awesome power wielded by the befuddled philosopher," Toreg said acidly. "Perhaps it invokes a spell to prove its own existence, I'm sure we'd all be amazed."

"Toreg," Regecon said in a quiet but stern voice, "it might be best if you'd try to show a little respect for the departed—"

"Departed? How do we know he's dead?" Toreg said. "One body is unaccounted—"

"Aristoceles is dead," Morcallenon said abruptly. Toreg started in embarrassment and the old mage continued, adding energy to his words. "I was able to penetrate the reverberations of the residual black time this afternoon and identify the second body in the fire. I informed Regecon of my findings shortly before this meal. It is Aristoceles."

A quiet hush fell over the dinner table at the diviner's pronouncement. At last, Toreg spoke, his face red from embarrassment. "That is most unfortunate ... but at least we know for certain now. Aristoceles is dead, and Arcalian is missing."

"I will miss that dear old man," Jacindra said sadly. "He had the most amazing ability to turn even the most serious debate upside down, always unintentionally of course, but he provided great comic relief from serious matters."

"I always thought him quite knowledgeable," Ambrisia said. "In his own field, of course," she amended.

"He was one of my oldest friends," Morcallenon said. "I shall miss him sorely."

Regecon bowed his head. "Yes, we all shall miss him. He was a good man."

A long moment of silence followed the guild master's words, during which Galladrin felt very uncomfortable and out of place. He felt as if he were intruding on some private scene intended for the wizards and none others. At long last, however, Regecon looked up and cleared his throat. "Although, we grieve the loss of our departed friend, it is best we return to the matter at hand. Morcallenon ..."

Just then a commotion arose at the doorway. A woman with raven black hair and green emeralds for eyes stood arguing with a servant, apparently trying to gain entry to the room. The servant, however, refused to yield.

"It's all right, Siendra, let her through," Ambrisia called. The servant girl stepped aside, apparently unfazed by the smug look the dark-haired woman bestowed upon her. "Korina, what is the problem? You know I told you I had an important meeting and I was not to be disturbed."

"I know, Mistress," the woman called Korina said as she stepped forward just behind Morcallenon's shoulder, "and I apologize for the intrusion, but Durek and I were leading the other apprentices in today's lesson as you asked and we can't get the books on golem construction. They are locked in your private study, and you have the key."

"Oh," Ambrisia said, "I had forgotten about that. Here you go." The earth sorceress produced a large iron key and slid it along the length of the table to Korina. The young woman leaned over and scooped it up.

She turned to leave, but cast a quick glance at Morcallenon as he fingered the strange sigils on the jar. For a moment it seemed her eyes widened in surprise, but they returned to normal so quickly Galladrin doubted what he had seen. In any event, she left the room before he could ask her about it, and no one else seemed to notice.

"I am sorry about the interruption," Ambrisia said, "but I must take the blame. I had told her and Durek to instruct the class in my absence and they really needed to get those books."

"It is no matter, Ambrisia," Regecon said. "A minor inconvenience at the worst. Please, Morcallenon, continue."

"Yes, Guild Master," Morcallenon said. "As I was saying, these symbols on this dish resemble nothing I have ever encountered before in all my years of divining. I do have access to some texts, though, concerning some of the more obscure arts. If you would give me a couple days to research the sigils, I may be able to come up with something."

"That would be very helpful," Regecon said. "And what of the paste? Will you be able to tell us anything about that?"

"A detailed analysis will take several days," Morcallenon replied, "And I do not have the time to perform both tasks. You must decide which is the more urgent. I can, however, perform a preliminary analysis right here. It will only take a moment, but it will not be very detailed."

"Please, do so," Regecon said. "Any information you obtain may prove to be of value."

With gentle care the diviner unscrewed the lid of the porcelain jar, setting it on the table before he leaned down and inhaled deeply of the jar's powerful fumes. He murmured a quiet incantation to himself and gently scraped his index finger along the inner rim, procuring a small amount of paste which he lifted to his face to study. He then closed his eyes, clenched the pasted finger in a fist and began to hum. Moments later, his eyes snapped open and he brushed off his hands on the napkin at his side. The paste came off easily in dry white flakes.

"Rose petals and garlic," Morcallenon said.

"What?" Toreg asked.

"Rose petals and garlic," Morcallenon repeated. "That's all I can gather. Those are the main ingredients in the paste. I can tell nothing else without a detailed analysis, which, as I said, will take considerable time."

"Thank you, Morcallenon," Regecon said. "That will do."

"What use could rose petals and garlic possibly have?" Toreg asked incredulously. "They are no more difficult to come by than maple leaves and birch bark."

Morcallenon shrugged his shoulders. "I haven't the vaguest idea."

"It seems your find will remain a mystery to us for now, bounty hunter." Regecon turned toward Coragan. "Did you have anything else we could puzzle over?"

"Only this." Coragan carefully pulled the leather book covering out of the small sack at his feet and unrolled it on the table. "As you can see, this book covering—I assume it is from a spell book—has two nearly identical holes burned through on either side. The shape and similarity of the two holes make it doubtful that it was caused by the fire."

Regecon leaned forward to peer intently at the leather. "Indeed, that is most unusual. Does anyone have any ideas?"

"Perhaps a focused energy blast of some type might be responsible," Jacindra offered, "such as a lightning strike or fire bolt."

"That is one possibility," Ambrisia said, standing to lean over and examine the covering herself. "That would account for the damage around the edges and the uniformity of the hole. But how would such a thing happen? Was Arcalian engaged in some pitched battle in his study? I find that highly unlikely."

"Anything is possible, Ambrisia," Jacindra said. "Need I remind you that his entire study was consumed in the fire."

"Perhaps Arcalian was fed up with Aristoceles and his riddles, so he decided to enlighten the man's perspective with that lightning wand of his," Toreg said, then smiled coldly. "Aristoceles, being no fool, tried to ward it off with this book."

Morcallenon's brow furrowed in anger. "I find your joke in poor taste, Toreg. This is a serious matter."

Toreg began to respond, his voice taking on an air of detached calm. "Whatever you might think of me, Morcallenon, I am not a prankster. I am quite serious in what I suggest. Aristoceles is dead and Arcalian is missing. We might want to consider the possibility that our noble colleague Arcalian was involved in something a little less than honorable, something that may have led to murder."

"Do you realize you are accusing a guild master of these heinous acts?" Morcallenon's voice raised in anger.

"I make no accusation, old one," Toreg replied coolly. "I merely suggest that we might keep an open mind to the possibility of treachery on Arcalian's part."

"I think you are a fool reaching for stars with your bare hands," Morcallenon said.

Finally, Galladrin spoke up, "With all due respect, Mage Morcallenon, sir, I think Mage Toreg has a point—"

"I don't need your endorsement, rogue," Toreg said, dismissively.

Galladrin blinked in surprise, both at the rudeness of the remark and the reference to his former lifestyle. "What?" he asked.

"I said—"

"Toreg, behave yourself," Regecon said.

"I don't think—"

"I said behave yourself and you will. I am the guild master now. If you force me to prove it, you will regret it."

Toreg closed his mouth but glared coldly at Regecon. The guild master returned the look with equal force until, at last, Toreg looked away, shaking his head but saying nothing more.

"You may continue, Galladrin. Please excuse the interruption," Regecon said, turning to the rogue.

"Yeah, sure," Galladrin said, still confused at the water wizard's response. He cleared his throat once before continuing. "As I was saying, Mage Toreg may have a point. It would seem an unwise thing to me to abandon any idea, however much we might not like it. We should examine every possibility until we find the truth. Of course, we have to understand that any accusations made without evidence can only be made in the spirit of conjecture, and should not be taken as assaults on an absent person's character."

"I agree," Regecon said. "As distasteful as it is to me to suggest that Arcalian might somehow be involved in the deaths of Aristoceles and Havarin, I think we should at least examine the idea sincerely and objectively."

"It seems unlikely to me," Ambrisia said, "but it can do no harm."

"I still think it foolish," Morcallenon said.

"And you, Jacindra?" Regecon asked.

"I think you tread a very fine line," the sorceress of the air answered. "If Arcalian can be suspect, I see no reason why any of us can't be. You run the risk of setting off a devil's inquisition you can't control."

Regecon nodded. "You raise a good point, Jacindra. However, we should note that no evidence seems to indicate any of us in any way as of yet. Arcalian's absence, on the other hand, is sufficient reason to begin an inquiry."

"I will agree with you there," Jacindra said, nodding. "I would like to discover what became of our former guild master."

"Then it is agreed," Regecon said, "Arcalian is our first order of business. Consider him your first bounty Coragan. Find him and bring him to us if you can."

Coragan nodded. "Consider it done."

"Umm ... Regecon?" Galladrin asked.

"Yes?"

"Did you come to some conclusion regarding the book covering?"

"No. I think it best if we have Morcallenon examine it."

Morcallenon snorted once. "Do you have some preferred order for my appointed tasks? They are going to take some time. As it is, I'll have to have Porthion finish the remaining work with the black time problem. For myself, I need to examine the jar, the paste inside, and now this book. Each of those tasks requires at least a day, more likely two or three. You do realize this, don't you, Regecon?"

"I'll give you one more day to finish your own work with the black time," Regecon said. "After that, leave the rest to Porthion and proceed with the jar, paste, and book, in that order. Don't worry yourself about how long it takes. We will have to be patient."

"Very well," Morcallenon said.

"Did you find anything else?" Regecon asked Coragan.

"We found some papers that survived the fire in a desk, but I wanted to look at them myself before I brought them to you."

"If that is the case, then I guess our meal is ended," Regecon said, rising. "We shall talk again on the morrow."

### Chapter Eight

Toreg glared at the young apprentice before him. It had been a minor mishap, but the sorcerer of seacraft was in no mood to be understanding. Toreg had been striding down the hall bent on his own thoughts when he had rounded a corner. The apprentice, apparently over-anxious to complete some errand, had been running nearly full tilt from the opposite end of the passageway. The sudden appearance of the water mage in his path had been too much for the young man, and try as he might he only succeeded in averting a full collision in lieu of a glancing blow which had slammed both men against respective sides of the hall.

"Apprentice ..." Toreg said, through gritted teeth, "who is your master?"

"It is Jacindra, sir," the apprentice responded. "I'm sorry sir, about running into you ... I didn't mean it, you just came out of the blue."

The apprentice's apology and attempt at explanation only aggravated Toreg further. "Do not try to make excuses for yourself, Apprentice. That is the practice of a commoner not of a mage," Toreg said with disdain. "If you intend to become a wizard you must learn not to flinch from your own responsibilities. To do otherwise is cowardly, and brings shame to the Art of Magic."

The apprentice reddened in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Mage Toreg, sir," he said, tightly. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have been running."

"Quite true," Toreg said. "Now rest assured that Sorceress Jacindra will hear of this incident in detail before the morrow. In the mean time, walk a little slower or I'll send you to the kitchens, understand?"

"Yes, Mage Toreg," the apprentice said, grimacing. An amalgam of frustrated emotions washed across his face, but the young man held his tongue.

Toreg dismissed the apprentice and continued on his way, scowling at everything in his path. The water wizard had been in a foul mood upon leaving the dinner, and this happening only succeeded in aggravating it. Between Morcallenon, Jacindra, and Regecon, Toreg was amazed with himself for keeping his temper at the table. The three of them had achieved new heights of incivility during the discussion. Regecon, a moron on his best day, just seemed to revel in flaunting his authority over Toreg, all to come to the defense of that miserable rotten thief. A thief of all things! They had tried to hide his identity as such at the dinner, but Toreg was no fool. He could spot a thief, just by the way one looked at him. A man from Pallernia indeed! Could Regecon be more of a fool? And Morcallenon ... he was hardly better. The old fossil had come to Arcalian's defense despite the former guild master's obvious guilt. And Jacindra, of course, set him up playing the fool about Aristoceles' death until Toreg made his usual remarks about the philosopher's ineptitude; then the diviner sprung it on him. _I think they planned it together. Made me look like a jackass_.

He rounded another corner.

_It's because of my father_ , he thought. All three of them came from noble lines—Morcallenon was the youngest son of a count, Regecon the second son of a duke, and Jacindra the daughter of some other blue-blood. But not Toreg. The thought that his feebleminded guild master was sprung from the loins of a duke while he was son to a fisherman, a man who wound up dead on the gallows for treason, was beyond endurance. If gods existed in this cursed universe, such a thing proved their unrighteousness.

Toreg came upon his room still stoking his foul mood. Producing his key, he unlocked the door to his room and took a final look at the empty hall behind him. _A flaming duke_ , he thought. _A gods-accursed flaming duke_. With that he slammed the door and went to bed.

Korina grinned quietly to herself as she left the dining hall, fingering the iron key in her hand. Its metal felt cold to her touch, very much like the medallion she wore hidden beneath her robes, the medallion that marked her for what she was. Thought of the object brought her hand unbidden to her chest and she reached up to caress the solid lump protruding from the cloth. Immediately, she berated herself. _No undue notice_ , she thought. _Not a single sign_.

Her thoughts turned to that little jar of Morcallenon's. It had seemed such a simple thing when she had first walked into the room; she had almost taken no notice of it. Now she knew it may very well have been the center of debate for Ambrisia and her cronies. She had heard little of the conversation at the table, save for some eulogies offered up for that pathetic philosopher Aristoceles, so she was uncertain how much the council knew. In all likelihood, the council knew very little. The sigils on that jar weren't exactly in any of their fields. They weren't in her field either, but she did have at least one book on them. _No, make that two_ , she thought.

Again, she grinned, musing over how the council would have responded if she had told them what they possessed. The shocked horror and inevitable dread would have been a welcome change from their usual arrogance. Of course, imparting her knowledge to the council would ultimately have led to her expulsion from the guild, and probably even her execution. Needless to say, she felt little remorse about leaving them in the dark.

Korina rounded the final corner before Ambrisia's chambers and nodded to Marissa as she entered the meditation room. The elder apprentice reclined on a soft sofa pushed against the far wall, absorbed in a book on earth shaping. It was a simple work, Korina knew; she had extracted all there was from it months ago, but Marissa's talents fell far short of hers.

"Greetings, Marissa. What are you reading?" Korina asked, with a false smile. She did not like the woman, but she was quite adept at presenting a second face.

Marissa, looking up, responded, "Oh, it's the most fascinating thing ... It's all about earth shaping, you know—molding the stones and whatnot. Parts of it are a little tricky, but I can handle it. What are you up to?"

"Me? I'm just getting some books for the novice class. Ambrisia had an important meeting so she set me and Durek on this evening's lesson." Korina straightened, beaming with a practiced air of pride. She didn't give a whit about the class or the lesson, but one must do what one must. She needed the guild's formal training; to that end, she was willing to suffer through almost anything.

"Durek? You're teaching a class with Durek?" Marissa's eyes lit up with obvious interest. "You're so lucky. He's very handsome."

"Now Marissa," Korina said in a mocking reprimand, "you know better than that. We're to be mages ... you don't have time to go worrying about men and their charms. It is forbidden, after all."

"I know," she said wistfully, "but sometimes ... I just wonder ..."

Korina frowned at the woman. "Don't let Ambrisia catch you acting like that or she'll set you to task..." She wondered how the woman had been ever accepted to the guild in the first place, even if she was, as rumour claimed, Mage Toreg's cousin. Every mage, no matter the bloodline, had to pass the final test. And failure often meant death. Korina saw few prospects for Marissa when her time inevitably came.

Korina stepped toward Ambrisia's private study, inserted the key in the lock, and gave it a sharp twist. The lock snapped open and the door swung wide. With a purposeful stride, she moved into the study, swinging the door shut behind her. To her right, a long, many-shelved bookcase held a vast array of books dealing with topics both common and rare. She scanned the titles of the texts and wondered briefly why Ambrisia kept such mundane books on hand, many of them seeming to be on nothing more than history—who cared about the past? If she had a study like this, she would fill it with nothing but texts on magic. No wasted space on philosophy, or history, or any other irrelevant discipline.

At last she spotted the section on earthcraft against the far wall. Moving over to the bookcase, she began searching for the required texts. Despite the collection of mundane writings in the rest of the room, Ambrisia's store of texts on earthcraft was more than adequate, impressive even. The books filled six whole shelves nearly eight paces in length. Korina would have given anything to have free access to a library like this.

"Give?" she said out loud, chuckling, "More like take." She glanced briefly at the door sealing her from the room beyond and Marissa with her studies. "You want to learn about earth shaping, dear. Watch a master at her work," she murmured. She knelt down on one knee and closed her eyes in concentration. Holding the iron key in her left hand she began a slow chant, humming softly to herself. Moments passed, and then a pale blue light coalesced around her opposing hand. She opened her eyes and reached down through the stone floor, her hand passing through rock as if it were nothing more than water. With her arm submerged up to her elbow she moved as if to grab something. Then, using great care, she withdrew her arm and extracted a hand sized chunk of rock. Resting on both knees, she brought both rock and key before her, extended at arms' length. For long minutes she stared at the objects, her brow furrowing in concentration. At first, nothing happened. Then the rock slowly began to change.

It squirmed and twisted in her hand as if possessed of its own life. A loop appeared at one end as the rock shivered, writhing in her grasp. Soft undulations rippled down its length, and the end grew longer and narrower, twisting out into a convoluted edge at the point opposite the loop. When it was finished, Korina breathed a sigh of relief and released her spell. She stared at the two keys before her, one of iron the other of stone, then pursed her lips. "Now I can come and go as I please," she said. "Thank you, Ambrisia, for collecting such a fine library of magic for me." Korina rose, pocketed the stone key, and turned to the wall of books. After a few moments of searching she picked the three texts she required and headed for the door.

"Whew," she said, as Marissa looked up. "Those were a lot harder to find than I thought. I was afraid I might be in there all night." She started toward the exit.

"Good bye, Korina," Marissa said, as she passed. "Oh, and give greeting to Durek for me, please."

"All right," Korina said, closing the door behind her. _Dolt_ , she thought and then headed down the hall.

Durek looked up as Korina entered the study room carrying the three books in her arms.

"Here, let me take those," he said, standing to retrieve the small burden.

_He's so gallant ... the moron_ , Korina thought, then smiled as she said, "Thank you, Durek, you are very kind. Marissa said to say hello."

He looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh, well that was nice of her."

"She's quite fond of you, you know," Korina said. "You really should take the time to talk to her on occasion."

"Maybe, but I don't really see her that much," Durek replied. "Next time I do, I'll try to remember to greet her."

"She'd be forever grateful," Korina said, then opened one of the books. "Where should we begin? How about here on the preparation of the clay?"

"That sounds logical," Durek answered.

The class consisted of seven novice apprentices, each dressed in white robes, and each with barely more than six months of training. Although it would be years before any one of them could hope to prepare something as involved as a golem, the lesson Ambrisia had set for them introduced them to some of the fundamentals of the process. Between the two of them, Durek and Korina taught with remarkable depth and clarity, taking turns to alternate the presentation of each section. Whatever one was unsure of, more often than not the other had the necessary insight to approach the problem. Korina took great pleasure in noting that Durek asked for her input far more often than she his. He was a skilled and gifted student, but certainly not her equal. After nearly two hours of intense study, the class broke up and Korina prepared to leave.

She handed all three books and the iron key to Durek. "Won't you be a dear and return these for me? Ambrisia should be in her chambers by now and, if not, I'm sure Marissa is. That'll give you and her a chance to talk."

Durek frowned thoughtfully a moment, then grabbed the books as he spoke, "I said I'd say hello, that doesn't mean I'm going to talk to her all night long. Besides, it seems a little pointless—we are to be mages, after all."

"True," Korina said, nodding as if she cared.

Durek turned and left the room.

Korina simply watched him leave, shaking her head. _Oh, to be rid of these pathetic imbeciles_ , she thought, _I really don't know how much longer I can stand them_.

"Lubrochius," she murmured reaching for the amulet on her breast, "give your daughter strength." Turning, she made a hasty exit from the room.

After stopping off for a brief snack in the kitchen, Korina returned to her bedchamber. She found it much as she'd left it: neat to the point of meticulous. A diminutive bookcase filled with a small collection of books on magical lore hung above a writing desk. A second bookcase, also filled with books, lay against the wall on her left. Ignoring both of these, she turned her attention to her bed; she knelt before one of the two footlockers at the end of the cot, and murmured a soft spell to disarm the rather nasty trap that protected the lock. She opened the lid to reveal a third collection of books, then read through the titles one by one until she finally found what she wanted.

"The Poetry Of Tosryn-Kane," she said, chuckling with pleasure. She removed the book from its confines, checked the door to make sure it was locked, then sat on her cot to read by the dim light of an oil lamp. Scurrying through the pages, she finally found the spot where she had left off, then opened the book wide to reveal the black script of the chapter title page. It had nothing to do with poetry.

Smiling, she murmured the words softly to herself, "Chapter Six: On the Binding and Summoning of Demons." Sitting back, she began to read.

### Chapter Nine

The gargoyle sat perched above the small arena like a silent sentinel frozen at its task. Nearly half again as tall as a man and chiseled from dark grey stone, its twisted mouth gaped open in a violent scream while its spiked tail coiled thrice about its legs. It held its wings folded back behind its torso while a set of four massive arms adorned its chest—one pair crossed before, the other extended in fists above its head to emphasize its howl of rage.

"Be careful of that thing," Coragan said, suppressing a smile.

Galladrin's hand stopped short just before reaching the stony taloned toes on the ledge above his head. "What do you mean? It's only a statue," he said.

"A wizard's statue," Coragan reminded him. "I actually saw one of those animate before ... It's not a pretty sight."

"Animate? You mean come alive?" Galladrin swallowed nervously. His hand froze in the air, mere inches from the statue's foot.

"Yeah. Several years ago, a wizard by the name of Arsis hired me to find a master thief who had marked him for death. We were discussing my pay when an assassin broke into the room—big mistake. The statue—actually it looked a lot like that one ... may have had an extra set of wings though—anyway, the statue nearly ripped the man in half. One of the most disturbing things I've ever seen; never trusted a statue since, especially not one in a wizard's den."

"Well, perhaps we should leave this one alone," Galladrin said withdrawing his hand. He did not notice the small twist of a smile that shimmered across the bounty hunter's features. "I wouldn't want to disturb it."

"Probably a good idea," Coragan said, gripping the wooden practice sword with both hands, "Shall we get under way, then?"

"Certainly," Galladrin drew his own practice blade.

They were in one of the guild's sparring arenas, set aside for the training of the guards. They had been given spare rooms to sleep in after staying up long hours in the night recording the inventory of the tower debris. Despite the fact that both men were educated in the arts of writing, neither considered himself an accomplished scribe. As a result, they had stayed awake far beyond the setting of first Silgaren and then even Neerie before finally completing the task and returning to their guest rooms to get some sleep. Now, after a refreshing sleep in one of the most comfortable beds he had ever used, Coragan found himself squared off with the rogue in a late morning duel.

Coragan made a quick feint to the left, but drew himself up short before committing. "So Galladrin ..." he said, "got any ideas on the fire so far?"

"Come, come, Coragan," Galladrin replied donning his arrogant swordsman's air and circling to the bounty hunter's right. "Have at me with that blade of yours. Don't try such a novice diversion."

"If you insist," Coragan said, grinning, then moving in to attack. He swung twice, one low strike to the knees followed by a second upward swing to Galladrin's head. Galladrin, however, deflected both blows with cat-like ease, and Coragan felt a sharp jab of pain as the rogue's wooden sword struck him in the ribs.

The rogue stuck out his tongue and made a childish face. "You're dead."

Coragan rubbed his side. "That hurt!"

"Really, Coragan. Did you expect to spar and not get hit?"

"Fine. Let's see how you like it." Coragan drove in with a swing and a thrust.

The agile rogue parried one and danced nimbly aside from the other. "Alas, poor Coragan, it seems I cannot empathize with your pain." Galladrin smiled, then snapped in two quick strikes of his own.

Wood clapped on wood as Coragan parried the first of the blows, but then the bounty hunter yelped in pain as Galladrin's wooden blade smacked down on his wrist. Surprised, Coragan watched his own blade drop to the floor.

"Handless and disarmed," Galladrin said. "You really ought to be a little more careful."

"Yeah, yeah, oh sagely one," Coragan said, leaning down to recover his weapon. Then with a surprising suddenness, the bounty hunter dove to the ground, rolled forward and swung his blade at Galladrin's legs. The nimble rogue leaped up and the bounty hunter's sword whished through empty air. Coragan tried to recover with a backswing, but the rogue blocked the blow and the bounty hunter felt yet again the gentle nudge of a wooden blade, this time against his neck.

"You know," Galladrin said, "a sword master of mine once told me I should never leave the ground. Now, despite how fancy that nice little roll looked, I'm inclined to agree with him, seeing as you have just been decapitated."

"You would definitely be one for the crossbow," Coragan said, as he regained his feet.

"Excuse me?" Galladrin asked.

"If I had to bring you in," Coragan explained, "I'd use my crossbow. It comes in handy on those rare occasions, like today, when I'm faced with a swordsman of superior skill."

"Oh, really?" Galladrin again asked, smiling smugly.

"Yeah, there was this one time when I had to bring in a man accused of stealing the Red Eyes of Jakaran from a temple in Pallernia. He didn't even have a weapon and he was beating the tar out of me ... you know, one of those weaponless fighters."

"What did you do?"

"I shot him in the leg," Coragan said. "You'd be surprised how a crossbow bolt to the hip can take the fight out of a man."

"Oh," Galladrin said, rubbing his own hip. "Just thinking about that makes me cringe."

"I do what is necessary," Coragan said.

"Sure, I bet that man was forever in your debt," Galladrin said.

"Actually, we parted on pretty good terms," Coragan replied. "After getting him under control I took him to a healer because he was bleeding so badly. They fixed him up so he could stand trial and it turned out he was found innocent. Someone else had stolen the gems."

"Really?" Galladrin asked with an innocent grin. "Did they ever find out who?"

"No," Coragan answered. "They set me on the wrong chase in the first place, so the trail was cold and I didn't have too many clues. Actually, I'd kind of like to meet the man. The robbery was a remarkable feat in itself, and besides that he was one of the few people who ever eluded me."

"I'm sure he'd be honored at your praise," Galladrin said, smiling and barely repressing a chuckle. "Assuming, of course, it was a he and not a she."

"True," Coragan conceded.

"Well, enough of this reverie," Galladrin said. "Shall we dance some more?"

"Yeah, but let's change things a bit," Coragan said. "Let's add the daggers."

"You're losing with one weapon," Galladrin said. "Do you expect to fare better with two?"

"Maybe. There's a couple things that weaponless fighter showed me that I'd like to try on you."

"Really? This ought to be interesting. I'll make it more so and just fight with my sword. Come now, get your blade and let's have at it."

Coragan walked over and picked up one of the small wooden daggers on the floor. He flipped it around once in his hand then strode back toward the rogue, lifting his sword. "Are you ready?"

"Always," Galladrin answered.

Without waiting for further invitation Coragan moved in and attacked. He lashed out with not one, but both weapons. The sword in his right hand slashed toward Galladrin's head while his left hand thrust the dagger at Galladrin's stomach. It was a risky move, a full commitment to attack but that was Coragan's way and he had yet found the opponent who could handle it.

Galladrin parried the sword at his face with ease, but then yelped in surprise as the point of the dagger poked him in his belly.

"Care for a disembowelment, rogue?" Coragan said, smiling.

Galladrin backed away with a look of caution in his eyes. "That was pretty nice."

Coragan feinted once with the sword then struck again, the sword thrusting at Galladrin's stomach and the dagger snaking toward his eyes.

Galladrin let out a startled cry of dismay as he contorted to avoid both blows. The dagger passed dangerously close to his face and the rogue stumbled, landing heavily on the sword.

"Hey," Galladrin said, as he regained his feet. "No points to the face, remember? I'd kind of like to keep my eyes."

Coragan reddened. "Oh, yeah. Sorry."

"Just try to remember," Galladrin said, scrambling to his feet. "You know that's a real nice move. How can you defend against that?"

"If you know it's coming, you just get out of the way and hack the man down," Coragan said. "If he misses he's really exposed. If you don't know its coming ... you better have some serious reflexes and hopefully a second weapon of your own."

"Think you could teach me?"

"Sure, but not today. It's getting a little late, and we should probably go get Borak and see Regecon. I never had the chance to talk to him about tracking Arcalian last night. I'd kind of like to do that now."

"Well, then ... 'til next time," Galladrin said, and bowed.

### Chapter Ten

The guild master's chair, hewn from a single piece of black obsidian, resembled a throne far more than it did a simple council master's high seat. Adorned at the base by a smattering of rare gems and capped at the top by a pair of golden ravens, the throne bespoke well the power and authority entrusted to the master of the guild. Regecon looked hard and long on the symbol of his newly acquired might. With his right hand he reached out to touch the fangs of the serpentine head that formed the armrest of the chair; his hand slid across the polished black obsidian as smoothly as silk.

_This throne is now my seat_ , he thought. Smiling uncertainly to himself, he took the final step and sat down. He had realized of late that he harbored a surprising level of ambivalence toward his newly acquired power. He had never expected to have the guild chair thrust upon him like this. Arcalian had always looked promisingly like a dependable and long-lived master, but when he disappeared, someone had to take control. Regecon had already spent eight years serving on the council, so when the rest of the council appointed him guild master, it seemed like a natural and obvious next step. However, he found it unsettling how much power he had risen to—the power to command a guild of wizards, without a doubt the most potent force within leagues of Drisdak. Respected and feared by both nobles and peasants, one could find it easy to lose oneself in such power. He wondered briefly how Arcalian and Talamarius and all their predecessors had felt when they first sat upon this black chair. He remembered his first days at the guild, staring in awe at Talamarius as the mage reviewed the latest additions to his halls. Regecon had stood tall and proud as the mage eyed him, daring not to show even the slightest trace of fear. Four others had been accepted with him: Toreg, two men who had since left, and a woman, named Samarina, now dead. The toils of wizardry had proven too grueling for her and she had died in her final test. Regecon shuddered in remembrance, still wondering after all these years why Talamarius allowed her admittance in the first place. She had showed promise at first, but even Regecon, a mere apprentice in the guild's eyes, had seen her growing weakness. He remembered the announcement of her death and the impassive manner in which Talamarius had accepted the news. He had thought the man cold then, and perhaps he still did. But his years at the guild had witnessed many other deaths in the struggles of wizardry and he could almost understand how a man could grow accustomed to tragedy.

_May that never be my fate_ , he thought. _Every student who dies under me, I shall remember to my final days ... like Theracon_. He thought back to his own student, the first and only of his apprentices to ever fail. His death had been horrid, his body consumed by the very fire guardian of which he had lost control. Many a long night since, Regecon had spent in pitiless self-examination, wondering if he could have done something to prevent the tragedy. Perhaps he could have prepared the young mage more or discovered his weakness sooner. Expulsion from the guild seemed a small price to pay if it would have saved the young man's life. He had long ago given up the consideration of making the tests easier, safer. Compassion was not a virtue a mage could afford when it came time to pass on the teachings of his art. He thought of his struggles with Arcalian's blaze just nights before, wondering what would have happened if he had given in to the strain. He shuddered at the thought. Enormous amounts of energy had been poured into that blaze, energy that would have fed its fury if left unguided. If Regecon had fallen, the guild above him would be gone, perhaps all of Drisdak as well. One man's life for a city: it seemed a small price to pay, but certainly not an easy one.

For quite some time, he sat contemplating that final thought; then, he returned his attention to his surroundings. He sat alone in The Hall of Audience, a chamber set aside for conferences with nobles and other assemblies. It measured nearly twice as long in length as breadth and provided a humbling walk for all who sought a wizard's wisdom. Massive double doors, wrought from purest iron, guarded its entrance. Row upon row of ornate chairs and decorative benches lined its length. The council's dais, the very dais upon which Regecon now sat, lay at the end of the walk. It rose four feet above the floor, its many steps carved with runes and sigils along their length, and sprinkled with a plethora of rare stones. The black chair of the guild master stood at the top of the dais flanked on either side by chairs carved from oak: three on its right, and two on its left. A pair of massive gargoyles rose behind the arrangement, grotesque beasts with laughing maniacal grins. Each one bore a pair of hands armed with jagged claws—one hand spread out in greeting to the audience of the hall, the other resting lightly above a silver door lurking at its side.

At the far end of the hall, the great iron doors opened and Jacindra marched in, leading the latest recruits for the guild. The small procession marched down the center of the hall, then stopped a short distance from the dais. Regecon counted three men and four women, all dressed in the pure white robes of the novice.

"Guild Master Regecon," Jacindra said kneeling before the throne and bowing her head in respect. In unison, the men and woman behind her dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.

"You may rise, Jacindra," Regecon said, straightening in his chair, "and present your case." A strange feeling swept over Regecon as he looked out over the small number of kneeling bodies. He had seen men kneel before nobility many times in his father's court, but he had never been the recipient of such respect. His elder brother had, as heir to the estate, but the second son of a Duke, although respected, held no title in Brenlath. Now, here he was, in charge of a guild of magic with power to match, perhaps even surpass that of the very same brother. He did not know if he reveled in such a fact, but he could not resist just a hint of self pride as Jacindra spoke.

"Guild Master Regecon," she said in that regal air of hers, "I present to you the most recent applicants to your guild. All have been chosen according to the edicts of the black chair. Each one has paid the necessary fees and now humbly asks for your permission to study within these halls."

Regecon looked at the men and women, studying their faces in detail, trying to memorize each and every feature. For a moment, he felt a flicker of doubt. Which one of these men and women would die in their toils? One was sure to fail, perhaps even two, and in his heart he felt responsible for the impending doom. _Freedom, every man's dream, every man's nightmare_. Aristoceles had taught him that, but he had never understood until now. Free to walk away and reject them all to save a life or free to bring them in and accept a death to mar his soul. Regecon was slow in answering the sorceress of the air, but finally he spoke, "You are certain they are all prepared?"

"I am," she said firmly.

Regecon rose on the dais, towering above all present. "Then let it be known that all those who kneel before me now, shall henceforth be under my care. Apprentices of magic you shall be, servants of raven, snake, and staff. Let them come forward and swear their allegiance to this guild to bind their hearts and souls to magic. Come, show your conviction." Regecon extended his hand.

The first man rose and walked purposefully toward the guild master. He bowed respectfully as the fire mage placed his hand on his head, then began to speak. "I swear my allegiance to this guild and my fealty to you, Guild Master Regecon. It is with utmost humility that I ask for your acceptance to study in these Halls." The young man kneeled before Regecon and kissed the hem of his robe, then retreated to let another follow suit. The six remaining men and women each followed in turn. At last the final one retreated before Regecon and the seven men and women knelt before him in a row.

"Go now and uphold your pledge," Regecon said. "The art of magic shall be taught to you and in its service shall your lives spring anew. You are apprentices now, servants of this guild."

With that the seven students rose and Jacindra motioned them from the room. After they had left, Jacindra turned to face the guild master. "You handle yourself well on that throne. I truly think it suits you."

"Thank you, sorceress," Regecon replied, then added, "I tried to look imposing."

"I think you succeeded," she answered with an amused smile. "They'll probably hold you in awe for weeks."

She was exaggerating, but not by much. Regecon remembered his first month at the guild when he had walked on eggshells whenever Talamarius appeared. The man had been quite intimidating in those early days. He smiled. "'A little respect is good for the soul.'"

"Aristoceles used to say that, didn't he?" Jacindra asked.

"Yes, he did. It's a good way to remember him, don't you think?" he said. Just then, one of the silver doors opened and Mathagarr strode in, followed shortly by Coragan, Borak, and lastly Galladrin.

"Greetings, my friends," Regecon said, "Mathagarr ... why are you still up?"

The guardsman yawned before speaking, "I was just finishing my meal when Coragan found me. He was looking for you and I knew where you were. Having delivered them, I believe I shall retire. With your leave, of course."

"Please, Mathagarr, get some sleep or you'll wear yourself out," Jacindra said.

"Yes," Regecon agreed, "do as the sorceress says."

"Thank you, sir, ma'am." The guardsman's chain armor clanked audibly as he strode from the room. Regecon watched the man leave, then turned to face the three others. They provided a strangely comforting sight: three men with the hardened looks of true survivors in their eyes, chiseled by the harshness of the world in which they lived—a harshness uniquely different from the toils of magic, but a harshness all the same. Borak stood in the rear, yet he seemed to tower with prominence above all present. He stood with feet planted wide apart and thick arms folded across his chest. The animal skins he wore seemed tight, nearly bursting from their efforts to contain him. Both Coragan and Galladrin looked somewhat flushed, as if from exertion. Each had a steely look in his eyes, and possessed an air of constant vigilance. Coragan was dressed in somber hues of grey and black, while Galladrin wore the expensive clothes of the night before—a blue shirt with a dragon of gold, and a blue cloak of a slightly darker shade.

"What is it you wish of me?" Regecon asked.

"First," Coragan began, "I wanted to tell you we completed our cataloguing of the wreckage last night. We'll go over the lists again this evening, but at the moment nothing else of note sticks out. Second, I wanted you to tell me all you can of Arcalian. If you want me to find him, I'll have to know everything ... his habits, his women, his ..."

Jacindra let out a small chuckle, much to Coragan's chagrin.

"Arcalian had no women," Regecon said with a slight smile. "None of us do. That is not our way."

"Even if it weren't," Jacindra added, "Arcalian was rather old. Not decrepit mind you, but I dare say that particular fire may very well have been out."

Regecon nodded. "Yes, there is that as well."

"Oh," Coragan said, a little taken aback, "I should have remembered that ... er, both those things."

"You poor souls." Galladrin shook his head sadly, then cast his glance to the wall as Regecon raised his eyebrows at him.

"Life is filled with many choices, my friend ... and Magic can afford no distractions."

"Anyway," Coragan said. He had recovered from his moment of embarrassment rather quickly, and diligently pressed on. "I need to know his habits, any haunts he might have frequented, his family ... anything of that nature."

"He had no family," Regecon said, and Jacindra nodded in agreement. "Nor did he have any 'haunts' in town, if that is what you mean. He rarely left the guild except on matters of duty. Within the last two months he may have visited the town magistrate twice, that's about it."

"You are forgetting Alvaron, Guild Master," Jacindra said.

"Ah, yes ... I had forgotten," Regecon said, "Arcalian made a trip to Alvaron about a month ago, to clear up some matters with their guild. It did not go well and he returned in a rather foul mood."

"You really aren't giving me very much," Coragan said. "This Alvaron may be a lead, but ... are you sure there is nothing else?"

"He did extensive work with herbs," Jacindra offered. "He spent several days each month scouring the local countryside, looking for various rarities."

"Herbs?" Galladrin asked. "Would that include rose petals and garlic?"

"Yes, I suppose he could have picked those up on one of his expeditions," Jacindra answered, "but he could have just as easily acquired them at the local market. They are not all together too difficult to come by."

"Is there anything else?" Coragan asked.

Regecon thought a moment more, but to no avail. Arcalian, like many mages, had been a reclusive character, not so much that he neglected his duties, but there were definitely times when one might call him secretive. "There is nothing."

Galladrin turned to address Coragan, his blue cloak rustling. "What do you think? Rose petals or Alvaron?"

"I seem to recall seeing a map in those papers Borak found in that desk," Coragan replied. "If it is of this area he may have used it in his search for herbs."

Galladrin grimaced, his mouth crinkling into a wry frown. "Somehow I don't think our friend decided to go out for herbs in the middle of the night and torch his study just for laughs. What do you propose we do, go out and scour all the land around Drisdak? That would be a little time consuming, in my opinion."

"You're right. As it is, we have already let several days go by," Coragan answered, "but I think we should still check those papers out. There may be some indication—"

A voice broke in from behind them. "Excuse me, Guild Master, Sorceress, gentlemen." Five heads turned to bear down on a small shriveled man dressed in pale silver robes. The man quickly reddened and shrank back from the deluge of sudden attention. He stood there fidgeting a moment, apparently trying to gather himself to speak.

"What is it, Porthion?" Regecon asked. The little man appeared to relax at the sound of Regecon's voice. Clearing his throat the wrinkled figure spoke.

"There was just something I'd like to inform you of," Porthion said, then remained silent.

"Well?" Regecon asked with a hint of impatience.

Clearing his throat one more time, the little man continued, "I'm missing several books. I think they were lost in the fire."

"Really?" Jacindra asked.

"Yes, sorceress," the little man said, fidgeting and looking down at his feet. "I checked my ledgers and the last person to take them from the library was Arcalian. No one reported finding them after the fire and I just finished an extensive search. They are nowhere to be found."

"Will they be difficult to replace?" Regecon grew concerned. Depending on the work, Regecon knew some books could be extremely difficult to come by. If truly rare, some might even cost in the hundreds of dragons to acquire—especially if he were forced to deal with Alvaron to obtain them. Although the guild in Alvaron made a point of having two separate libraries—one as a reserve—with a small army of scribes on hand to diligently copy needed texts, they had long been a less than sympathetic rival. Dealing with them would be rather costly. "Do you know which ones they are?"

"Yes, I mean, no ... that is, they won't be too difficult to replace and I do know which ones they are."

"What are they?" Regecon asked.

"There are several books really, _The Rise and Fall of Morgulan: Lord of the Black Circle, The Curse of Zarina, The Drisdak Killings, Herbs of the Northern Forests, A Treatise on Time_ , and _Legends of the Preternatural_. The first three are all history books, _A Treatise on Time_ is a philosophical text on the nature of time, and the others are just collections of lore: one on herbs, the other on supernatural creatures."

"For some reason those first two books sound familiar," Regecon scratched his beard and looked inward. "Zarina is obviously the black witch from legend, and Morgulan the tyrannical conqueror who took her as a lover ..."

"Have you been doing research?" Jacindra asked. "The two names are not uncommon in the annals of history. After all, they did try to conquer the world together."

"That's right," Regecon said, brightening. "Ambrisia has a painting on them, _The Fall of Morgulan_ she called it. I remember looking at Zarina in the picture."

"I don't know much about history ... I think I may have heard the name Zarina before, but I'm not sure where or when," Galladrin said. "However, I must ask... does this have anything to do with us?"

"Not unless you lived a thousand years ago," Jacindra said. "Morgulan was a great tyrannical dictator who wielded immense power. Zarina, his lover, was a black sorceress of diabolical means. Together they built an empire and nearly succeeded in conquering the entire world."

Galladrin shrugged his shoulders, and gestured dismissively with his hand. "World domination is every king's fantasy, that's nothing new." From what Regecon knew of the rogue so far, the faint smile at the corners of his lips suggested he was being deliberately argumentative. "I don't see how that should impress me. It's not like they tried something original."

"Most kings only dream of conquering the world." Jacindra strolled around the room as she spoke, causing Regecon to smile. As noble bred as she was, she adjusted quickly to the role of teacher. The image of her lecturing was vivid in his mind. Unwittingly, the rogue had nominated himself her student. "For Morgulan and Zarina, that dream very nearly became reality. Not only did they almost succeed in their endeavor, they went about it in a rather ... shall we say, distinctive way. You want originality, my friend, Morgulan approached torture and killing with an artist's fervor. Opposition was crushed mercilessly—"

"That's been done," Galladrin pointed out, trying to sound unimpressed.

Jacindra darkened at the interruption, then continued. "Entire cities were wiped from the face of existence—"

"That too."

The sorceress stopped pacing, and stood with her arms folded, her stare locked on the rogue. She had realized what the rogue was doing, and did not seem inclined to let Galladrin have the final word. Still, she would only speak the truth. "Men, women ... even children."

The rogue lost a shade of the amusement behind his eyes. "That's not original, that's just mean."

Jacindra, however, was relentless. "Soldiers who fell were impaled in droves, their bodies set on wooden stakes as a warning against resistance ..."

"All right, that's a little twisted, but—"

"These were Morgulan's Gardens of the Dead, as he called them. They hung untended for days, until the vultures picked the flesh from their bones. It is said the stench from the rotting bodies spread as far as a hard day's ride in every direction."

"I think I might be ill." Indeed, the rogue's face had taken on an ashen hue at Jacindra's grim description.

"Captives," the sorceress said, smiling in victory, "they had it worst of all. Zarina is not called 'the Black' for nothing. She was a practitioner of both necromancy and demonology. A devout demon worshipper, she was a woman to be feared. Hundreds, nay, thousands of men were sacrificed on her dark altars."

"Sounds like the two of them were responsible for a lot of innocent blood," Coragan said. "Let me guess ... both nobles, right? Where were they born, Torine?"

Regecon looked darkly at the bounty hunter, shook his head, but said nothing.

"No, actually Morgulan's place of birth is unknown and it is said Zarina was born in a small estate near Pallernia, called Aralonn. What does her being of noble blood have to do with her killings?" Jacindra asked, in a seemingly puzzled tone.

Regecon looked from sorceress to bounty hunter then back to the sorceress. He wondered briefly if she really did not understand Coragan's caustic remark or if she were merely playing dumb, daring the man to explain himself. Deciding it would be for the best if he headed any possible conflict off now, Regecon spoke. He did not need the woman butting heads with both men this early in the day. "It's not important, Jacindra. You were saying Morgulan and Zarina were brutal in their tactics? I've always known Zarina was a wicked and powerful woman, but I was never particularly well versed in her story."

"Yes, her vileness is only surpassed by that of Morgulan himself. I suppose that is why they found each other so attractive."

"I must say," Galladrin interjected, "as fascinating as this Morgulan character and his horrid achievements are, I think we should move on." He, too, seemed anxious to change the subject. Despite his sometimes childish humor, the rogue seemed to be an intelligent and perceptive man. Coragan had nearly given Jacindra an open insult, although it was doubtful the bounty hunter had known of her lineage. A level-headed woman at most times, she took great pride in her family name, and could easily take affront at such forms of disparagement. "I don't see the relevance of any of this toward our search for your former guild master. Obviously, Morgulan did not kill your philosopher and snatch Arcalian away, nor did Zarina, right?" A chill of a doubt had unexpectedly crept into Galladrin's voice, and he trailed off into uncertainty. He breathed a long sigh of relief when Jacindra finally responded.

"No, they both have been dead for nearly a thousand years and as mighty as they were, neither had the power to escape the Scythe-Bearer's demesne."

"That's a relief," Galladrin said.

"I don't suppose there are any treatises on roses or garlic?" Coragan asked, turning to Porthion. The bounty hunter did not look even a shade uncomfortable and was obviously oblivious to any discomfort his remark may have caused. Either that, or he simply did not care. "Oh, never mind," he said. "We've wasted enough time already. Come on, Galladrin, Borak. Our lesson in history is over for the day. We have other work to do."

Regecon watched as bounty hunter, rogue, and warrior headed from the room. His thoughts remained on Coragan. If the man proved to be half as good as his reputation made him out to be, he would be worth any amount of difficulty. Still, it was awkward hiring a man he knew was not fond of his position or his power. Regecon glanced at Jacindra. The sorceress of the air quietly conversed with Porthion, her back to the retreating men. At least things had not gotten out of hand. Sighing, Regecon motioned to the librarian, interrupting his words. "Well, Porthion, you say those books can be replaced? How much and how soon?"

### Chapter Eleven

"Can't you kill one for me, like you did last night?"

I stare at her. She is being difficult again and my patience is wearing thin. A long time passes while she waits, standing on the balcony with her hair rippling in the wind. The miner's moon, Neerie, rises at her back, bursting forth from parting clouds.

"Well?" she asks, the model of innocence.

"I told you, it is time you learned to kill for yourself." I try not to show my impatience, but she is making it difficult.

"I don't want to kill anyone like this," she replies. Pausing a moment, she then continues, "It is wrong."

It is her warrior's code again—the tattered vestige of her former life, rearing its ugly head to spoil my plans. "You'd rather I'd kill them for you?" I ask. "That is the solution to your moral dilemma? They'll wind up dead just the same. And you will still drink their blood."

"But master ..."

"Yes, _Master_ is the word," I snarl, finally pushed to anger. "And as your master, it is my will that you make the strike. I have other endeavors to pursue. Now take the bat's form, as I have shown you."

Her voice rises to near hysteria. "I can't kill innocent people!"

"Fine. Hunt the wicked for all I care. It matters not to me. In time, you will come around. Now, change your shape."

Reluctantly, she bows her head, closes her eyes in concentration, and slows her breathing. The night bends down around her, comforting, soothing, ... engulfing. Her body quivers, trembling in rapid bursts. She cries in pain as she drops to her knees and her body violently contorts as if trying to implode. Dark black fur sprouts along her arms and face, turning her flesh to shadow. Her hair crawls back inside her skull; her ears writhe into sharpened points. With a distorted mouth, she lets loose a violent scream and then her arms rip open into leathery wings. She sobs in pain, dropping to the ground, a grotesque figure caught between two worlds, half-woman, yet half-bat.

I tower above her. "Complete it."

"I can't," she sobs.

"Your performance as a vampire leaves much to be desired. You can't even walk like that, much less fly. Finish your work, or would you prefer to starve?"

With a pained, all too-human sigh she closes her eyes and steadies her breath once more. This time the changes come quickly. The sprouting fur completes its course and her legs withdraw into small clawed feet. With an audible clap, her body collapses inward and her small leathery wings open to catch the wind. She hovers briefly, a mere foot or two above the ground, then drops lightly to the stones, chirping and wheezing in the tongue of her kind.

Smiling at her triumph, I reach out with my mind. _That is much better, my dear_.

_It seemed a little easier the second time_. Her thoughts are weak, but not inaudible.

_It will come more quickly with every effort. Now come, it is time we made our way to Drisdak_. In an instant, I have changed my shape and am speeding off through the night. Startled, her response is slow; she makes to follow, but hers is an awkward flight and she soon falls behind. I reduce my speed, then fly in a circle to cut short the growing distance.

It is time I leave you, love. I have much to do tonight and cannot spare anymore time. Make your way to Drisdak and please, use discretion when you kill. I shall meet you at the castle before the coming of dawn.

She seems too hard-pressed on flying to gather sufficient strength for response, so I leave her there, and speed off toward Drisdak, flying on wings no mortal bird could ever challenge. Neerie is less than half its way toward zenith when I finally glide down toward the guild. As I begin my slow approach, my thoughts turn toward my mission. I have two purposes tonight. First, I must secure my foothold in the guild; I have grown weary of repeated invitations. Second, I must find another mage. I have also grown lazy. I need a steady meal or two. Perhaps, I can use an apprentice to sharpen Clarissa's teeth as well.

I circle once.

Nothing.

I circle again.

Still, nothing.

I approach the highest tower and land on the sill of the window I exited just a few nights past. I pace once along its length, then tentatively peek inside. Nothing. No resistance. Nothing. It seems my unwelcome shared Arcalian's fate. Chirping in glee, I glide inside.

It is much different than before. The walls are streaked with soot and the floor has been replaced by wooden scaffoldings. My fire did its work: nothing of Arcalian's glory remains intact inside his chamber. He has been wiped from existence as befitting a maggot of his ilk. With a sneer I plunge through the depths and land on the cold stone floor far below.

The wizards had their chance to thwart me, but that chance has passed: their guild house is open to me now. I pause a moment, listening. The wind outside is remarkably calm; its voice raises only an occasional howl, and that is one of weariness not of rage. Down, however, inside this cursed guild, echoing along its ancient halls, I hear voices. Many are still awake inside the wizards' fortress ... and only one is needed to sound an alarm.

A quick perusal of the room reveals a large crack in the corner: a small rat hole. I flutter over to it and sniff the ground. Nothing. Whatever rat made this has not returned for many, many years. Well, what one rat can make, another can use.

I change shape again and plunge into the hole, whipping my diminutive tail behind me. I take but five steps and stop, gagging. The scent of magic is strong in here, much more so than the tower walls. Perhaps wind and fire had masked its strength above, but now in its depths it returns at full force. It is troublesome, but not insurmountable. I continue on, at a slackened pace.

With my clawed feet clicking lightly on the stone, I plunge deeper and deeper into the keep to spread my presence. No mage will rid this guild of me, not in a thousand tenfold years. I will be free—to come and to go, to hunt the proudest of mankind's men, to drink the blood of wizards and grow strong.

One thing, however, grows more and more perplexing as I travel: the absence of other rats within these tunnels. Surely, some type of vermin must have dug these paths, but I have yet to encounter even a single one. I reach out with my mind, searching, scanning, calling. Yes, they are here, but far away. Deep, deep in the stone below the guild, in the depths of the darkest catacombs buried from sight. I call to them. They answer, but cannot heed my wish. Something holds them back. A presence. A power. Something I cannot quite fathom.

Suddenly, there is pain. Scurrying along I am shocked as sparks flare up about me; they singe my fur and drive me back. The acrid scent of magic rises strong in the air, and an intricate pattern is traced in light on the floor. Retreating, I watch a glowing sigil fade to darkness at my feet.

So this is it. A simple sigil inscribed by a mage. A ward against rats and similar vermin. A normal rodent would be crippled, perhaps even dead. I, however, am simply annoyed.

I look around. How this sigil came to be here is a mystery that surpasses me. There are no nearby holes, no access for anything as large as a man ... Well, the wizards can keep one mystery, of its origin I do not care; its continued existence, however, is not within my plans.

A human sneer crosses my rat-like features and I advance, bearing my strength before me. The sigil flares up in brilliant orange defiance, tracing a complex pattern across the stones, a pattern weaved by scintillating lights. Sparks fly toward me, but die before they reach my fur. I can feel the resistance. It is like a wall of rock as I drive my body forward. A moment passes while I struggle, locking my will with the age-old spell.

A spark flares red and the sigil cracks. The wall of stone becomes as cloth, then mist, then nothing but emptiness to impede my path. I glance back as the broken sigil flares a final time; then the light dims, and the stone grows cold.

Without a second thought, I continue forward through the long abandoned tunnels. Rats are not all that is missing in these depths. No insects, no spiders, nothing at all. It seems the wizards enjoy a well-cleaned house.

I encounter two more sigils, but deal with them as I did the other. Turning from the last of these fading wards, I am startled by a noise, or rather ... a name. Scurrying forward with my senses primed, it takes me but a moment to find the source. A hole lurks up ahead, a fountain from which light and sound intrude. Carefully, I crawl up to the edge.

My probing eyes look into a room, a small, cozy chamber with three occupants. One man sits at a desk with several sheafs of paper spread out before him. A second, with feet crossed, reclines upon a cot propped up on his elbows. He is shaking his head repeatedly as if troubled with his inner thoughts. The third man, a monster in size, leans out a window and stares listlessly at the sparkling sky. Further study shows all three men are armed, though not with anything that could possibly cause me harm. Still, my curiosity is piqued.

Borak closed his eyes, drew a deep breath and sighed. The night air was crisp and clean, and scented strongly of pine, a refreshing odor which reminded him of his homeland. The wind felt calmer tonight, not as furious as it had been in recent evenings; far more delicate, far more playful.

Slowly, he opened his eyes to stare at the stars above. Poets down through all the ages had compared them to diamonds and other jewels. Borak, however, thought such a comparison hardly did them justice.

Across the room, Galladrin adjusted his position on the cot. "Really, Coragan, can't we just forget about Morgulan. He seems little more than a wizard's strange fetish." Borak looked over at the rogue and frowned; something in the man's voice hinted of agitation. Borak had noticed a growing tension of late. Neither Coragan nor Galladrin seemed to have taken conscious notice of it, but both men seemed a little quick to anger around each other. Something was building. Borak did not know what, but he wished it would run its course then quickly leave.

Galladrin continued, "I mean, by the Sickle, the man's been dead for nearly a thousand years."

"Well, Galladrin," Coragan began, turning in his chair to face the rogue, "I would think Morgulan's importance would be fairly obvious, since his name has come up twice today. First we know Arcalian had that book on him, his empire, and all his doings—"

"So?" Galladrin asked, interrupting. Borak noticed the rogue's face flush when Coragan spoke. Perhaps he had not intended it, but the bounty hunter's words had come out somewhat pompously. Then again, given the current mood, it may have been quite intentional.

Coragan frowned at the rogue, then picked up the sheet of paper he had been studying and continued, "Secondly, we have this ..." He held the paper up and began to read.

" _The Sceptre of Morgulan consisted of a rod of gold affixed with two half skulls. Each skull-half bore a face—one grinning wide, the other nailed shut—attached to the other along its severed edge, so that the whole resembled a single two-faced skull. A solitary iron spike connected this twofold image of darkness to the top of the rod. The sockets of each face entombed a pair of gems; the grinning half bore two rubies and the closed half two sapphires. To balance the skull, the base of the rod was set with an emerald the size of an egg known as_ The Heart of Skulls _, held in place by the carven image of a dragon's claw. Between the 'Heart' and the Skulls, along the length of the rod, one found the ancient inscriptions of the talisman's magic. It is from this script, that the powers of the sceptre sprang."_

"So Arcalian has a piece of paper describing some loony monarch's sceptre. I repeat, the man died one thousand years ago." Galladrin definitely sounded angry about something, something that had little to do with the current conversation. Borak could feel it.

"You really are slow at this sometimes, aren't you?" That didn't help.

"Am I, now?"

"Look," Coragan said, "it's fairly obvious that Arcalian had an interest in Morgulan. This paper is a loose sheaf, yet it reads like a book description. The script begins nearly a third of the way down and stops a similar distance from the bottom. Book margins are never that wide. At most, they might measure the distance between the two middle digits of your finger. No more."

"What's your point?" Galladrin asked, tightly.

"The point is," Coragan replied, "this sheaf wasn't removed from another book. It is obviously something Arcalian copied down. Meaning, this is something he thought important or worth studying."

Interesting. These men seem intrigued by the late Arcalian's hobbies. They know of Morgulan and they know of his sceptre; they have not, however, drawn a definite connection with the wizard. At the moment, it is an oddity to them. I wonder what their reaction would be if they were informed of the dreaded Sceptre's powers. It would be a wonder to observe.

In any event, I am now posed with a quandary. Should I kill them, or should I let them be? If I kill them now, I display my hand. I could try another fire, but that might look suspicious. Besides, I think the other fire may be the very reason these men are here. So perhaps I should let them live. At the moment, they pose no threat; they know too little. However, they could learn more, and that could prove troublesome; I thought Arcalian unimportant until he learned my secrets. Patience may be called for here. I know of them, but they know not of me, so the advantage is clearly mine. I will just keep an open ear for these men and observe their activities.

The blue-cloaked man leaves his cot. He walks across the room to the desk where the other sits. Their friend still seems entranced by stars. They make an odd trio.

"And what of the map?" the one called Galladrin asks.

Map? My interest deepens.

"As we suspected, it does appear to be of the local surroundings. See, this dot is labeled 'Drisdak'—"

"I can read."

"Well, what do you make of this?" the man asks, pointing to a sheaf of paper laid out before him.

"It's a small dot circled on the map ... So?"

"It's labeled 'Rahmin Muirdra.'"

"I know very little of the old tongue."

"I know only a smattering, but it is enough to understand the name. Roughly, it means Fortress Nightguard, although it is a darker connotation of 'night,' one which emphasizes its connection with darkness and death."

How irritating. I can see where this is going. I suppose preparations for a visit should be made. Actually, this might work out nicely. They will be much easier to kill at home than here, and there will be no need to mask the murders.

"This is supposed to be important?"

The man called Coragan seems on the verge of an angry reply, but he keeps his tongue in check through gritted teeth. "It is circled, Galladrin. And if you took the time to look at the map you could note where the fortress is located. It's in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and mountains. The only feasible access to it is along this small river, here. It would be the perfect spot for a wizard to seclude himself if he wished to seek some quiet solitude."

"Coragan, you're an idiot. We haven't the slightest clue why Arcalian is gone or even if he had anything to do with his own disappearance. If he did sequester himself in some abandoned castle, don't you think he'd at least inform the other members of the guild? For all we know he took a nightly stroll and was taken down by alley thieves. Don't you think it's about time we did some real work?"

It seems the two men are losing their tempers. The tension is cracking like dried autumn twigs.

"Well, to Hell with you too, Galladrin! I don't have to sit here and take this from you."

The one called Galladrin is quick in response. His face is flushed a deep red and his voice carries a nasty edge.

"Don't worry. As soon as I'm done, I'm gone. But first, I have a couple things to say. I wanted to make sure I told you how sick I am of listening to you with your 'novel' ideas and your edicts of self-appointed command. You wouldn't even be here if I hadn't dragged you into this—"

"Now, wait a minute—"

"No, you wait a minute! I'm sick of your orders. I'm sick of your decisions. And I'm sick of your two-faced lies—"

"Two-faced lies?" The one called Coragan seems genuinely confused.

"Yes, you and your two-faced lies. What do I hear from you day in day out? Oh, all the horrors of nobles and wizards. How—"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Shut up, and let me finish! You go on and on about nobles and mages all the time; how it's their fault that there is so much injustice in the world; how they take their position and their powers and use them to their own ends rather than that of the rest of the world. Fine. I'll just ignore the fact that everyone does that anyway and just go straight to my point. After I listen to you ramble on about the evils of the powers that be, what happens? Regecon comes up and its 'Oh, yes, Mage Regecon, this is what we found ... and we did this and that and I'm your little dog who licks your boots. Woof. Woof.' Sometimes you just make me sick. With the sole exception of that episode with Jacindra today, which was poorly timed, by the way, you have yet to honestly tell Regecon or any other mage what you think of them. Now, with Jacindra you had a golden opportunity to tell Regecon what you really think, but failed to say anything substantive. All you succeeded in doing was insulting them." Having finished his spiel, the blue-cloaked man heads for the door.

"Go to Hell, Galladrin. Straight to the bottom of Hell."

The man called Galladrin stops, holding the door open with one hand. "Maybe. But first I'm heading to the taverns to relax a bit. It wouldn't do, not to greet Lubrochius with a smile. Tell you what, if I think of it, I'll even ask around about Arcalian. Somebody has to do some real work." With that the blue-cloaked man slams the door. I can hear his retreating footsteps as he goes striding down the hall.

"Do you believe that rogue, Borak? I can't believe he spoke to me like that." The man called Coragan looks to the monstrous man by the window, apparently expecting some support. The behemoth shrugs, his massive chest stretching the animal hide that covers it. He does not seem overly concerned.

As interesting as these men are, I believe it is time to leave. They are not mages and I have my second goal to achieve tonight. Turning, I scurry back down my little tunnel, leaving the two men to their enlightening talk.

I encounter three more sigils in my search and make certain they are destroyed. I am having difficulties though, tonight the mages are traveling in twos; there are no straggling sheep for the wolf to snare. Perhaps I should just depart, Clarissa should not be long. I shall make one more try and then leave; I can always return at a later time. After all, I have completed half of what I set out to do.

I follow a gently sloping tunnel carved through rock and earth. A dim light flows from the mouth ahead and carefully I crawl up to cast an earnest look inside. My nose twists in dismay; a sigil glows on the stone before me. If I crush it, I may draw notice. Not insurmountable, but still a bother. Proceeding as far as I can in my current form, I cock my head to listen, but all I hear is silence.

I scan the room.

There. At last! A solitary mage deep in slumber. It is time to renew old Arcalian's plan.

Borak watched as the rat turned tail and fled. It had sat there for quite some time, almost as if watching them with those dead grey eyes. He had noticed it shortly before the fight began. He had been curious, since it was the only rat he had yet seen inside the guild. Watching it from the corner of his eye, he had been surprised by its movements; it had turned back and forth from Galladrin to Coragan as each one spoke. It had seemed to be listening. He shivered. _What a disturbing idea_ , he thought.

"Well, Borak, don't you think he was a little rude?" Coragan asked.

Borak turned, met the bounty hunter's eyes, then shrugged. It was their fight. He did not want to get involved. He turned his gaze back to the stars. He had found long ago that the day to day problems of men were of little interest to him and rarely worthy of comment. If people just kept their hearts and tongues in line, he was certain they could get along. A good battle and a night sky; that's what life was about. That was the problem with both men; they didn't know what was really important. They ran into problems and then let them build, until all they could do was burst.

He glanced once as Coragan pushed back his chair and bowed his head in thought. Yes, it was his problem. He would have to deal with it.

Borak turned back to the window and sniffed the air. The wind had changed direction and carried the scent of pine from the north, its temperature dropping by the minute. He took a last glance at the sparkling sky, then shut the window on the growing cold.

### Chapter Twelve

Galladrin shivered, stepped out into the night, and wrapped his blue cloak about himself, hunkering down against the biting wind. Nodding farewell to the guard, the rogue made his way to the streets of Drisdak.

He walked alone in the darkness, his thoughts disturbed by his foul mood. He had finally said his piece to Coragan and of that he was rather proud. For much of his life, he had always kept his anger in. He was not comfortable expressing fury so openly. And when he did, he often felt embarrassed. This time, however, he felt certain he was in the right. Unfortunately, that did not ease his worry that perhaps he had said too much. In his anger, he may have been more insulting than he had wanted. Then again, Coragan had dished out his fair share of snide remarks. No, Coragan had needed the scolding. It would do him good. Galladrin just hoped the bounty hunter would not aggravate the matter further; the rogue was willing to put up with only so much.

_And if he does?_ Galladrin considered the thought a moment, tossing it about in his mind. Would he leave? Forget the fire and the money? No, that would be walking out, turning one's back on one's troubles to find the easy path, no matter what the sacrifice. He had done enough of that in his youth, he did not wish to continue now. Despite how Coragan laughed at him for calling himself a former thief, the title described exactly how he felt. He had reformed his ways ... for the most part. There was the occasional odd trifle here and there, but never anything important, just enough to get by in times of need. After all, what good was a conscience if it didn't fill your belly?

No, he would not leave. He thought Coragan a little too headstrong and authoritative at times, but he did, in fact, like the man. And Borak ... Galladrin smiled. Borak was a treasure: not a bundle of laughs to talk to, no, but he definitely had that manner of ... Borakness about him. He was the type of man who would see the Scythe-Bearer himself rise up before him and simply shrug his shoulders. 'Oh, it's time to die,' he'd say. 'All right. I'm ready.' Well, he wouldn't say it, but Galladrin felt certain that those would be the words in his mind. One had to be impressed by a man who could be so unfazed by the most tumultuous of events ... a man who could face the rending of the world as placidly as one would a soft summer's rain.

A hissing wind arose and Galladrin shivered and hunched further inside his cloak. The temperature was definitely dropping, and he did not wish to remain long in the night air's icy grip. He spied an alley to his left, a shortcut to the _Street of Songs_ and a warm fire with a mug of ale. He scurried toward it, his wary eyes scanning all around as he headed into shadows.

The narrow alley measured perhaps half his body length in breadth. Although a safe haven from the biting wind, it could shield its own troubles within. Galladrin felt for the hilt of his rapier as he headed down the path. The weapon's metal pommel, smooth to the touch, gave him great comfort with its familiar contours. In hands as skilled as his, the weapon provided ample ward against nearly any horror the city might divulge.

He moved with caution and the stealth of a thief, studying every shadow that blocked his way. It was slow going, but his reduced speed was better than a knife in the gut and still faster than the route around.

He had ample warning as a shadow moved from the wall ahead. The sound of metal being drawn echoed in the alley, but Galladrin remained at ease. He could see his opponent and his senses descried no others. The battle was all but won.

"What are you doing on my turf, buddy? Did Marco send you?" The figure advanced with blade drawn in full.

"I know no one named Marco," Galladrin replied. Despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself in a playful mood. "And I have yet to see a sign on this street marked with your name. Although, I did see a pile of rat droppings ... might that be—?"

"An outsider, eh?" the figure said, sneering. "Since you're new in town, I'll forget your sarcasm and let you live. However, I'll take your gold for the use of my alley."

"I've been in Drisdak for several weeks now, my hooded friend, and I have yet to heed the warning of a street thug like yourself. It's on account of your smell, you know—perhaps if you bathed more than once a year."

"That'll be enough from you," the figure said. "Eat steel."

The hooded man leaped forward, his short sword drawn back to strike. Galladrin stepped to the side, drawing his rapier as the man stabbed at empty air. With a quick and deliberate thrust Galladrin stepped in, spearing the man's sword hand like a buttered roasting meat. The man screamed in pain as his sword clattered to the ground, then swallowed loudly as the rapier slithered round to nestle lightly on his throat.

Galladrin smiled as he circled past the man, keeping him pinned to the wall with the point of his blade. He kept a wary eye on his surroundings as he backed away. Two paces from the _Street of Songs_ he finally spoke. "An interesting display, my hooded friend. Make sure you wrap that up, it'll heal better if it's not exposed to air ... oh, yeah, give Marco a warm clap on the back for me ...with the other hand of course. See you 'round." With a last parting smile, Galladrin turned and ducked into the well-used street.

There were no guards about, but enough people to discourage chase. He wiped his rapier clean with a spare rag as he walked down the street. He answered several overly curious stares with an all-too innocuous grin, then sheathed his blade. Strolling along and whistling, he did his best to look like a merry gentleman. Soon the people forgot the bloodied weapon, and went on their respective ways.

Galladrin relaxed in the flow of the crowd. The street, lined on either side by taverns teeming with patrons and possible mischief, smelled of smoke and stale ale. Where to go? What to do?

A nearby sign caught his eye. _The Maiden's Blush_ it read. _No, I don't think I'll be going there tonight_ , he thought. _Bad memories from that knife game_. He looked around for other inns to visit and his eyes were snared by a figure in white.

A woman stood before an inn, her face distorted in a peculiar frown. The finger of her right hand was drawn to lip and she seemed to chew on it in indecision. Several stares were passed her way by many of the men who walked by, but she scarcely seemed to notice. She stood alone and seemed oblivious to the surrounding crowd. _Well, now_ , Galladrin thought _, here's a damsel in need of a gentlemen_. He looked down at his shirt. The brilliant gold dragon embroidered on a field of blue and the sleeves decked up in sleek white frills gave him a truly noble air. _Thank you, Regecon_. He moved toward her through the loose packed throng.

As he drew near her, he frowned. _Perhaps not a noble lady after all, though I swear she has the face for one_. Her dress, as Galladrin had thought it was, proved to be little more than a light gown, almost a simple nightgown, but somewhat more concealing. Tattered in places and dirtied from use, it seemed scant protection from the cold night wind _. No matter, perhaps I shall be an inn girl's royal dream. Prince Galladrin, or perhaps Galladrin, Earl of Valmore_ ... He walked forward. The woman looked up as he approached.

"Greetings, my lady," Galladrin said. "It seems a might bit cold out to be dressed like that."

The woman looked down at her thin dress, her eyes widening. She shivered once ... twice, and then looked up at the noble rogue. "Yes it is, my ... lord?" Galladrin nodded at the title.

"Here you go, my lady," Galladrin said, unclasping his blue cloak. "Take this to keep you warm, and come, let us find further warmth inside." She accepted the proffered cloak with a thankful smile, but pulled away as the rogue moved to take her arm.

"You are very kind, noble sir, but I can not," she said.

"Why not?" Galladrin asked.

She motioned to her gown. "I fear I would not be very welcome, dressed as I am," she said.

It was a strange dress to be out in, Galladrin agreed, but the rogue had seen much worse, some even on nobles. He glanced toward the sign and mouthed the words in silence— _The Roaring Lion_. A picture hung beneath the sign portraying a lion sitting in a chair with paw on mug and maw opened wide in laughter. _How quaint_ , Galladrin thought. Neither teeming with wealth, nor crumbling in ruin, the tavern made a reasonable compromise between two extremes. He looked over it once more, then turned his attention back to the woman.

"Come, come," he said, "no one will notice and if they do ... they will have to deal with me." The rogue grinned as he brandished the sheathed rapier at his side.

She giggled flirtatiously. "No, really sir, I would not feel comfortable ... very out of place and unwelcome." The corner of her mouth twisted up in a smile. She apparently found her game amusing.

"Out of place? Unwelcome? But it will be by my word that you shall enter. Who is there to question that?"

"By your word, sir? Do you own the inn? Do you even work there? I think not. By what right would you invite me in?" she asked, raising both brows in question. She paused a moment, then shook her golden mane as she straightened in mock demand.

"By what right?" Galladrin asked, then frowned. "Wait just a moment." The rogue moved to the small tavern's door and motioned to a waiter serving drinks inside. The man nodded once in acknowledgment. He placed the last mug on his tray at a table of four men, then headed toward the rogue.

"Yes?" he said, as he reached the door.

"Well, good man, do you think you can act a noble's part?"

"Excuse me?"

"I wanted you to do me a favor," Galladrin said, patting the man's back. "Do you see that young woman over there? Yes, the one with the blue cloak wrapped about her. She's feeling kind of shy tonight and not very cooperative. I was wondering if you could help me put her at ease. I would like to bring her in, but she feels a little out of place. Can you help?"

The waiter looked at Galladrin, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, then raised his flattened palm as he smiled. Galladrin scowled, then fished out a silver griffon from his pouch and placed it in the man's hand.

"I'd be delighted, sir," the waiter said.

A motley crowd of rich and poor alike filled the dimly lit tavern. Galladrin studied the woman sitting across from him. She had a strong, beautiful face and striking blue eyes. Her blond hair wrapped about her shoulders in a brilliant golden mane and she had an air of ease about her, like a noblewoman in her palace. Despite all that, he found the woman ... strange.

He had never before made so much effort to get a woman at his table. She had resisted nearly his every move. Not even the greeting of the waiter had brought her inside. It had cost him three more silvers and the services of porter, cook, and stablehand to entice the woman within. She had finally acquiesced to the _Song of the Welcome Hero_ , embarrassed by all the fuss. Now, she sat at his table and barely spoke. He had ordered her a mug of ale but she did not seem inclined to drink. He studied her. She studied him. And there was only silence.

She brushed both hands through her silken mane and made another survey of the room. _That's the fourth time she's done that_ , Galladrin thought. _I wonder why_. "Are you looking for something?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm just taking in the sights," she said, flitting her glance back to the rogue. She seemed to stare at him for a moment, her blue eyes swirling with intense focus. Then, she shook her head causing ripples throughout her hair. "It was very kind of you to offer me your cloak. I am greatly in your debt."

"Oh, it was nothing. Keep it if you like." Although fond of his cloak, it seemed the gallant thing to do.

"That won't be necessary," she said, handing the cloak back to him across the table. "I'm fine now."

Galladrin felt relieved, but still persisted, "You might need it later on."

"I can find other ways to stay warm," she said, smiling.

Galladrin mused over that remark, wondering exactly what she had in mind. He returned the smile, then started as anger surged into her eyes. He followed her gaze and turned to look behind him, wondering what was the source of her ire.

He saw nothing except a portly man in merchant's garb sitting at the table across the way. Despite his weight, the man seemed well-kempt and some might even say handsome. His long red hair, tied in braids, hung back below his shoulders. His gaudy yellow hat sported a feather on one side. He wore a moustache, neatly trimmed with delicate curls that swirled up at the ends; this he stroked in obvious vanity while smiling at the small grooming mirror in his hand.

Galladrin returned his attention to his companion. She had settled down. Whatever it was, must have passed, though she still seemed a bit on edge.

"I would like to move to another table, please," she said with a sudden smile.

"If you wish," Galladrin said, standing.

"Yes," she said, and stood.

They made their way through the crowd toward a table in the corner. They were about halfway there when the woman stopped, and pulled gently on his arm.

Galladrin followed her eyes then wrinkled his nose in disgust. Four men sat at a table, entrenched in a game of cards. Dirty, loud, and drunk, the men seemed the lowest patrons of the inn. They sat at their table guzzling mug after mug of ale and howling in raucous laughter. One reached out to slap a barmaid's buttocks and laughed at her curse of dismay. They were true street vermin; Galladrin knew the type. No doubt the muscle for the local Guild of Thieves.

"Come now," Galladrin said, taking the young woman's arm again, "there is nothing for us over there."

She shook him off abruptly, then took a hesitant step forward. One of the men looked up at her approach and a smile crawled across an unkempt face.

"Well now, lads, what have we got here?" he said, motioning to his companions. The laughter died as they took in the woman's stark beauty. The woman simply smiled.

"Looks like a tavern wench in need of our attention," one man said, licking his lips.

Galladrin stepped forward and grabbed the woman's arm as he spoke, "Excuse us, gentlemen. We're just passing through. We have no wish to disturb you and will be on our way—"

"We'll let you know when you can leave," one of the larger men said, standing. He pushed aside a chair and strutted over to Galladrin; the rogue's hand eased toward his weapon.

_Lady, what are you getting me into_ , Galladrin thought, then he spoke, his voice edged like iron, "Return to your seat, sir. The Lady and I have plans ... You are not invited."

Galladrin felt a gentle restraining hand upon his breast, and the woman breathed consolation. "It's all right, sir. I'll be fine. Go along your way." She nudged him gently to the side and stepped delicately to the table, sitting quickly in a proffered chair.

_You have got to be kidding me!_ Galladrin thought in slack-jawed disbelief. He took two steps forward but found his way blocked by a behemoth of a man with hand on hilt.

Irritated and confused, Galladrin reacted with cat-like ferocity. His rapier flashed in a flurry of motion, drawing a crimson line across the man's hand and wrist. He circled his rapier once, then pointed it directly at the man's throat. "Sit down," Galladrin said in a voice of steel. Silence spread throughout the bar like a fire in dry plains.

The large man stared in surprise at the lithe man before him. Obviously more accustomed to a weaponless man's quick acquiescence, he seemed utterly dumbfounded by the armed and obviously skilled rogue. Slowly, he retreated cuddling his injured hand. To the shock of all present he obliged the rogue's request, and sat heavily in his chair. Galladrin moved forward.

"Lady, I don't know what your game is, but it isn't funny."

She looked up at him and said, "Your gesture was very noble ..." She motioned to the injured man in his chair, "But neither needed nor desired."

"Have you lost your mind?" Galladrin asked, staring at her in disbelief.

The filthy man beside her drew in, wrapping his arm about the woman and pawing her opposing breast. "You heard the lady," he said. "You are not welcome here." Then with deliberate incivility the beast of a man slid his tongue across her cheek. A flash of anger seemed to cross the woman's eyes, but she betrayed it with her words.

"I told you I'd find warmth tonight, sir. Now, please leave."

"Lady, I'm begging you—"

"Sir," she said, staring up at him with blue eyes like liquid pools. "Leave."

Galladrin felt a tingle staring in those sultry depths. Shaking his head, he turned and headed for the door. _Unbelievable_ , he thought, _completely unbelievable_. He took a final look back as he reached the tavern door. The room was still near quiet, so he could hear their words quite well.

"Does a delicious wench like you have a name?" the man said with a lick and a squeeze.

"Clarissa," she said, and smiled, a cold, icy smile.

Galladrin turned and headed into the night.

### Chapter Thirteen

Jacindra awoke, and trembled in the cold. She rubbed her fists in her eyes, stretched and yawned; the candles she had left burning on her desk had long since gone out, all but one. It guttered and flickered in a chill draft offering scant illumination in the gloom. However, her bedchamber still seemed suffused with a soft white light stronger than a lone candle could account for. It took a moment but she soon realized this was the product of a fine mist that seemed to have arisen. No doubt she had left the window open and the fog or mist had blown in from outside. The reflected light of Silgaren or Neerie, perhaps, must have been the source of the glow. If one of the moons shone on the fog in just the right way, it may very well produce that odd flickering glimmer.

_How could I have left the window open?_ she thought. Reaching forward, she grabbed the sheaf of papers lying on the desk in front of her and began leafing through them. She took a second look at a small list of students' names. They numbered only three, but they had been serious discipline problems ever since coming to the guild to study. She frowned thoughtfully. Expulsion seemed so extreme. Nevertheless, the guild must have order. She removed the page from her stack for further study, and placed the rest inside her desk.

Standing up, Jacindra bumped her knee. The desk shook and the last candle fell, guttered once, then went out. Save for the much too dim light of the fog, she found herself in almost total darkness. "Damn," she muttered.

Pushing back her chair, she made her way around the desk. She stumbled forward through the dark with her hands stretched out before her. It was difficult to see and, despite the light it shed, the mist did not help at all. It swirled about her in thick white eddies, doing more to obscure her vision than aid it.

Suddenly, pain shot up her leg and she nearly fell. Cursing, she reached down and carefully felt around for the object she had kicked. After groping for several moments, her hands finally came upon something hard and metal. Further study revealed a shaft of wood emanating from the object. She soon realized what it was: a chair—the ornate, decorative chair Ambrisia had given her on her last birthday. She had kicked the metal leg shod. Knowing what it was, she could now almost make out its form in the swirling fog. Apparently, it had fallen over at some point in the night, although exactly how and when remained a mystery.

She righted the chair and carefully proceeded on her way. A few steps more and she could see the window. It glowed a fuzzy white, an eerie mix of moonlight and fog. She paused in her tracks as a sudden, peculiar thought struck her. I'm on the second floor! How could the fog have gotten up here? She looked around, studying the swirling mist, watching it whirl in the dimness and suddenly seem to grow thin. No, it wasn't thinning, it was moving... toward her desk.

A chill spread down Jacindra's spine.

_That's impossible!_ Jacindra backed away from the fog, glanced toward the window, and stopped, suddenly very alarmed. The window was closed. The fog could not have entered her room from outside. _There must be some explanation!_ She closed the remaining distance between her and the window, then threw the shutters wide to look out. She nearly choked in disbelief.

Silgaren hung just past its zenith, suspended in the night sky like a great white pearl; Neerie drifted beneath, its cracked golden surface looking like a wound on the sky. All about them the stars of heaven shone, glittering bright. By the pale celestial light of the midnight sky she saw the streets of Drisdak, cold and silent beneath her. And she saw them clearly. There was no fog, no mist, just an icy, blood-chilling wind. Dread filled her, and she turned, ever so slowly, trembling in expectation of whatever horror she knew must now be with her.

The fog had changed. She could see it clearly now by the penetrating light of the sky and its own unearthly glow. It had moved, and condensed. It swirled around in rapid circles growing thicker before her eyes and transforming itself into a pillar of white, coalescing in front of her desk. She stood transfixed before it, barely able to breathe. Even as she watched, it continued to change. Two points of light sprung forth near the top of the pillar and hung suspended in the fog. They shone like eyes, dead and grey, yet somehow, beneath the surface, something pulsed with an inner, unholy light.

Slowly, the thing grew arms, a chest, a head to bear the eyes... A brief thought flitted through her mind. _Use your magic, send it from the room._ But by then it was too late.

"I believe the woman's name was Clarissa," the innkeeper said, as Coragan handed him the last gold dragon. A stout man, with a balding head and unkempt frizzled beard, he regarded the companions with a serious, inquisitive expression.

Galladrin had returned to their room in the wizard's keep just as Coragan began to drift off to sleep. He had rushed in and woken both he and Borak with urgent shaking. Coragan, still in a bad mood, had resisted the rogue's initial attempts to rouse him, but when he saw Borak getting dressed, finally relented and prepared to leave. They set out from the guild about midnight and half an hour later found themselves at this place, an inn named _The Raven's Roost_. The innkeeper looked tired and ready to close up for the night; all the other patrons had long since retired.

According to Galladrin, they were in the third inn the rogue had visited that evening. And it was only the second at which he had inquired of Arcalian. Surprisingly, the innkeeper had recognized the description Galladrin had given him and had nodded sagely at the mention of the guild. 'Figured he was a wizard,' the man had said, 'had the bearing and the look.' Upon hearing this, Galladrin had told the man to wait while he rushed back to retrieve his companions. Now all three of them stood before him, weighing the man's every word.

"She had a friend, too," the innkeeper said, as he wiped down the last table. "A smaller guy, but quick and cunning. I forget his name, though."

Galladrin was looking at Coragan, smiling, and obviously gloating over his success. Coragan frowned, unwilling to admit the futility of his own endeavors. Arcalian's papers were important, he knew it. If only he could piece it all together ... Suddenly, Galladrin started, a puzzled expression on his face.

"You said her name was Clarissa?" he asked.

"Yep. That's what I said. And she was a beauty. Not one you would forget very easily ... blond hair, blue eyes. Although I'd feel sorry for any chap that tried to play rough with her. She had this sword ... nasty looking thing, she moved like a cat and could give this look that would freeze your soul. I remember—one poor sod said something rude to her ... we had to carry him out."

Coragan noted the rogue's puzzled expression. "Does that mean anything to you, Galladrin?"

"Maybe. It could have been a woman I met earlier, but ... she didn't really act like that ... didn't have a sword either."

"A woman like that," the innkeeper said, carrying the last tray of empty ale mugs to the bar, "she don't need a sword."

"Well," Coragan said, "what can you tell us about her and her friends?"

The innkeeper sat down on a bar stool and motioned for the men to do the same. After everyone was comfortable, he began to talk, "Like I said, she and the small man ... Rufus that was his name, no ... Redegar? Oh, nevermind. It's no use. I don't remember. Anyway, the two of them met your wizard friend here and they had this long discussion, real private like. Of course, that just got me curious, the man being a wizard and all, so I sent over one of my waiters to do a little listening in, if you know what I mean."

"Yes," Coragan said, "I've done a little of that in my time. What did your man find out?'

"He was hirin' them," the innkeeper said, nodding his head for emphasis. "That he was. Paying them each eight hundred gold dragons! Eight hundred dragons! Can you believe that? Them wizards are so rich, they could buy the world!"

"I know," Coragan said, a little grimly. "What was he hiring them for?"

"He wanted them to go to this abandoned castle, see—"

"A castle? Which one?" Coragan's eyes lit up and he smiled once to Galladrin.

"Oh, it was some old one out in the woods somewhere ... has this really old-sounding name like Rah Mid Midda or something."

"Rahmin Muirdra?" Coragan asked.

"Yes, that's it ... Rahmid mird ... how did you say that?"

"Rahmin Muirdra," Coragan answered, then smiled broadly at Galladrin. They were even. Galladrin, for his part, looked unimpressed, and Coragan thought he heard the rogue mumble 'lucky guess' to no one in particular. Borak glanced over at the rogue in response, so Coragan knew he wasn't imagining the words.

"Do you know why Arcalian wanted them to go there?" Coragan asked.

"I'm not sure really, I think they were looking for something ... Something really important and valuable, no doubt, judging from their pay."

Suddenly, Coragan had an idea. "Might it have been a sceptre?" he asked, in an almost hopeful tone. It would be very satisfying to have a second card fall his way. Then he would be the one smiling smugly all the time, not Galladrin.

"I really don't know," the man replied. "The wizard found my man out and sent him away, but not before the woman threatened to run him through. After that, nobody else was willing to do anything but drop off drinks."

"Are you thinking of the Sceptre of Morgulan?" Galladrin asked. Surprisingly, he did not sound as skeptical as Coragan had expected.

"It is possible," Coragan replied.

"Perhaps," the rogue said. "Or maybe they were searching for more information on it. If the castle is extremely old, it may have a well-preserved library with documents from that time period."

"That's possible, too. Although, if research were involved, I think Arcalian would have had a more direct hand in matters." He turned back to the innkeeper. "The woman and man did go alone didn't they?"

The innkeeper responded, "As far as I know. They certainly didn't leave with your wizard friend."

"We should ask Regecon about this. He may have an idea or two," Coragan said.

"That would be prudent," Galladrin said flatly, and then offered the bounty hunter a weak smile.

Clarissa laughed and spun in a circle on the roof. She looked up at the night sky and licked the blood from around her lips. Spread out beneath her, the city of Drisdak seemed asleep in darkness.

_Four men!_ she thought. _And I didn't even have a sword!_

She sat down and drew a long breath. She had always been a warrior, so killing was nothing new. In fact, she was extremely skilled with a sword in combat. As a woman, she often met dubious looks from the men she encountered on the field of battle. Many a man considered a woman too weak to be a warrior, and human men had often come at her half-heartedly and often with a smile. That changed as soon as the battle began in earnest, however. She possessed a deadly grace, a remarkable agility, and an unflagging constitution which had worn many a man to the ground. However, she had once seen a man cleave another nearly in twain with but a single blow. It had been an impressive feat and it was one she longed to replicate herself. Unfortunately, nature had chosen otherwise. Although strong for her sex, she was not that strong. She doubted if any woman could be. She made up for the lesser strength in her own way, of course, but she still felt cheated by life for that one goal beyond her grasp. Born in a woman's body with far too little muscle to strike such a devastating blow, a part of her had always felt incomplete, lacking the ultimate gift of strength to realize her complete potential.

Until now.

She had snapped the large man's neck with casual ease. He had wanted to play rough, slamming her against the alley wall while his three friends looked on and laughed. Angered, she had decided almost instantly that she was going to kill them right then, right there. The first two fell before the others even stopped laughing. The third drew his sword ... and died. The last turned to flee, but she ran him down before he'd taken his fourth step. That last one she drained. She sank her teeth deep into his throat, punctured a major bloodline, and drank her fill of the much desired blood. Sated now, her all-consuming bloodlust eased at last, she suddenly felt ... different.

She lay on her back and looked up at the sky, chuckling. For the first time since her transformation, she felt happy. She was ... refreshed, renewed, even validated. Her potential as a warrior had been expanded beyond her wildest dreams. And for once, Lucian had suggested something that suited her—to hunt the wicked. She had been quite tormented before, caught between her warrior's code of honor and a vampire's lust to drink human blood. She had thought she would surely go mad from the conflict until Lucian had given her a way out. _Dark men deserve to die_ , she thought, smiling. _I have a purpose now. I can hunt and feed and rid the world of evil_. A noble quest, it struck the chord that harmonized her opposing halves. She was a vampire, there was no turning back from that. But the secret of survival was adaptation. She could change herself to fit the mold and in so doing change the mold to accept her ways.

She regained her feet and looked out across the darkened city. Only a few scattered lights shone from inns that were late in closing. An odd fit of noble grandiloquence seized her and she cried out, "Hear me now, oh Drisdak, City of the Sea of Sorrows. I have come to you as a servant, a humble tool for your noble hands. No longer will you walk in darkness and fear the minions of the night. For behold, I am here and I shall be your shield."

She laughed as a light came on below. Someone had been awakened by her voice. _No matter,_ she thought, then changed shaped and fled across the sky.

### Chapter Fourteen

"How did I let you talk me into this?" Coragan asked as he stuffed a blanket in the small space behind the saddle. He shook his head. "We really should wait for the mages to find whatever they can on the Sceptre of Morgulan before we leave. Otherwise, we are being sloppy ... very unthorough."

Galladrin patted his own mare on the neck. At the rogue's insistence, they had found a local horsetrader at first light and purchased three healthy riding horses for their journey to the castle. With the right suggestions, Coragan could be played as readily as a harp, and Galladrin was all too willing to thumb the appropriate strings. Apparently, the bounty hunter had taken some of the rogue's words to heart and felt very insecure about his relationship with the wizards. So much so, that it could be easily used to manipulate him. "Oh, posh, Coragan," the rogue said. "For someone who hates mages so much, you certainly don't mind running to them for information. Woof. Woof."

Coragan shot the rogue an angry glare, and Galladrin almost wished he hadn't reminded him of the puppy comment. He glanced away and looked at Borak for support, but the warrior just shrugged and, as usual, said nothing.

Coragan responded in a tight voice. "I've been hunting men a lot longer than you have, Galladrin. I think I'd know if we were being careless."

"You forget," Galladrin replied in a matter-of-fact tone, "I've done my own share of hunting."

"Jewels don't move. Men do."

"Actually, sometimes jewels do move. Anyway, it really doesn't matter, I have hunted men as well, or tracked them, rather. Besides, the cold season is getting underway and I'd like to get to the castle before the sun goes down." As Galladrin spoke, he shuffled through his saddle bag until he found a small roll of cloth. He gently unwrapped it and extracted the dying flower it protected. "That won't happen unless we leave within the hour. If you still insist on worrying ... don't, I spoke to Regecon, and the sorceress Ambrisia will take the time to research the sceptre. If she finds anything we must know, they can send a rider."

"What is that?" Coragan asked, pointing to the flower in the rogue's hand.

"It's a rose." Galladrin sniffed the delicate petals. "You know, these smell really nice."

Coragan secured the last of his packs on the roan stallion he was to ride, then passed a questioning glance toward the rogue. "What do you have a rose for?'

"I'm going to poke Arcalian's eyes out with it when we find him, the annoying little bastard," Galladrin replied. "Besides, don't you think it goes well with my shirt?"

Coragan watched as Galladrin threaded the flower through the fabric. "It might. If it weren't half-wilted already."

"Hey, despite what the mages think, it is not particularly easy to get a rose at this time of year, unless magic—that is, lots of gold—is involved."

"If you're stupid enough to wear a rose on your shirt, don't complain to me about being overcharged," Coragan said, flatly, then asked, "Is that the shirt Regecon gave you for dinner? Why are you still wearing that? I returned my clothes."

"If he wants it back, he can ask for it himself."

Coragan shook his head. "It could be worse, you could have draped yourself in garlic, I suppose, or painted Arcalian's paste on your forehead. Nothing cleans the air like roses and garlic."

Borak started and stared at Coragan. Roses and garlic ... A dark shadow flitted in the back of his mind, but eluded his grasp. There was something about those two plants. Something he had heard before, he was sure of it; but he couldn't quite piece it together. He shook his head and mounted the large stallion that he'd chosen to bear him on their journey, then paused, once more trying to recollect what nagged him about those particular plants. It was useless. His memory seemed empty, like an overturned goblet after a lousy meal. He watched the others as they secured the last of their supplies. Once ready, they, too, climbed onto their mounts.

They left the guild's stables with supplies sufficient to keep them alive a week in the wilds. Beyond that they had Coragan's crossbow and Borak's hunting skills to keep themselves provisioned. On horseback, they should reach the castle by nightfall, but they did not know the relative scarcity of game and other food near the castle, nor were they certain how long they would have to stay.

They set out, Coragan in the lead with Borak and Galladrin in his train. Both warrior and bounty hunter were skilled and able horsemen, but the rogue found himself relying on an animal he did not much care for to provide him with transportation. He was far more used to traveling in cities where he often walked or sometimes indulged in carriage rides. Because of that, it wasn't long before he felt the aches of an inexperienced horserider. He grumbled to himself, but rode on.

It was a clear, if somewhat cold, day and the companions made good time. When the sun reached halfway to zenith, they arrived at the Abbey of Drellenor, the last bastion of civilization before the Kirshtar Forest. A solitary structure, it loomed behind a high stone wall. A massive oaken door stood unguarded at the top of a rise, and try as they might, they could see no signs of life. The abbey, Galladrin knew, housed an order of monks dedicated to Drellenor the Healer. Although only one of the lesser gods of healing, Drellenor still commanded a great deal of respect in Drisdak. Galladrin had been surprised when he had found an entire temple dedicated to such a minor deity within the city walls. Here he saw their abbey, a place for retreat and quiet contemplation. Although he knew that if pressed, the monks could provide warmth and food for weary travelers, he also knew they frowned upon those who asked for such without true need. They preferred their solitude.

The companions turned away from the abbey path, following instead the old road to the north. They crested a final low ridge and looked down upon the forest, a gnarled, wild, woodland seemingly clothed in mist. The thick white eddies whirled and twisted across the ground, offering only brief glimpses of the forest floor. On their right, they saw the river, a furious serpent of turbulent water running clean with melted mountain snow. The noise of its torrents, crisp in the chill air, drowned out all but the most persistent forest sounds. Before them, the old road stretched out as far as they could see, overgrown with twisted vegetation and at parts seeming little more than the memory of a path.

"I wonder how long this road's been out of use?" Galladrin asked of no one in particular.

"If we had waited on the wizards, we would probably know," Coragan replied, tersely. He then added, "Major traffic probably ceased when the castle was abandoned, whenever that was. After that, it probably saw more use from the local goblins than it did humans ... and goblins are not ones to keep a road maintained."

"There are goblins in these woods?" Galladrin asked.

"Yes," Coragan answered. "Does that bother you?'

The rogue paused. His glance passed rapidly from the massive axe borne by Borak, to the sword at Coragan's side, and finally to his own rapier. "Not unless they can mount an army," he said.

"Those were pretty much my feelings as well," Coragan said. "I've seen you with that rapier, and Borak's axe just scares me. If you include the fact that we have horses ... we shouldn't have any problems."

They started down the road, the horses picking their way with care. After a while they adjusted to the new terrain, and picked up their pace. The road, for the most part, followed the river on its right. Despite being untended, it posed no serious problems. The view above opened to the sky while the view to the left was obscured by the forest's twisting trees.

At noon they stopped for lunch, and ate a quiet meal on the river's edge. Although not an overly difficult ride, it proved much more than Galladrin was accustomed to. _Give me alleyways and rooftops... this traveling through wilderness just is not my forte_. The rogue rubbed his thigh in vain, trying to restore the cramped circulation. He sighed, then lay on his back to watch the passing clouds. They were thick, white, and blustery, and stirred up vivid images of soft cotton. Soon Galladrin felt his eyes grow heavy and his thoughts drifted off in slumber.

A loud splash to his right roused him. Sitting up, he saw Coragan patting his horse's back as it lapped water from the river's edge.

"Have a nice nap?" the bounty hunter asked.

Galladrin stretched. "I would have preferred a little bit more time, but I suppose we should get going."

"Agreed," Coragan said. "Though I suspect your horse might appreciate it if you led him to the bank."

"Yeah, yeah," Galladrin said, nodding. He moved over to his horse. "Any signs of goblins?'

"No," Coragan replied. "Everything seems fine ... a little quiet, but nothing too unusual."

They traveled on in caution, but it ultimately proved unneeded. They encountered nothing, not so much as a swallow, until they found the castle. They approached the ominous structure with the sun still an hour from its bed.

An ancient fortress, long abandoned by men, its dark grey walls were cracked with age, and wreathed with long tendrils of groping ivy. Beyond the outer wall, four towers loomed, jutting up from the gloom enshrouded parapet like dark spikes upon a dismal crown. Wheeling and spinning about the towers, like a swarm of insects, a cloud of dark shapes whirled. They seemed small and distant, so much so that even the rogue's eyes could not make them out.

The stagnant moat circling the castle wall gave off a pungent cloud ripe with the scent of decay. Its still, green waters oozed with an abundance of primordial filth and slime. Across the width of the moat, the dilapidated shape of a long-forgotten drawbridge secured a precarious path to an ancient gate and portcullis. Like iron teeth in a mouth of stone, the portcullis dug deep in the ground, its hue discolored by centuries of rust.

"Well?" Galladrin asked.

"Let's take a look at the portcullis," Coragan said, edging his horse forward. "Maybe we can find a way to open it or get through."

"Hold up, Coragan," Galladrin said. "I wouldn't trust that drawbridge to these horses. It doesn't look very sturdy. Perhaps we should tie them to a tree out here."

"A castle this size probably has an old stable beyond the wall," Coragan pointed out. "I'm sure it would still be well-suited to our needs."

"We have an hour before sunset. We can come back for the horses once we've taken a look inside."

"True," Coragan agreed, then dismounted. He led his horse to a nearby tree and tied the reins to a sturdy branch. Galladrin and Borak followed.

The horses snorted and nervously stamped their feet as the sound of fluttering filled the air. Galladrin saw three black shapes descend and land in the branches of a large tree. He frowned as six beady eyes stared back at him. "Ravens are a bad sign," he said.

"Only if you're superstitious," Coragan replied. A black bird squawked above his head in disapproval. Apparently, it found Galladrin's words more to its liking.

"They're supposed to carry souls to Lubrochius," Galladrin added.

"Like I said ..." Coragan countered, "a fairy tale." The bounty hunter then turned and headed toward the drawbridge. He took three steps along its length, then cursed as his foot fell through.

"Are you all right?" Galladrin asked as he approached. "Did you twist anything?"

"No, I'll be fine." Coragan righted himself, delicately testing his footing. "Though I think you were right... we'll be leaving the horses out here for tonight."

They proceeded to the castle gate, picking their way carefully along the rotting bridge. Coragan's foot fell through one more time, but again he escaped unharmed. The others were more fortunate and crossed the bridge without mishap.

They found the portcullis rusted shut with no visible means to open it. Beyond its bars, they saw a vast courtyard sprawling in front of a large and foreboding central stone building.

"What do you think Borak?" Coragan asked. "Can you lift it?"

Borak just stared at the bounty hunter, his shocked eyes saying all the words. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"You could at least try," Coragan said.

Borak shrugged, then grabbed the metal bars and heaved. The bars squeaked and groaned in protest, but simply refused to budge. Coragan stepped up and motioned Galladrin to do the same. All three men shoved, straining to lift the heavy gate. Again, it groaned in protest. It struggled upward half an inch, but then crashed down with an ominous thud.

"Bloody Hell," Coragan swore, grabbing his hand.

"What?" Galladrin asked.

"I caught myself on the gate ... my palm's bleeding." The bounty hunter started wrapping a clean cloth about his injured hand. "Don't worry, it's not serious ... just a bit of bad luck."

Galladrin said nothing.

Coragan drew a deep breath and leaned back against the gate. "Well, how are we going to get in?"

"A castle this size might have a smaller secondary entrance." Galladrin kneeled down to wrestle with a pack he had carried from the horses. "Perhaps even two. However, finding them might take some time. I suggest you leave this to me." The rogue rummaged through his pack for a moment, then withdrew a coiled rope and a grappling hook. He secured the rope to the hook, then stared up at the wall. "Stupid bird," he said, and hurled the grapnel at a raven perched above.

The raven fluttered to the side, and the grapnel clattered past. The rogue gave the rope a quick tug. It slid a moment, then caught, holding firm. He tested it a second time, suspending all his weight. When satisfied, he began to climb, ascending with the practiced ease of a skilled thief. Moments later, he sat atop the catwalk, drawing the rope up behind him.

Searching his surroundings Galladrin spied a small door leading to what looked like a guard tower. He examined it, listened for sounds beyond, then kicked it open. It broke wide with a crash, leaving a trail of rotting wooden flakes.

Coragan called out from below. "What was that?'

Galladrin called back. "Just a door. Don't worry about it." The rogue ducked inside the tower, then took a quick survey of the room. Shortly, he found the winch, and set to work lifting the portcullis from the dirt.

"This body does not look that old," Coragan noted as he studied the corpse lying on the stones in front of him.

"How can you tell?" Galladrin asked. "It looks like a troll did a dance on his head. And the smell ... ghah!"

"Exactly, the smell. It's strong, but I've smelled worse. The death rot is just really setting in."

They had found the body in the courtyard, near one of the larger buildings. From the condition of the corpse, it seemed obvious that whoever it was had fallen from the tower high above.

"What's this?" Galladrin asked. He reached down and pulled forth a grisly object—a bloodied shaft of wood that had been lodged between two rib bones.

"Curses on my soul if I know," Coragan replied, taking the object from the rogue's hands and peering at it intensely. "Looks like a sharpened piece of wood, with the point broken off. Here, Borak, hold this."

The huge warrior took the wooden stake in his paw, glanced at it briefly, then returned his gaze to the ravens lining several of the windows up above. They stood silent and still with their heads bent down and their eyes glittering in the last rays of the setting sun. "They are watching us," he said.

Coragan started at the warrior's voice, then followed his gaze. "Not the cursed birds again! By the Scythe-Bearer's Sickle, you two would jump at a grasshopper if it looked at you funny."

"Hey, they carry souls to—" Galladrin began.

"To Lubrochius. I know, you told me," Coragan interrupted. He shook his head in exasperation then reached down to pick up a small satchel from the body. He unraveled the package and spread the contents out on the cold stones of the courtyard floor. He laughed when he saw them: three withered red roses wrapped in cloth; a clove of garlic; and a large number of shattered pieces of glass, perhaps the remains of a small mirror.

From beside the bounty hunter, Galladrin knelt down to take a look. "Why do I suspect this is the mysterious third man?" he said. "What was his name? Rufus or something?"

"Or Redegar," Coragan answered. "The innkeeper was never certain."

"I shall call him Rufus," Galladrin said. "Do you think we should give poor Rufus a burial?"

"Maybe in the morning," Coragan answered. "I'll just use his cloak to cover him up for now." The bounty hunter matched his actions to his words.

"How do you think he died?" Galladrin asked.

"That's a good question," Coragan said, looking up. "If it weren't for the stake, I would have said he'd fallen. But now—I don't know. Keep your eyes open. I sense trouble."

"Yeah," Galladrin agreed.

"Come," Coragan said. "Let's take a look inside. Maybe we can find a room with a fireplace to stay in for the night. It is bound to get cold."

"Should we take these along?" Galladrin asked, pointing toward the roses and garlic spread out before them.

"Why bother?"

"I don't know. Arcalian's paste was made from these, and now we find them on this man. They might prove important," Galladrin said.

"Go ahead and take them, if you wish."

Galladrin shrugged his shoulders, then gathered the plants in the satchel and tied the small bundle to his pack.

The door to the castle proper, made of an old cracked wood unrecognizable to any of the men, was reinforced with ancient steel. A bronze knocker resembling a lion head adorned the door at a height level with Galladrin's eyes. The rogue watched as Coragan twisted the age old handle and shoved the door open. It groaned and squealed, then swung wide.

A din of chattering squeaks arose and Coragan ducked. Five dark shapes darted through the air above his head, and sped off into the darkening sky. "Bats!" he said, "Keep your eyes open ... and don't even start with the superstitions!"

Galladrin closed his mouth and coughed to cover the words he was about to say. He turned and cast a mischievous smile to Borak, but the warrior was staring at the departing creatures. He had an odd expression on his face—a frown of deep perplexity.

"It's dark inside," Coragan said. "Do you have a torch?"

"Hey, I brought the rope and my own gear. Nobody said anything about a torch."

Borak shook himself back to the present, then retrieved a torch and tinderbox from his pack. He handed both to Coragan, who knelt and went to work. After several tries, the flame caught and Coragan lifted a burning brand above his head.

A long hallway stretched before them as far as they could see, its ancient architecture skillfully crafted and built wide enough for all three men to walk abreast. Despite that, both Galladrin and Borak indicated that the bounty hunter should lead. Ahead, a trail of footprints in the dust led down the corridor providing an obvious path to take.

"Tracks," Coragan said. "Should we follow?"

"They might take us to Arcalian," Galladrin said.

"Or to other answers," Coragan said. "Perhaps these were made by Clarissa and her companion when first they came here."

"If so," Galladrin began, "I am even more curious about how Rufus died. Let's follow them."

They proceeded forward, cautious; old doors cracked with age, and long abandoned passageways covered with dust, passed by on either side; occasionally they would stop and take a peek down one of these, but only for a moment before returning to the trail in front of them. They were intent on finding Arcalian and nothing about these side corridors bore any sign of the mage. The trail of footprints, however, showed at least that someone else had been here. It was a start.

They followed the trail for a while until at last the passage ended. A set of carved stone stairs wound in a long spiral to the upper floors. Galladrin met the bounty hunter's eyes as Coragan glanced at him in question. The rogue shrugged, and Coragan led them up the stairs.

It was about this time that they noticed the smell. An old stale odor, musty and charnel, that hung heavily in the air, clinging to their clothes, and telling a horrid tale of death and decay. Like dead flesh roasting in the sun, yet bound and contained within walls of stone, the odor spread out before them in all directions, growing stronger as they walked.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Galladrin said.

Coragan readily agreed. "This is as bad as Arcalian's paste!"

"Yeah, and you can't put a lid on this," Galladrin added, then coughed. Even Borak looked queasy.

They continued on for perhaps fifty paces, and then Galladrin noticed that, although the trail of footprints did not stop, they became very muddled around a particular door. "Hold up, Coragan," he said. "Let's check this out." The rogue grabbed the handle of the door, twisted it, but it wouldn't budge. He shoved it with his shoulder, but it still held fast. "It's locked," he said. "How inviting. Give me a moment."

"We could just keep going," Coragan suggested, but the rogue had already sat down and begun to rummage through his pack.

"No, no. Any door that's locked is just begging to be picked." The rogue stood with lock picks in hand. He bent down to study the handle intently for a moment, then he went to work. Within seconds, the door swung wide. Galladrin stood before the archway and bowed, sweeping his hand into the room in invitation for his friends.

Coragan smiled at the rogue's performance, then stepped through with torch in hand. The light of the torch seemed to grow in brilliance, magnifying itself nearly a hundred times. All three men squinted from the sudden glare. Lining each wall of the long chamber before them, dozens of mirrors shone in the light. A vast and garish collection, it spanned the length of the entire room. Galladrin made a quick estimate of twenty man-sized mirrors amongst an assortment of others of varying size. These large ones had been set up like sentinels, ten on either side. At the far end of the chamber, an open window revealed a lone star sparkling in the darkness beyond.

"Talk about vanity!" Coragan said. "Some noble must have been really impressed with himself."

"Not quite the treasure trove I was hoping for," Galladrin said. "And a dead end, as well." Turning, the rogue shut the door and the three men proceeded further down the hall.

Shortly thereafter, the passage ended.

### Chapter Fifteen

The three men entered a small, compact dining room roughly fifteen paces in length and half as wide. In the center of the room an old mahogany table stood, surrounded by five wooden chairs. Atop the table, on opposite ends, two web-covered candelabra were placed. An old stone fireplace filled the far wall nestled between two cracked wooden doors, and a large mirror hung on the side wall, capturing the reflections of the table, the fireplace, and one door on its surface. A large crack ran the length of the mirror, giving the image a bizarre, distorted view, like a picture of a world splitting at the seams.

Coragan stepped into the room, the torch blazing above his head.

"Shall we use this as a base of operations?" the bounty hunter asked. "We can break up the chairs for firewood, and the table too if needed. If we adjust the mirror, one man ought to be able to guard all three entrances with relative ease while the others sleep."

"Do you expect something nasty sneaking up on us?" Galladrin asked. He took a careful look around before stepping into the room. For the life of him, he could not shake the uncanny feeling that they were being watched.

"Someone or something killed that man, Rufus," Coragan replied. "Also, if Arcalian is wandering about and he is deliberately making himself scarce for the other wizards ... he might not take too kindly to our arrival."

"Ah, I see." The rogue approached the table, slid his fingers across the ancient wood, feeling the numerous pits and cracks. Reaching out, he gingerly touched a web-enshrouded candelabra, then recoiled as part of the webbing moved. A large grey spider crawled along the tenuous fibers toward the point where the rogue's fingers had touched, then stopped, blending into the web. The rogue shuddered; he hated spiders. He touched the web again and watched as the spider moved several more inches, then stopped a second time. He drew his rapier, squinting to make out the leggy creature. With blade leveled, he drew a deep breath then thrust. His aim was good, and the spider fell apart in halves; its many legs convulsed spasmodically within its web.

Coragan stepped up to take a look. "Are you bullying the local critters again? It seems a little unfair, a rapier against a spider."

"You'll thank me when you have a comfortable sleep," Galladrin replied, then began twirling his rapier in circles. The spider web clung to his blade, wadding up as it pulled the candelabra over. Soon the bulk of the web hung in a ball on the end of his weapon. He wiped the cottony mass on the leg of the table and then stepped on it for good measure. Reaching down, he wiped the last strands of webbing from the candelabra, and examined the glittering object in the light.

Coragan watched the rogue's actions the whole while, then spoke. "Comfortable? In here? You've got to be kidding."

"Hey, this is silver!" Galladrin exclaimed; he lifted the candelabra closer to the torch.

"Silver?" Coragan asked.

"Yeah. Quick, go wipe off the other one and check it," Galladrin said. "Be careful, though ... it might have another spider."

"They're just spiders—"

"Yes, but they are deadly spiders."

All three men looked to the source of the voice. A woman stood in one of the far doorways with her hand resting on the door frame. About her head, her hair swirled in a mass of golden locks.

Borak studied the woman, then took a cautious step forward. He sensed something odd about her. She seemed relaxed, yet tense ... like a predator prepared to strike.

"You!" Galladrin said in surprise, then started over toward her. "What are you doing here?"

Coragan laid a restraining hand on Galladrin's arm, then took a cautious step himself. The bounty hunter too, seemed to sense something amiss. "Who are you, woman? And what are you doing in this castle?"

"Her name's Clarissa," Galladrin said. "She's one of the ones we're looking for."

"That is strange," the woman said. "I don't remember giving you my name, sir ... especially since I do not recall yours."

"It is Galladrin, my lady."

"Well, Clarissa, you still haven't answered my second question," Coragan said. "What are you doing here?"

"I go wherever I wish. The castle halls are open to me," she said, then trailed off to a whisper, " ... unlike most." She took three more gliding steps forward into the room, then stopped at the table corner, just four paces from where the rogue and bounty hunter stood. Borak's breath quickened as he watched; there was definitely something odd in the way she walked ... something fluid, almost unearthly. He strolled casually around to the other side of the table, feigning disinterest. It was a calculated move. Now, he stood on her flank, capable of rushing her from the side if trouble started. Although she appeared to be unarmed, he knew this woman was a warrior. Unlike many men, he was not one to underestimate a woman in combat.

He caught his leg on something as he moved, and his hip protested with a stab of pain. He took a quick glance down. It was the stake of wood, the one Coragan had handed him in the courtyard. He had shoved it through his belt as they walked, and now it rubbed sharply into his flesh. He reached down and pulled it out, and found himself surprised as the woman darted her eyes his way. They seemed ... wary. He paused, uncertain. There was something about the stake that unsettled her. If only he knew what.

Galladrin frowned. It was the same woman, of that he was certain. Yet she seemed ... different. She had been odd before, but now she seemed tense, like a coiled viper priming itself for the kill. _I'm imagining things_ , he thought. _She's just a woman ... a warrior, yes, but nothing more._

"We are searching for a wizard named Arcalian," Coragan said. "We understand that he hired you to come here."

Galladrin took a gamble. "Yes, he wanted you to find the Sceptre of Morgulan, correct?"

The woman paused, her brows arching. She licked her lips in a strange, almost reptilian fashion that sent a chill down Galladrin's spine.

"You search for Arcalian, do you?" she asked. "Why?"

"We were hired to find him," Coragan interjected. "The guild he headed has noted his absence of several days. They request that he surrender himself to us so that we can escort him back."

The woman did not look impressed.

_Roses,_ Borak thought. There was something about roses ... and garlic. Roses, garlic, wooden stakes, ravens and bats. _Bats?_

In the far off distance, Borak heard a sound, a sound blunted by walls of stone yet still distinct as it echoed down empty corridors. Somewhere, outside, a wolf howled, like a nocturnal beast from some forgotten child's nightmare.

The legends of his youth flooded back to him and Borak felt his heart go numb. For the first time in his life he knew fear. No, not fear, but stark, raving terror. Ever so slowly, he turned his head and looked.

The mirror, although cracked, still held a reflection of the room; it showed the further half of the fireplace, the old wooden door, the corner of the table, and the webbed candelabra still sitting undisturbed. Galladrin and Coragan stood just to the right of the candelabra on the pane of glass. They stood and talked, but before them there was nothing. To the mirror, the woman was just empty air.

"By the Scythe-Bearer's Sickle," Borak gasped, surprising the other men. "The woman ... the woman has no _soul!"_ Galladrin turned shocked eyes to the warrior. He had been with Borak several years now and in that time he had seen the man single handedly attack half a pack of goblin wolfriders, two trolls, and a giant hyena. Not only had the man wrestled four other men into submission in a bar in Alderia, he had once succeeded in tackling an escaped gorilla in a crowded town fair. With all the chaos of an ever-changing world, there was one thing Galladrin had always been certain of—Borak simply did not know fear. Suddenly, that too had changed. The man who had marched on through fire, flood, and snow, the man who could laugh in the face of the Scythe-Bearer himself was ... trembling.

Stunned, Galladrin simply stared for a moment. Then he tried to register the strange scene. The warrior's finger pointed to the mirror on the wall. Observing it, Galladrin noted that the mirror harbored a mysteriously incomplete picture of the room beneath its surface. Galladrin started in surprise. He and Coragan were there, but Clarissa was not. Even as he turned to confront her, he saw the woman's gaze shift to the mighty warrior. Her eyes lit upon his finger, then followed it to the wall.

A bestial scowl erupted across Clarissa's features, and a hiss tore itself from between her lips. She snarled at the mirror, and her blood red lips parted to reveal a pair of sharp canine teeth.

Dumbfounded, Galladrin stared in astonishment and confusion over the transformation that had taken place. But even as he stood in complete bewilderment, his confusion quickly changed to horror; the woman cast an inhuman glare his way, then stepped forward _into_ the table. Her leg passed through the cracked wood as if it had no more substance than mist. She reached forward with her right hand, ignoring webs and spiders both, and grasped the candelabra. She drew the object back, then hurled it with incredible strength.

The candelabra struck sideways across the crack and the mirror erupted in a fountain of raining glass. Its sharp fragments scattered about the room; some pieces clinked lightly on the table wood while others scattered across the stony floor. Amidst the flying debris, Borak stood, shaking. He held the blunted wooden stake awkwardly in his hand, like a dagger carved from a living tree.

Clarissa leapt toward him with the ease of a jungle cat, landing but a single pace from the warrior. She smiled at him slowly, and Borak trembled. Suddenly, she snarled, peeling back her lips to reveal her deadly teeth.

Borak retreated, thrusting the wooden stake before him. She caught it with ease, yanked it from his grasp, then hurled it to the side, straight at Galladrin. Galladrin ducked and the shaft of wood whipped past his head. Regaining his feet in a heartbeat, the rogue tumbled forward. He rolled across the table top and landed nimbly behind the woman. He drew his rapier, then stopped, stunned, as a woman a quarter Borak's size wrestled the warrior to the ground like he was little more than a child.

"Get her off of me! Get her off of me!" Borak screamed, his voice rising in hysteria as he tried to shield his throat with his arm.

"Let him go, Clarissa," Galladrin said, then stabbed her in the shoulder. That is, he tried to. His rapier passed through as easily as if she was formed of mist.

Clarissa placed her knee across Borak's stomach and her left hand across his throat. The huge warrior struggled uselessly beneath her, wrapping one hand about her wrist and vainly trying to force it from his neck. His other hand stretched out behind him, desperately groping for a piece of broken glass. The woman turned her head; her golden locks fell down about her shoulder and her blue eyes ripped through Galladrin's soul. Snarling like a rabid wolf, she reached out and gave the rogue a violent push with her free hand.

Even with Borak's helplessness as warning, Galladrin was still surprised by the strength of the shove; it propelled him bodily across the room. He stumbled, rolled over a chair, and came to rest by the far door.

A click of a crossbow bolt being set echoed in the small room. "Woman." Coragan's tone was one of deadly warning. "I suggest you let him go." The bounty hunter's small crossbow, now loaded, pointed directly at the woman's breast. "I don't know what you are. But rest assured, I never miss."

Clarissa snarled, her fangs extended. Beneath her, Borak struggled for breath, his face going from red to an ugly purple. Galladrin lay on his back across the room. He shook his head, then started as he saw a man approach the doorway.

"Who the Hell are you!" he cried, leaping to his feet. His rapier whipped around to point at the man, faster than the eye could follow.

The man smiled as he stepped into the room, his short dark hair framing his pallid face. Galladrin felt his pulse quicken when he saw the pointed teeth. "My name is Lucian ..." the strange man said, "and I've come to claim you."

Coragan whirled to face the new foe, his crossbow waving back and forth between woman and man. Borak's fingers closed over the shard of broken glass.

"Galladrin, kill the bastard," Coragan said. "I'll take the wom—"

The man moved, fast. Faster than even Galladrin was prepared for. The strength of Clarissa had knocked the rogue clear across the room, but hers was the strength of a summer breeze and the newcomer's that of a hurricane. With but a single hand, the strange man hurled Galladrin through the air as a child might throw a rock. The rogue launched backward, his legs slamming into the back of the table making him spin like a wheel; he crashed back first onto the top of the table, and rolled in a heap off the other side onto a chair. The ancient wood cracked, then gave way with a loud crash.

"Shoot him ... in the heart!" Borak gasped from the floor.

Coragan took aim and fired at the man's chest, but to no avail. The man's hands flashed before him with impossible speed and the crossbow bolt skittered against the nearby wall. Coragan's eyes widened with shocked disbelief.

Suddenly, Clarissa screamed, then recoiled, a hissing cauldron of fury. Borak stumbled to his feet, holding the mirror shard before him. The woman retreated, snarling.

From the floor, Galladrin groaned.

"Get up," Borak said, coughing. "We are leaving. Now!"

Galladrin staggered to his feet, his shirt soaked in blood. He stumbled, dropping heavily on one knee. The man called Lucian walked toward him, ignoring the table as if it were nothing more than smoke. Galladrin stood up, panic in his eyes, and he scrambled toward the doorway. Near the exit, Coragan reloaded his crossbow.

"Give greeting to the Scythe-Bearer for me," Coragan said and fired from only ten feet away. The man turned, and the bolt whizzed past to shatter against the far wall.

"The Scythe-Bearer cannot touch me," the man called Lucian said, then proceeded forward, grinning. "He has lain his sickle at my feet."

Borak backed slowly to the door, the shard of mirror held out before him. The woman hesitated, but followed, a sword's reach from striking distance.

"Time to leave, Coragan," Borak said. He reached out and grabbed the bounty hunter from behind with his free hand and catapulted him toward the doorway. "Galladrin, get your roses ready."

"Roses?" the rogue asked, perplexed. He fumbled at the flower in his shirt.

Coragan gathered himself in the doorway, then set another quarrel in his weapon.

"Roses?" the man called Lucian asked, stepping forward. Borak turned to face him, holding his mirror out as he backed closer to the door. Lucian's hand was a blur of motion striking the warrior's arm. There was an audible sickly snap and Borak screamed. The mirror shard careened against the wall, then exploded into dust.

Borak stumbled through the doorway, cuddling his injured arm. He collapsed in a heap. Coragan took aim and fired, but again failed to find his mark.

"Put the rose on the floor," Borak gasped. "Now!"

Galladrin opened his hand, and the flower floated gently to the stones.

The man lunged toward the doorway, but came up short as the companions fell back. He stood, palms braced on either side, just two paces from Galladrin. He peeled back his lips and snarled, canine teeth jutting forth from behind the blood red folds of skin. The rose Galladrin had dropped lay on the floor in front of him, somehow barring his path.

Pale-faced, Borak stumbled to his feet. A quick glance told Galladrin the warrior's wound was serious, far more so than the simple scratches on his own chest. Borak's arm hung at an awkward angle and a streak of white marked where bone had broken skin.

Lucian turned to Borak and spoke through gritted teeth. "You seem exceptionally clever for a brute who wields an axe." Galladrin noted the struggle in the man's voice and face. He was in pain, exerting himself. As for Borak... he simply backed away in silence. Coragan scowled, pulled out another crossbow quarrel and began to load his weapon. "Haven't we seen enough of that ... Coragan," the man said. "You seem slow in admitting your impotence."

"I'm going to send you straight to Lubrochius," Coragan said, fitting the bolt in place. "It will be an appropriate place for one the likes of you."

"I would do so soon ..." Lucian replied. "Your time is running short." The strange man motioned to the ground before him. The rose on the floor started to smoke and burn, sending a thin tendril of grey spiraling in lazy circles toward the ceiling.

Coragan glanced at the rose, then locked stares with the man. He lifted his crossbow, leveled it at the stranger's breast, and said, "To Hell with you—"

"Coragan," Lucian said, "shoot Galladrin."

Galladrin jumped as the crossbow swiveled his way. He slapped it from the bounty hunter's hand, and the bolt discharged, shattering against the hard stone wall.

"Coragan, what ...?" the rogue asked.

Coragan shook his head in confusion. His eyes glazed over once, then returned to normal. He drew his hand to his head and slowly began to speak. "I'm all right ... I think."

"Clarissa," Lucian said, glancing back, "take the passage through the kitchen. Cut them off." The woman disappeared in the room behind.

Galladrin's eyes met Coragan's. "Let's get out of here," he said, and the bounty hunter nodded in agreement. Coragan retrieved his crossbow from the floor, then they turned, and fled back the way they had come.

Morcallenon set the jar down and rubbed his eyes. He had been poring over books for the past eight hours, trying to decipher the mysterious sigils. He was making little progress and was growing frustrated.

Part of him blamed Regecon; despite the guild master's promise of patience, he felt rushed. He had spent the previous day going over the black time problem and had become convinced that it was the product of some creature, not the result of a spell or natural phenomenon. If he'd had a few more days, he could have run the experiments to prove it. Unfortunately, he had to move on and leave the last of the work to Porthion, and though talented, Porthion was neither as fast nor as thorough as a man of his experience.

He found the dish before him amazing. He sat staring at the jar, as baffled by the symbols now as when first he viewed them. After looking in almost every text he owned, he still had found nothing. The closest lead was some sigils used by the Healers of Drason, the ancient forerunners of the priests of Drellenor. There had been a hint of similarity in the design, but it had been weak. Follow-up research showed too many incongruencies for it to be a product of the Drason art of bloodcraft. At best, it may have sprung from a sister discipline two or three times removed.

With a sigh, he took one of the few remaining books he had yet to search. He scanned the title, then gingerly placed the volume on the table before him. He had spent a fortune to acquire the book and still he was loathe to touch it. He had even set up wards to nullify whatever energies it might have collected through its many years of existence. Black Magic. The forbidden arts. The text he owned, though short, and not very detailed, usually proved sufficient for a diviner's needs. In any one else's possession, the book would have brought the death sentence. Reaching out, he touched the smooth black cover, then shuddered. No, there was no reason to look in there. He picked it up and lifted the text toward the shelf.

A knock on the door behind startled him and he jumped to his feet. The book dropped from his shaken fingers and flapped open on his desk.

Morcallenon turned to face the door. "Come in."

The door opened, slowly, revealing a robed figure in the archway. Motioning for the individual to enter, he opened his mouth slightly in surprise when Jacindra stepped in.

She greeted him somewhat stiffly, and he nodded his head in acknowledgement, then offered her a chair. She stood still, fidgeting a moment, but made no effort to sit. She seemed pale-faced and nervous, which he found quite odd. He had always thought Jacindra a level-headed woman ever since the day he met her.

"What is it, Jacindra?" he asked.

"I was wondering ..." She trailed off, her lips pressing together, and a faraway look coming into her eyes.

"Yes?'

She finally said, "Have you made much progress on the black time problem?"

"A little," he answered. "Unfortunately, I am pressed for time and must move on to other matters. From what I did learn, I believe it was generated by a creature of some sort. However, which type exactly has yet to be determined."

"Really," she said, paling visibly.

"Yes. It had the markings of a preternatural aura." Suddenly, he paused. "Is something bothering you? You seem a little shaken," Morcallenon asked, concerned.

She smiled weakly, then said, "No. Nothing at all." She walked slowly over to the window, opened it and looked out at the night sky. She shivered. "I'm just curious ... What ... type of creature ... could generate such a thing?"

"Oh, there are several," Morcallenon replied. "Most demons do, some dragons as well. Very powerful undead do, too." The sorceress trembled and Morcallenon again grew troubled. "Don't worry. Not every creature that generates black time is that strong or even evil for that matter. Consider a winged unicorn for example. They are one of the most benevolent creatures in existence. And we shouldn't forget the pixies, the mischievous leprechauns, and others of similar nature. Really, Jacindra, what is wrong? I'm sure whatever it is, we can handle it."

"There is nothing wrong," she said, wringing her hands. She seemed intent on scrubbing her wrists raw, when suddenly she straightened. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Morcallenon. I will be going." She walked quickly toward the exit, hesitated, then went out. The door closed quietly behind her.

_What strange behavior,_ Morcallenon thought. He turned back to his work; the book of the black arts lay open on his desk. He sighed. Black time ... demons, undead. _Perhaps I should look this through_.

A half hour later, his heart was thudding in his chest.

The three men round the corner up ahead, moving with considerable haste and speed, hoping for escape. They will not make it.

On the ground before me, I see the rose. It is burning. Weakened by age, it is succumbing quickly to my powers. It will take but a moment more ... there. It is done.

A smile spreads across my features. Only ashes remain where once the flower blocked my path. White ashes. They are spread across the door stones like ... A fleeting image springs before my mind. Reaching out with my thoughts, I grasp it and pull it to me. Although long ago, I remember; indeed, I will never forget the Ritual ...

I stood before an archway much like this. All about the path ashes had been spread. I remember walking forward through them, through the Arch of Necrosia, into the Chamber of Damnation. It is so strange, how I often have no memory of such distant times, but this I remember clearly. It seems no more remote than yesterday, certainly not the thousand years of truth. Yes, I remember. There were bones in those ashes. Small bones. Children's bones. Six young boys and girls slaughtered for me, for the rite; their skeletal remains crunched beneath my feet as I walked. That was the last time anything ever marked my passage with such noise.

I remember the hunger. Seven days and six nights I spent, swearing off both food and drink. My desire for nourishment had grown so strong, I thought nothing could ever surpass it. Looking back, I realize that that hunger was but a paltry shadow, a dim omen of the hunger with which I must now contend every day of my existence. I remember the ritual bath, soaking for hours in a tub full of oils while slaves knitted robes of black.

I remember Zarina. I had loved her once, adored her even. Sometimes I still do ... until I contemplate her treachery. At that time, however, she was my goddess. Alas, she could never be mine; she was a queen and I but a humble servant. The altar, that was her place in the forbidden rite, that was where she waited. I remember her hair, black as death throughout her life, framing her face like a shadowy cowl. She watched me as I approached. Her serpent green eyes seared into my heart. They marked me. Changed me. Consumed my soul. She carried the obsidian chalice in her hand, the one filled with the infants' blood. She placed it on the altar as I stepped up, then she gave me the great black knife while the others, the six men and six women, my first victims, were led out in chains to kneel before me ... like cattle being brought out to slaughter.

Zarina began to chant and the priests of the Black Circle joined her, lighting the incense. The smell ... yes, I remember that too: strong and pungent, it hung in the air and clung to my clothes. It was with the incense that I started to change. Zarina felt it too. She dipped the small metal sprinkler in the chalice, then cast blood upon my brow. It fell like rain. Red and sweet. I remember the taste as the first drop trickled past my lips, so sweet, so glorious, filled with so much life and power. I took the knife, then, and relieved my mortal victims of their useless lives. Their blood I collected in the chalice of Death, letting it fill the obsidian cup to the brim. As the incense flared anew, I brought the vessel to my lips and drank, pouring the blood of eighteen mortals down my throat to fill my stomach, to fill my soul. On the altar beside me, a devoted priest slew a single wolf and bat, while above, black clouds grew in the heavens until all was consumed in darkness.

Zarina spoke. The final words were uttered. I scrawled the Oath in ashes and my transformation was complete. I became what I am, and what I am, I shall always be.

Lucian val Drasmyr, Lord of Death and Darkness, Guardian of Morgulan's prize.

"She's up ahead of us!" Galladrin cried. "We're cut off!" He was truly alarmed now. Borak did not look at all well and Coragan still seemed half in a daze, as if his mind were fogged. Up ahead he could see the stairs leading to the lower floor and freedom. Unfortunately, between the small party and the staircase the woman stood. She had arrived moments before, bursting forth from a side passage, and now glided towards them on ethereal feet.

Galladrin fumbled for another rose. He had only three left, but the need was dire. He knelt and started to place the flower on the floor.

Borak shook his head, then gasped in pain. "No," the huge warrior said. "Not here. It has to be a boundary, a crossing-over of some kind, like a doorway, or a coffin cover."

"Huh?" Galladrin asked, looking up.

"It won't work, we're doomed."

Borak looked weary and ... beaten, something Galladrin had never dreamed he'd ever see. Beside the warrior, Coragan stood hunched over massaging his temples—he did not look ready for another confrontation either. Turning, Galladrin could see the woman steadily advancing forward, only thirty paces from them. Twenty paces ... fifteen ... Suddenly, Galladrin had an idea.

"Come," he said. "This way. We just passed what we need."

He ushered the other men back the way they had just come. One door. Two doors. Yes, there it was. The third door stood open just a crack. He could see the muddled array of footprints in the dust around it. He shoved Coragan through, and the light of the torch roared back, amplified a hundred times. Borak's eyes lit up in hope, and he stumbled forward into the room.

Galladrin turned to sight the woman, then stumbled back to avoid her grasp. His back slammed against the door frame and she lunged toward him. Cold fingers, hard as steel wrapped about his throat and others entwined themselves in his cloak. Blue eyes stared into his and a warm, inviting smile rolled across the woman's features. He felt a tingle in his face, a gentle warmth within his breast. The woman's lips peeled back and she leaned forward fangs extended.

Galladrin twisted in her grasp. He stumbled through the doorway and landed heavily on the floor. He tried to crawl, hands and knees scraping along the stone, but something held him back. Turning, he looked. The woman stood in the archway with one hand wrapped about the end of his blue cloak. She stepped forward, pulling him toward her by the length of cloth.

Suddenly, he went limp, whether from fear or compulsion he did not know. Strong, yet gentle hands supported him. He flailed weakly, but to no avail. The woman's hand traced a line across his cheek. Her touch felt cold, yet soft ... and inviting. She cupped his chin and turned his head, staring into his eyes with liquid pools. She licked her lips. Somewhere inside of him, some part understood, and it writhed, screaming. She smiled. "I am sorry, you were a noble man. I do not want to kill you, but the master says I must ... And you did trespass in his lair." He felt a cold tongue slide across his chest, lapping up the dripping blood. "You were very kind when I met you ... perhaps, Lucian will let me keep a pet." Again, the tongue darted out, this time to caress his neck. Hot fetid breath splashed across his throat and he felt hopelessness dragging him down. His strength and will were gone.

"Clarissa, over here!" It was Coragan's voice, but Galladrin did not care. The Scythe-Bearer's Sickle was coming, borne on a woman's canine teeth.

Clarissa looked up. "Wait your turn, I'll take you—" she stopped, suddenly, and screamed. An inhuman howl, filled with rage and hate rattled Galladrin's ears and seemed to shake the very stones of the castle.

_The mirrors,_ Galladrin thought. _Coragan must have used a mirror._

The rogue dropped to the floor and the woman retreated, clawing her eyes as if to rid them of some infernal vision. She backed through the door and out, disappearing from sight.

Galladrin sighed in relief. She was gone. The Scythe-Bearer could wait. He struggled to his feet, then slammed hard against the floor. Again, he tried to crawl, his hands scraping uselessly on the floor. He flailed about desperately seeking purchase, yet he was being inexorably dragged backwards through the door. He choked as the cloak caught tight against his throat, then turned and braced each foot on either wall.

He could see her, just beyond the arch. She gripped the end of his blue cloak in both her hands and pulled on it, dragging him toward a grisly demise.

Gasping for breath, he pulled out his dagger. "You ... want it ... so much? ..." he said. "Keep it!" He drew his blade across the fabric and the cloth gave way with a loud tear. The woman disappeared into the shadows.

Galladrin stood, regained his breath, and pulled out a rose. He slid it toward the doorway, then headed over to his friends.

### Chapter Sixteen

"Now what?" Galladrin asked. He wrapped another piece of cloth around Borak's arm. It was a crummy job, but it would have to do.

"I think we're going to die," Coragan replied, his voice a somber echo of their thoughts.

"If only we were that fortunate," Borak said, even more grimly. The rogue glanced at him. The warrior's face was a sullen mask of misery.

"You know, Borak. You've talked more tonight than you have since I first met you," Galladrin said.

Borak shrugged. Apparently, his tongue had sought rest at last. Galladrin looked around at the surrounding mirrors, which, for the time being, seemed to be keeping the creatures away. To his right a lone window stood open to the sky. "We could try to climb down," he suggested.

"Then they could find us again," Borak said.

"Well, what should we do?" the rogue asked. The warrior was talking again. He wanted to see how long he would go.

"Wait 'til sunrise," Borak said. "Then leave."

"No," Coragan said. "I may be going to die, but I will not die a coward. Coragan of Esperia never runs. Regroup, regather, yes. Run, no. I say we grab a couple of these portable mirrors. I'll get my crossbow reloaded, you keep those roses handy, and we hunt the bastards down."

"Your tenacity is commendable, Coragan." All three men jumped. Lucian stood in the doorway, just a pace from the rose. "But it is not you who will do the hunting tonight, my friend."

"I'm not your friend, and I was _born_ to be a hunter—tonight I'm hunting you." Coragan pulled another bolt out, set it in place, and walked to within three paces of the man. He fired.

The man exploded in a cloud of mist billowing in the hall.

"Hah, that wasn't so tough. Where's the other one?"

Slowly, the mist began to writhe. It swirled and swirled, growing smaller and thinner, coalescing into a sinister shape. Two grey lights sprung forth, very much like eyes. Coragan backed away.

The figure shifted and twisted. It formed a body and head, then sprouted appendages. After several moments, Lucian stood in the doorway just as before. "As you can see," he said, "you are powerless against me."

"Yeah, well, you aren't doing so great yourself." Galladrin motioned to the surrounding walls. "Why don't you come in? Have a look around? I'm sure you'll like what you see."

The man smiled and stared hard at Galladrin, "I would rather that you come out."

Galladrin jerked as if struck by a blow. He shook his head, then started walking to the door murmuring senselessly to himself.

Almost immediately, the bounty hunter and warrior responded. Coragan tackled the rogue at the knees and Borak grabbed him by his shoulder. They wrestled Galladrin to the ground and pulled him toward the window.

The man at the door snarled, and then suddenly relaxed.

Galladrin jerked up, shaking his head, "What the Hell was that?"

"Some type of mind control, I suspect," Coragan said, breathing hard.

Galladrin stood, then stumbled, landing heavily on his rear. "Perhaps I'll just take a seat," he said.

"Don't worry, he did the same thing to me. It will pass after a few minutes."

"I must say," the man said, "you are rather strong of will. Almost a challenge, in fact. I actually have to concentrate to keep it on you."

"Well, Lucian ... that is your name, correct?" Coragan said, then continued as the man nodded. "We seem to have a stalemate. We cannot harm you, nor can you us."

"A stalemate? What a novel interpretation. Well, I daresay since I neither have to eat nor sleep, I suspect it will be a more comfortable stalemate on my part."

"You forget the sun," Borak said, stepping forward. "We shall be gone at first light."

"Thus the wise one speaks! But this time he has erred. Did you really think that I would forget such an obvious obstacle? At this very moment, the storm clouds are gathering ... I'm afraid winter is coming early to the forest this year. You will be trapped."

Galladrin whipped his head around to look out the window, then swore. Dark clouds were roiling in the night sky, rapidly growing and consuming stars. "We have to get out of here," he said. "We are running out of time."

Lucian chuckled. "You most certainly are." There was a squeak at his feet and a small dark shape scurried into the chamber. "A stalemate is a precarious thing, for even the most subtle change of balance can shift the tide." The rat stopped in the archway. It sniffed the air once then headed toward the rose. Clamping its teeth down on the stem, the rodent proceeded to drag the flower from Lucian's path.

"Let's get out of here!" Galladrin said.

Coragan reached for another quarrel, then stopped. He grimaced, as if the words he spoke tasted bitter in his mouth. "Perhaps you're right." For a long moment, the bounty hunter, his face covered with a frown, stood staring at the strange man.

Lucian stepped forward. His face twisted in pain and the first row of mirrors shattered, exploding into dust.

Coragan tore his eyes from Lucian as the man continued to advance. "Yeah, let's leave while we still can."

The second row of mirrors shattered. Galladrin knelt down to rummage through his pack again, looking for his rope. He managed a quick glance toward Lucian. The man had paused. Whatever he was doing was taking quite an effort: apparently, he needed to catch his breath.

Galladrin hooked the grapnel on the edge of the window sill and threw the coils out into the darkness. They spun through the night and made a soft thump when they hit the courtyard stones.

Coragan grabbed the rope. "Think you can handle the rear? We'll want to keep Borak in the middle with his arm and all."

"Sure," Galladrin replied. Another row of mirrors shattered. _Quick breather,_ he thought.

The bounty hunter backed out and disappeared over the edge. The rope went taut. Several moments later, he called up, signaling for Borak to proceed.

Borak grabbed the rope with his good hand, glanced back once at the approaching man, then turned his eyes toward Galladrin, weariness clearly marking his pale face.

"Are you sure you can make it?" Galladrin asked.

There was a resounding crash ... more mirrors.

"I don't have much choice, do I?"

"Hurry, then," Galladrin said, trying to remain calm.

Ever so slowly Borak eased over the edge gripping the rope with his functioning hand. He winced once, when his bandaged arm brushed the sill, but soon regained his composure. He nodded a final time to Galladrin, then, with muscles rippling, began his slow descent. Another row of mirrors shattered, then all was still.

"Galladrin," Lucian intoned, "come to me."

Galladrin froze, gripping the window sill. He could feel the evil touch, like fingers raking across his mind. It was cold, so cold ... and compelling. He turned around, then stopped, quivering from the effort. The man stared at him, will bent on dragging him forward. The rogue took another step.

_Don't look at him,_ he thought, and closed his eyes. Another step _. Fight it! Damn it, fight it!_ He stopped, then forced himself around. The fingers tore into his mind and forced a cry of sheer agony from his lips. "No!" he screamed. "By the glory of the gods and everything sacred, no!"

He stumbled to the rope, every step a struggle.

"Come to me, Galladrin!" The command threatened to overwhelm him, to take up his soul and scour it away.

The rogue grabbed a small mirror and threw it at the man. Lucian recoiled and smashed it with his fist. The fingers loosened, then disappeared.

Galladrin pulled out another rose. After this, he had only one more. He went to place it on the sill, then hesitated.

"Come on, Galladrin," Coragan called from below. "Hurry!"

He stole his gaze about the room until he spied the rat. It was still there, scuttling about in the corner. The mirrors started exploding again, and he knew Lucian was getting nearer. Galladrin tore a strip of cloth off his ruined shirt and looped it about the rose. A moment later, he secured the other end to a cracked rock near the window's apex. The rose hung, suspended. It whipped back and forth in the growing breeze, but, hopefully, it would hold. He crawled out onto the sill, careful to avoid knocking the flower from its station. Then, he dropped his knees over the side and started down.

Looking beneath him, Galladrin spied Coragan and his heart leaped into his throat. The bounty hunter had frozen, staring to Galladrin's right, his mouth trying to voice a silent scream. The rogue looked. And there she was.

They were face to face, separated by barely half a foot. Clarissa's hands gripped the castle stones like bestial claws, and she hung to his right like a giant insect. She had been crawling, face first, along the castle wall in hopes of coming on him unawares. She had succeeded. "Greetings, Galladrin," she said, her face twisting into a diabolical grin. "Time to die." She loosened one hand free and reached for his throat. In response, Galladrin let his hands go limp and the thick hemp rope slid between his fingers.

The rogue dropped like a stone, plummeting toward the ground nearly thirty feet beneath him. Halfway there he closed his fist, and winced. The rope tore into his hand like a saw into wood. He slowed, and stopped, landing gently on the ground, but his hand was covered in blood. He ignored it. "To the horses," he said, then broke into a run.

Regecon opened the door to Ambrisia's parlor and entered. Inside, he recognized Korina, the gifted young earth sorceress in training, seated on the sofa on his right, diligently writing something on a piece of parchment she had lain on a small table in front of her. Ambrisia stood nearby, reciting a list of instructions. They both looked up.

Regecon turned to Ambrisia. "You wished to speak with me, Earth Mistress? I can spare about an hour. I hope that is enough."

"It should be," Ambrisia said.

Korina leaned over and pushed the cork back in the ink vial; using a small cloth, she wiped the last bit of ink off the quill, then placed both objects on a nearby bookshelf. She stretched.

"Korina, you can join us," Ambrisia said. "Guild Master, let's take a walk."

"As you wish," Regecon said, then held the door open. "Where would you like to go?"

"The gardens. It is quiet and secluded there." The Earth Mistress and her young student moved to pass through the open door.

Regecon followed, and they started down through the corridors. At this time of night, the halls held little in the way of traffic save the occasional odd watchman. They headed to the southern tower, then wound their way up to its topmost floor. Here the guild's garden grew, filled with plants exotic and rare. It was set up in three tiers. The topmost level bore the only entrance and the bottom floor, the only exit. An inner stairwell ran between, connecting all three sections in a wondrous, convoluted trail leading from top to bottom.

"What did you find out, Ambrisia?" Regecon asked. As he opened the door, a dazzling display of splashing colors greeted them.

"Much. And none of it good," she said, stepping into the room.

Regecon followed. "Indeed."

Beside them, Korina paused a moment to sniff an exotic yellow flower—one formed in the shape of a cup and laced with fiery red stripes. "Guild Master, Mistress," she began, "are you sure you want me here? I could leave." She sounded almost anxious to be about her own business.

"No," Regecon said. "Stay." It would not look good if he and Ambrisia were left alone to walk through the gardens. Many knew of their close friendship, yet propriety demanded that they keep some distance. Sharing a night cap was one thing; a romantic walk through the guild garden was something else. _Actually,_ he thought, _romantically speaking they probably measure out to about the same thing. Still, best to be safe._ He turned to the Mistress of the Earth. "Now," he said, "tell me what you learned."

"The Sceptre of Morgulan was a weapon," she said, "a weapon of pure, unadulterated evil." Beside her, Korina straightened abruptly, her eyes widening.

"So it was," Regecon said. "I had suspected to a certain degree."

"You don't understand," Ambrisia said, tersely. "There is nothing redeeming about it. It would corrupt whoever wielded it."

"Then why did Arcalian have an interest in it?" Regecon asked.

"That is what troubles me," Ambrisia said. "I just can't bring myself to believe that Arcalian could contemplate... what? What did he want it for?"

"Where did it come from, Mistress?" Korina asked. "I mean, originally."

Ambrisia exhaled as if steeling herself to speak. "It was a gift," she said.

"A gift?" Regecon folded his arms beneath his chest.

"From Lubrochius, the Eater of Souls."

Regecon frowned sourly. Beside him, Korina's hand reached toward her heart, apparently in dismay. It clenched once, spasmodically, then relaxed. "Morgulan was in league with Lubrochius? That I did not know."

"Actually, according to Tulthinon of Skaren, Zarina the Black orchestrated the deal," Ambrisia informed them. "She was a Child of Lubrochius, after all, perhaps even the most trusted daughter of all his black cults."

Korina clutched her breast again, and her voice had a distant edge. "The Children of Lubrochius? I thought they were only legend."

"No, they were real. At least they were a thousand years ago. Very real. They do not concern me though, for once the deal was made they had little to do with the fate of the sceptre. No, that distinction belongs to the Black Circle."

"Morgulan's Black Circle?" Korina asked. Regecon raised both eyebrows, impressed by the young woman's knowledge. She seemed more learned about history than he was.

"Yes. After he had conquered the human empires, Morgulan declared himself a god. He anointed the Black Circle: eighteen of his most devout and trusted minions. Fanatics to the end, they pledged their lives and some say even their souls to Morgulan and his dark cause."

"What did they have to do with the sceptre?" Regecon asked. He had to keep his thoughts on the conversation, not on Korina. He could be impressed with her later, after he had learned what he needed to know.

"They appointed its guardian. You see, Morgulan made a mistake," Ambrisia said. "After conquering the bulk of humanity and claiming divinity, he rushed to conquer the other races, never dreaming that they might unite to throw him down. But they did unite: lithlyn, shaladryn, agnari, even the windar. They stopped him. And they drove him back. Eventually, after the bloodiest war of all time it became clear that Morgulan was beaten, his power broken, and his empire collapsing. Morgulan saw this and with Zarina he developed a plan. They made a pact with Lubrochius to spare them from utter defeat. Legend has it that the Arch-demon agreed, but at a dreadful price. Morgulan and Zarina fought until the end; it is believed that they met their end in a final cataclysmic battle, but their bodies were never found, nor was the sceptre."

"No one knows what became of it?" Regecon asked.

"There were reports ... Many of Morgulan's human subjects were driven mad by the presence of their ... comrades-in-arms, as it were. However, a few survived with their sanity intact."

"What did those reports say?" Regecon asked.

"Morgulan held a dark ritual, and anointed one of his generals, the most devout member of his notorious Black Circle, as guardian. It is said the man sacrificed his soul and his freedom in exchange for immortality. He would take the Sceptre and hide it, waiting until the end of time ... waiting for Morgulan's dread return."

Korina scoffed in disbelief. "But immortality is impossible, even Alisha Silvertress, as old as she is, hasn't stopped the passage of time. Everyone knows that!"

"Yes," Regecon said. "Alisha Silvertress... if only we had her counsel in these dark hours. I'm afraid... I can barely say it.... but perhaps Toreg was right. Is it possible that Arcalian truly was up to something sinister?"

"I can't believe that," Ambrisia said, shaking her head. Her voice dropped off to a whisper. "I _won't_ believe it."

"There you are, Regecon," Morcallenon said, stepping into the garden. "I've been searching for you all night. Do you know I had to do a divining just to find you? By the way, is one of you wearing a talisman of some sort? I had to unravel quite a bit of interference to locate you."

Regecon shook his head and glanced first at Ambrisia, then at Korina. Both women shrugged, then the younger one reached up to scratch her breastbone. She saw him looking, and smiled. Her hand dropped casually to her side.

"Have you made a discovery, Morcallenon?" Regecon asked.

"Yes, I have," the diviner replied. "And it is one that is most dreadful."

"Well?"

"Can I speak in front of her? I do not think it wise. She is only a student."

"She is Ambrisia's most trusted student, I am certain—"

"Guild Master, I'm afraid I really must insist on privacy," Morcallenon said, suddenly growing adamant. He turned to the young woman. "Korina, that is your name, correct? Could you be a dear and leave us alone."

The young woman flushed, but controlled her anger. She nodded tersely, then headed toward the door.

Morcallenon reached out and cupped a red saucer-shaped plant and sniffed it once. "You know, in all my years here, I have never once set foot in this garden. Only now, do I realize what I have missed."

"Tell us what you have discovered," Ambrisia said.

"Well, those sigils on the jar ... you aren't going to believe this ... they're from the school of deathcraft, you know, necromancy!"

"Necromancy? The art of the undead? Are you certain?" Ambrisia asked.

"Of course I am. I would not make such a claim unless I was."

"Another clue pointing in the same direction," Regecon said.

"What do you mean?" asked Morcallenon.

"It is starting to look like Arcalian was in league with some very dark forces," Regecon answered.

"I must object," Ambrisia said. "We can't convict Arcalian until we hear his side. There's probably a simple explanation."

"Perhaps," Morcallenon agreed. His expression, however, showed little conviction.

Regecon scratched his beard. "I know how you two feel—I feel the same way— but the evidence..." He let the thought hang there incomplete.

"Regardless of Arcalian's guilt or innocence," Morcallenon said, "the fact that the sigils are necromantic got me thinking. You remember the black time? I was wondering—"

"If it may have been generated by some type of undead," Regecon said, completing the thought. "That is troubling. Which types of undead are strong enough to generate black time?"

"I am uncertain. I'm pretty sure a wraith lord could and there are also several species of spectre that might. I believe there are others, but I would need to do more research to produce a precise litany. As you know, I still have several other matters to attend to."

"Yes," Ambrisia said. "The paste and the book, of course."

"Well, Guild Master?"

"I need time," Regecon said. "Proceed as you have been. I will get back to you. You have given me much to think about."

### Chapter Seventeen

Of all the rooms they had to flee to, they had to choose this one. This collection of mirrors was once scattered throughout the many chambers of my keep, until Arcalian's little helper stowed them away in here. The young woman had gathered a great many of the cursed things before I grew impatient and killed her. It took some careful deliberation, but I finally decided that the immediate promise of her blood outweighed the occasional inconvenience of any mirrors her death left unmoved. In retrospect, I suppose I should have been more patient and had all the mirrors destroyed. Be that as it may, I cannot trouble over actions left undone. Best to make do, and finish the job while I can.

The last row of mirrors bend and twist as I step forward. The air about them is thick with resistance, crackling and popping like a cloud before a storm. I reach out with my self, with my being—there is no other way to describe it—and I drive the force they wield backward, inward, twisting about upon itself. The mirrors shatter.

A sigh passes from my lips. My shoulders sag and my head bows low. Destroying that many mirrors is a horrendous task. Though strong, I do have limits. Weariness wraps about me like a cloak, the night grows dim, and my vision blurs. What I need is blood to spur my strength. And I have a good idea whose. The men escaped! Three puny, witless mortals and they managed to elude me. _Me!_ The rage is burning inside me, burning and growing stronger with every passing second. Even in my present state, I am starting to shake with the mounting fury.

Snarling, I approach the window, then come abruptly to a stop. Swinging back and forth in the midnight breeze, secured by a strip of cloth to the window's arch, the rose is hanging in quiet solemnity. I reach to touch it, but cannot. It repels me as if it were shielded by a wall. An unusual application of the cursed plant—not one I ever expected. My prior understanding entailed the necessity of a grounding agent, but apparently that is not the case. This rose is secured by nothing more imposing than a simple thread, yet its floating aura thwarts me all the same. In a mortal's hand I could take it, but here, hanging in the window, I cannot.

The stones of the window arch are cool against my palms, but they offer little in the way of counsel. Down below, the men are fleeing, scurrying across the courtyard stones like rats inside a tomb. These rats, however, are being hunted, and Clarissa is not one to lose a race. The mortal called Coragan turns to face her, confronting her at the iron gate. I cannot help but grimace as he does so; the worthless man has brought forth a mirror, one he no doubt pilfered from my ill-fated store. Resourceful, that one. My love advances, but she cannot strike out. Snarling at an image only she can see, Clarissa is nearly helpless. Held at bay like a lion before a whip, she is forced to content herself with an angry glare. While Coragan is busy, the two others move across the drawbridge to their horses. The warrior—curses on that brute—needs assistance to mount his beast, but the one called Galladrin is all too willing.

My attention reverts to the rose. It is still there, still swaying, still blocking my passage. I could destroy it if I were not so weary. And the rat ... no, it is safe from him as well. Fortunately, I have other minions and it is to them that my mind calls out.

A minute passes in eerie quiet. The wind grows, but makes no sound. Not a single leaf rustles, not a single beast cries. Even the battle below seems carried on in silence.

Finally, a fluttering of wings breaks the peace and a dark shape descends from on high. It is a raven, one of my many pets, come to offer her aid. She grips the stone ledge tightly with her claws and squawks in question. My eyes caress her, soothe her, excite her, and my thoughts convey my purpose. She nods, then flitters to the rose. A quick jerk pulls the flower from the thread, and the rising wind carries it from my sight. Reaching out, I take the bird in my hand. Her claws pinch my pallid skin, but even though the flesh is breached there is no sting. One hand strokes with the gentle softness of a pillow, gliding through her feathers and flowing along her wings. Satisfied, she coos in contentment.

At the far edge of the drawbridge, the men are preparing to leave. They have produced another mirror and Galladrin presents it from atop his horse, again forcing Clarissa back while Coragan swings astride the final mount. As they turn to leave, Galladrin even has the audacity to wave farewell—I will kill him twice over for that. Behind him, Clarissa prepares to give chase. She is primed tonight, hungry, and ready to kill. She will run their horses to the ground or no doubt burn beneath the Sun in her efforts. Although her persistence is commendable, it is somewhat extraneous. There are often much simpler ways to trap one's prey. If I had been present, for example, I would have simply compelled their weak-minded steeds. A single thought to confound them, and those horses would never depart. Unfortunately, weariness slows me and I will not arrive in time.

The wind welcomes the raven on its currents and the bird cries out as it rises into the night. With an effort, I begin my change. Weariness makes the process slow and the task grueling, but determination drives me on. By the time the transformation is complete, the men are speeding away, riding fast and hard. Thus it is that the burden of the chase is passed.

My thoughts fly on the wind, dancing through the night. My mind stretches out to embrace the dark, streaming through the woods, sending its message to every stone and tree. Not long after, I have my answer.

The forest comes alive with howls far and wide. They are still distant, but they are closing.

That still leaves Clarissa. Determined to pursue, she does not seem willing to pass over the honor of the chase. It is with regret that I must rein her in. My mind reaches out like lightning _. Hold up, my love._ Obediently, she stops. The distance is too great for her mind to respond, but I still feel the doubt inside her heart _. Let the Children of the Forest have their sport. When the men are wearied, we can hunt them at our leisure._ Though still ambivalent, she moves no further and awaits me at the edge of the forest. Swooping to her side, I hover briefly, then change my shape.

For a lovely woman, she looks quite forlorn. "Why did you hold me back? Do you not want them slain?"

"They shall be slain, my dear. But you must learn the subtleties of the vampire. Never over exert yourself when there is no need, or if others can accomplish the end for you. They have two mirrors yet—"

"Mirrors are not a threat to you."

I nod. Confiding my present need of rest will do little to impress her with awe. "That is true, my love—"

"You could have stopped their horses. I tried. But I am not that strong."

Again, I nod. "If I had been present, they would have never left. I could have spit in the Scythe-Bearer's Hood while he gathered up their souls—"

As is her way, she seems to take offense at the oddest of things and rebukes me with startling words. "You should not blaspheme."

She is a strange woman and an even stranger vampire. So quickly does she withdraw to her Code and her human piety. What a mockery! I did not compel her tonight. She departed in search of the men the moment I informed her of their arrival. She hunted to protect me, yes, but she did so of her own free will. She will not admit it, of course, but she is slowly turning and drawing closer to the Night. It is inevitable, perhaps it is even sad, but her humanity is slipping away. Could her remarks be attempts to deny the pull of darkness as inexorable as it is? Perhaps. They are futile if such is her aim. "We are vampires, my dear. Our very existence is blasphemy. There is nothing about us which is not perverse, which is not wicked—"

"Wicked? Perverse? The Scythe-Bearer is impartial, he cares not for good or evil."

I am stunned. She is being argumentative tonight and though that is a welcome change from her usual whining, it is still irritating. "The Scythe-Bearer is the lord of Death, my love. He is antithetical to us more than the night is to the Sun! Above all the gods, his power is most defiled by our presence. We bring death, yes, but we do not succumb to it. We are as the gods, untouched by his curving blade! Look out upon this mortal world. It is his to command, his to rule. All of it, except us!"

"You should still show respect."

I sneer. "Respect? I think not. I once held a man in awe, and knelt before his feet. I thought him a noble and mighty man, nothing less than an omnipotent god, but betrayal and a thousand years have taught me many truths. Trust no god but oneself. Destiny is the product of one's own actions, not the battle-call of a lesser being trying to seem great. Our power and our power alone is the force that guides existence—"

She looks angry. Her brows are furrowed together and she has crossed her arms at her chest. Blue eyes look toward the path the men have taken and a smile rolls across her features. It is slow, deliberate, and full of insolence. "Borak mentioned something about the river. Is that important?"

Fury takes me.

She cries out as agony rips inside her body. I advance with my fists raised to strike her down. "The river! You waited this long to tell me of the river! I should feed you to the Sun at dawn!"

I am seething with rage—fury the likes no mortal could ever comprehend. One would think she would have learned by now never to taunt me! My eyes stab at the road down which the men have fled, but all there is to see is dust. The sound of the pursuing wolves echoes back, weaker and more distant with every second. _Do not let them near the river._ A union of howls answers my thought.

Clarissa is on the ground before me, enjoying the taste of dirt. She is convulsing in pain and kicking up dark clouds of dust. A fearful shriek erupts from her lips and she rakes her claws across her head. They tear into flesh but do not draw any blood—having not fed tonight, I suspect she is running a tad bit dry. Given her behavior, she will be lucky if she ever feeds again. I savor her torture just several moments more, then, regretfully release. "Follow. And do not hold back on me again."

I leap into the sky, changing shape as I do so. My weariness has finally passed and the time to hunt has come once more.

Coragan slapped the spindly branch from before his face and ducked to avoid another. They were all about him, low-hanging trees that surrounded the road and grasped at him like dead, skeletal hands. Behind him, the wolves were closing, drawing ever nearer. He could hear them in the woods, racing along at breakneck speeds. Some even seemed to be overtaking them. Coragan and his companions were riding hard down the old road toward the river. Why the river, he did not know, but it was Borak's idea; what the man knew and how he knew it, he had yet to reveal—they did not have the time—but without Borak, he and Galladrin would surely be dead.

Death. To dance with the Scythe-Bearer. It must come to all in time, but if Coragan had his way, the Death Lord's Sickle would find no mark tonight. At least not amongst them. Now, as for Lucian ...

A great snarling grey wolf leaped out from the trees ahead. It ran across the path and howled, nipping at the heels of Borak's horse. In response, the horse kicked wildly, but as quickly as the wolf appeared it just as quickly vanished among the trees on his right. Coragan frowned. That had seemed like an attack meant to frighten ... a deliberate attempt to panic the horse, but that was impossible. Wolves were only animals, after all. Surely, they could not think like that! Off to the left, more dark shapes were flitting among the trees.

Cursing, Coragan let one hand slide free of the reins and reached down to grab his crossbow. He unhooked the thong from his hip and pulled the weapon up. It wasn't loaded. "This is going to be fun," he muttered. He pinned the crossbow against his side with one elbow in a precarious position. He knew that at any moment the reins might jerk and pull the weapon loose, but unfortunately, there was no other place he could put it while riding at full gallop. He reached over his back and grabbed a quarrel. Another wolf appeared.

This time the creature came for Coragan. It charged head on down the path with jaws gaping wide and eyes burning with lupine fury. White saliva dripped from a great red tongue and great puffs of steam thundered forth from a fiercesome maw. Coragan swore. He had seen some strange things tonight but this was utterly insane. One on one, wolves simply did not charge mounted men. Perhaps, a lone man on a crippled horse in midwinter, or an injured footman. But a man on horse at full gallop? Never! They should be swarming around, trying to overwhelm with sheer numbers. Not this—

He pulled the quarrel from its quiver and jerked the reins to the side as the wolf leaped up. The great paws came down, bracing across the horse's flank while the creature's jaws lunged toward the bounty hunter's throat.

Coragan reared back with the bolt and stabbed. Though not a dagger it possessed a sharp point and a sturdy shaft. The make-shift hand weapon drove into the wolf's neck, and for a brief moment, the bounty hunter felt a warm liquid burble across his hand. The wolf's jaws snapped shut inches from his face, then the creature's head jerked to the side and pulled the quarrel from Coragan's grasp. The beast tumbled to the ground and yelped as it fell beneath his horse. Glancing back, the bounty hunter saw a shadow rise up from the dirt. It wobbled a moment, then limped to the shelter of the nearby trees.

Looking down, Coragan grimaced. In all the tossing and bumping his crossbow had fallen free. By some miracle it had tangled itself in his stirrup. Unfortunately, at full gallop the weapon hung very much beyond his reach. Though secure for the moment, he knew he would need it soon.

Ahead he could see the river, perhaps fifty horse strides away. It cut a dark swathe across the ground, snaking through the tangling trees like a great serpent through grass. The road he followed led straight to it, then bent down to run along beside it. Over the din of pounding hooves, he faintly heard the sounds of splashing currents.

Another wolf appeared on the path and Coragan drew his sword. The wolf paused in the center of the road and three more dark shapes circled out to join it. They joined together as one, then spread out like a fan. A line. A defensive line. Scattered from one side of the road to the other in a stagger formation, the four wolves formed a menacing barrier between man and river. As Coragan watched, he vividly recalled the behavior of the rat in the mirror room. The rodent had appeared as if beckoned and had made short work of Galladrin's rose. Servants. Rats and wolves. They all served Lucian.

Up ahead, Borak slowed. Without a weapon he had little chance against four mad wolves, particularly ones guided by a scheming intelligence. The warrior needed his one good hand for the reins, and without it he could not wield his axe. Further down the road, Galladrin fared no better, perhaps even a little worse. The rogue's frantic horse bucked and snorted furiously, every breath drawing the scent of the wolves that hunted them. An inexperienced rider, Galladrin was having a difficult time staying in the saddle. There was no possibility of a charge on his part.

"I guess it's up to me," Coragan muttered. "I just wish I had a spear." He dug his heels into his horse's side and the stallion surged forward. The wolves saw him coming and howled a challenge. Then, as one, they moved to meet him. Horse and wolves clashed and Coragan lay about with his sword, hacking and slashing. But the dark shapes kept coming. Great white teeth snapped; sometimes at the horse, sometimes at the reins themselves, but more often than not they were directed at the man.

Coragan swung and cut a solid blow across the eyes of the first wolf; if such a beast could be said to scream, scream it surely did. Howling and crying, it fell to the ground in violent paroxysms of pain. Frantically, it kicked its paws in the air, then rolled spasmodically onto its back. It twisted to all fours, driving its head into the ground, then began to run; not straight and away, but round and round with its face in the dirt as if trying to spin like a top. Coragan would have finished it, but his blade was too short and the wolf too near the ground. Again, he found himself wishing for a spear.

Without warning, Coragan's horse began to panic. A beast not trained for war and battle, it reared up, whinnying in terror despite Coragan's skill. Coragan scrabbled desperately for a handhold, nearly dropping his sword in the process, then dug his knees into the stallion's sides and wrapped his hand tightly about the reins. The horse's forehooves hit the ground with a thud and it began kicking wildly in all directions. It caught one wolf in the ribs with a hoof and sent the creature sprawling across the road. Coragan rocked forward with the concussion and nearly lost his balance. At the last moment, he caught himself and braced his forearm across the horse's neck. Again, the stallion lurched up, and this time he fell from its back and landed hard in the dirt.

Almost immediately, the forest came alive. Wolves were everywhere. His horse went down screaming beneath a swarm of black shapes. Stumbling to his feet, Coragan lifted his sword, then stared at the scene in growing horror. His horse lay on the ground struggling, while about it ten wolves churned in frenzy. They snapped and tore, ripping terrible wounds in the animal's sides and withers. Whatever force had driven them to attack the man and not the beast was gone. They seemed driven by hunger now, and in moments had killed the horse and begun to feed. Coragan continued to watch in fascination: for the moment, they seemed to have forgotten him and his companions.

To the right, and just up ahead he could see Borak astride his horse. Man and beast edged toward the river, steering wide of the feeding wolves. The warrior, a well-trained horseman, found that that proximity tested even his formidable skills. His horse snorted nervously, fidgeting about in wide-eyed terror, ready to break into a run at the slightest provocation.

A little ways back, Galladrin still struggled to control his own horse. Where Borak's horse stood shaking, Galladrin's pawed the dirt and bucked violently. Suddenly, it bolted. The horse launched forward down the road, startling the wolves and drawing two from their meal. They snapped at its heels, but it raced away. Somehow, the rogue managed to guide the frantic beast and it plunged headlong into the river. The wolves howled at the edge of the water but did not enter.

Cautiously, Coragan moved to the side of the road, giving the feeding wolves a wide berth. He signaled Borak to proceed, and the warrior nudged his horse closer to the river.

Coragan stopped. On the ground, a short distance from the wolves, his crossbow lay tangled in the stirrup. If he could get it, he could ... what? Sit up in a tree and pick the wolves off? He had only ten quarrels left, enough for the wolves here if he downed one every time, but he could hear the sounds of others approaching. Still, it was a handy weapon to have. After deliberating for a moment, he decided to take a chance and crept toward the weapon, crawling quietly on his hands and knees.

The growling wolves ripped into horse flesh with their teeth, and slobbered white foam and blood. Coragan paused. Ahead of him, two wolves started quarreling. A large brown wolf feeding on a leg snapped at a smaller grey that had come too close. The small grey snarled in reply, then yelped as the brown bit it in the shoulder and shook it to the side. After a brief scuffle, the grey broke free and limped away. It wisely sought meat elsewhere, circling to the other side and sinking its teeth into the horse's back. Coragan suppressed a sigh of relief as the wolves went back to their meal. The large wolf stood with its back to him and like the grey fed voraciously. If any wolf saw him, it would be the great black one on the far side next to the grey. Positioned directly across from him, the creature only had to look up and it could not help but see him. Coragan crept forward. He was almost there ... another two feet. He stopped, reaching with his hand and stretching his arm to the fullest. Now, just inches away, he dragged his knee another step ...

A blood-covered muzzle looked up from its meal and yellow lupine eyes locked on his face. Coragan met the stare and froze. He forced the air slowly from his lungs and took a calm and deliberate breath, all the while praying his heart did not burst inside his chest. The black wolf growled in warning, sputtering blood and saliva. He was so close. He could feel the crosspiece of the weapon beneath his fingers. If he could just ... Coragan closed his hand and pulled away. Without hesitation, the wolf charged.

Coragan backpedaled toward the river, whipping his sword before him while the great black wolf rushed forward with three others in its train. The bounty hunter, on foot now, with no horse between him and their teeth, and no one to back him up in battle, steeled himself for a terrible onslaught. He slashed at the first wolf as it approached and drew a mortal gash across the beast's throat. It spurted blood, yet the creature continued forward, its advance unfazed. Its jaws clamped shut on the edge of Coragan's cloak and gave the fabric a violent yank. He fell to one knee as the beast thrashed its head. The bounty hunter struggled to rise, but another wrench pulled him back down. He heard a tearing sound and the fabric ripped away. The wolf shook its head a moment, gnawing on the piece of wool. Realizing its prey was free, it stepped forward, then collapsed.

Before Coragan could recover, another wolf leapt toward him, its paws extended as if it had claws and its drooling mouth opened wide to reveal its vicious teeth. The bounty hunter stumbled backward and fell on his back. Desperately, he lifted his sword as the wolf came down. The lupine eyes registered an almost human level of surprise as it landed on the blade. Its body slid down the metal, and warm blood flowed across Coragan's shirt.

Suddenly, pain shot through the bounty hunter's arm and agony along his shoulder. With a shove, Coragan toppled the dead wolf from his chest, braced it against his feet and pulled his weapon free. He ignored the mounting torture and stabbed past his ear, eliciting a pained yelp. He gained perhaps a heartbeat's respite while the wolf recovered, then it leapt on him again, snapping and snarling. As Coragan struggled, the fourth wolf appeared, snapping its jaws onto his boot. It found only weak purchase on the thick leather, but it kept the bounty hunter trapped on the ground. He kicked at the newcomer once, then slashed at the wolf behind him. Both times he failed to find a solid mark and the wolves returned in fury.

There was a flash of movement and something blue. The wolf behind him yelped in pain, then stopped moving. "Need some help?" Galladrin asked, pulling his rapier from the body. Coragan almost smiled. The rogue, dripping wet from head to toe, his dark hair clinging to his face, nearly looked the part of a lost, homeless beggar. His tattered, ruined shirt left much of his torso exposed, and the third of a cloak hanging from his neck certainly failed to compensate. His nose, red from cold, and his pale, purple lips, only added to the effect. He would have looked comical if not for the blood on his blade and shirt, and the pack of wolves around them.

Coragan grunted in reply, then struggled to his feet. Free of one assailant, he turned to face the other. He struck out with his sword and found his mark. The fourth wolf yelped a final time, then fell to the ground with his blade buried in its chest. Unfortunately, other dark shapes now gathered.

The wolves had grown in number and they spread out before the two men in a wide array. Coragan counted twelve shapes on the road and saw more flickering amongst the trees on either side.

"Let's head back toward the river," Galladrin said. "They don't seem to like the water much. There's a small island where we can hold up." The rogue seemed all too calm for Coragan's taste. For himself, his blood raced and his breath came short.

Coragan forced himself to relax as they backed toward the banks. "Borak?"

"He's already there, looking after our two remaining horses. He's alive, but I've seen him looking better ... he said to hurry."

Both bounty hunter and rogue edged cautiously toward the river, unwilling to turn their backs. The wolves advanced snarling, yet slowly, and always with their eyes locked on the two men. Coragan felt numb with apprehension. _What are they waiting for?_ Suddenly, a flurry of activity arose on either side. Leaves and twigs crackled and two pairs of wolves charged toward the men from either flank. _Tactics? They're trying to outflank us?_

Both men turned as one, ran the remaining few steps, and dove headfirst into the icy currents of the forest river.

### Chapter Eighteen

Soaking wet and panting from cold exhaustion, Coragan dragged himself ashore. He winced as his knee smacked a blunt shoreline rock, then struggled up to take a view of his surroundings. He stood on a small isle, perhaps three dozen paces long and half as many wide, nestled securely in the center of the river, seventy feet from either shore. The currents, if not ferocious, were at least stronger than normal and offered a formidable barrier to any creature like a wolf.

Standing, Coragan shivered as the wind whipped through his cloak. A cold wind by any standards, it seemed even more so due to the half-gallon of water trapped inside his clothes. Galladrin moved up beside him, sniffling. "Well, fearless leader, what now?"

"Let's gather what wood we can and start a fire," Coragan said. "After all we've been through, it would be a pity to freeze to death."

They maneuvered carefully across the shore, cautious of the sometimes slick footing offered by the many lichen-covered rocks. After a moment of searching, they found Borak, sheltered behind a mossy boulder with a large crack. The warrior's wet clothes were tattered and ripped in several places and he shivered fitfully from the cold. Looking pale and weary, he cuddled his injured arm protectively in his lap while his teeth chattered uncontrollably and parts of his exposed flesh had taken on a bluish tinge.

After a brief examination to ensure that Borak could hold up for a few minutes more, Coragan and Galladrin panned out to cover the surrounding terrain as quickly as they could. Only one tree of considerable height stood on the small island, and neither man had the strength to attempt to cut it down. Besides, Borak had secured the horses at that tree and they were unlikely to find another equally suited spot anywhere else. Scattered across the ground, however, they found a large number of broken branches, small scrubs, and washed-up pieces of forest detritus. They set to work immediately and before long a fair-sized fire roared amongst the rocks.

With the fire blazing and providing warmth, Borak's shivering rapidly diminished. The huge warrior let out a sigh of relief and edged as close to the flames as prudence would allow. Beside him, Galladrin also sighed in utter contentment. He stretched his arms out, palms down to collect as much heat as possible. The glow of firelight painted his face a rosy hue, and the signs of numbing cold quickly faded.

Coragan reached down and added another branch to the flames. It crackled and hissed as the fire embraced it. "Okay, we're alive for now. Now what?"

Borak shrugged in apparent disinterest. "We wait for dawn. Then leave."

Snorting, Galladrin cast the warrior a dubious look. He unclasped the tattered vestige of what remained of his cloak and threw it to the flames. "Sounds like a plan ... if there wasn't some madman named Lucian and a pack of wolves hunting us." The rogue moved over to the nearby tree, bent down to remove his soaking shirt, and flung it up on a branch to drip dry in the wind. He glanced back at his companions, expecting a reply. Hearing none, he moved to the horses and began rummaging for a blanket.

After several long moments, Borak spoke. "We should be safe here until dawn."

Coragan looked up. He had his cloak coiled tightly between his hands and there was a surprisingly large puddle of water at his feet. "Safe? I hardly think Lucian is one to be put off by a forest stream. Once he finds us—and I don't think he'll have much trouble doing that ... a deaf man could hear that howling—he'll just march over and rip our hearts out." The bounty hunter cast his eyes to the far shore. With the fire right beside him, he found it difficult to make anything out, but he thought he discerned several dark shapes scurrying along the bank. An eruption of barking reinforced his fears.

"The river about us is running strong. Lucian cannot cross."

"Huh?" Galladrin asked in an unmindful tone. The rogue had followed Coragan's eyes and become absorbed in the activities of the far bank. He appeared only half-aware of the ongoing conversation. Beside him, Borak opened his mouth to elaborate on his words, but before he could speak Galladrin cut him off. "Hey! What's that?" The rogue's finger pointed to the shore and its wolves. Coragan looked, but could see nothing. His eyes were not as sharp as the experienced thief's, especially at night.

"What? I don't see anything."

"Oh, nothing. It's just a couple of bats ... Bloody Hell!" Coragan saw it too. Where before there had been nothing, two figures seemed to pop into sudden existence. The first was Lucian, the second Clarissa. They stood in the midst of the wolves with the entire pack swarming at their feet. The barking and yowling rose in a great clamour of excitement, but the figures didn't notice. "The bats ... They were bats and now they're ... them!"

They are huddled around a fire in the center of the river. The distance to their refuge is only thirty paces, but it could just as well be thirty miles. A look to Silgaren, shrouded by clouds, verifies my doubts. Midnight is long passed, and I am thwarted until the dawn. By then I will be too vulnerable to engage in battle. Alas, that tides do not affect the stream to my advantage.

The river bank is soft and moist, covered with the raging spray. The spray itself cannot harm me, but the torrents ... Carefully, I step back to Clarissa's side. Tyrgon, the great grey, nuzzles my leg. He licks my hand in a subservient manner and seems ... apologetic. A faint smile skims across my lips. He is only a wolf, after all, and they are devious, devious men. I relay as much to the wolf with my mind. _They are cunning adversaries, Tyrgon. Do not worry about your failure, but prepare your pack for the river's bite._ He whines and whimpers. He is not fond of water. No matter. He will obey.

Clarissa motions to me. "They have spotted us. Perhaps, they will try to flee and leave their safety?"

"No. The warrior knows of roses, I assume he is conscious of this as well. As you said, he brought them here deliberately ... they intend to wait us out."

"Is there nothing we can do? If we fly ..."

"Up a thousand feet and over? We will be on the other side, but they will still be safe. No." I watch a snowflake drift slowly from the sky. It spirals once, twice, then lands on the wet grass. It melts, but there will soon be others. "A compatriot of mine once said, a very, very long time ago, 'If the cat plays with the mouse too long, then the cat may dine at an empty table.' Perhaps my old friend was right. Perhaps we let our sport go on too long, and the mice have slipped right out from beneath our claws. Then again, we are not without resources." I turn to Tyrgon and point across the river. The great grey wolf immediately comes to attention. "Go, my pet," I say. "Seek them out and kill them." Tyrgon barks in command and the pack yowls in excitement. They rush the river in a mad frenzy, a flood of black shapes surging forward to obscure the raging stream. I watch the charge with grim devotion. If the cat plays with the mouse too long ... I turn away in fury, my rage growing as I contemplate my mistake. Curses and Blood through all Hell. I let these men come to my castle, to my home, to my lair, and then I let them go! Like smoke from a fire, they are slipping through my fingers. Bad enough that I revealed myself without delivering a single fatal blow, now they will return to Drisdak and inform the guild of my presence. Yes, I erred. My mistake is quite evident now. The guild will soon know where I am, and that leaves me with but a single recourse ... War. A struggle to the death. My old friend also said 'Fortune favors the initial blow'—not the words of a poet, but they may yet have some wisdom.

"Clarissa." She turns to me, expectantly, but my eyes ignore her. They are locked in focus on the advancing wolves. "Watch them. Keep them here all night. If they try to flee ... kill them all. If the wolves can take them, all the better, but I distrust the luck of our elusive foes. They are relentless, devious men—warriors through and through."

"Where are you going?'

I shift my gaze to her and hold her with my eyes. My voice is calm, like the emptiness of a tomb. "I have some wizards to kill."

Galladrin jumped at the bounty hunter's voice beside him.

"Bloody Hell!" Coragan swore. "The wolves are coming across!"

Galladrin looked to the river. In a fearful procession, driven by madness, the wolves hurled themselves into the water with no thought for its chill or its torrents. Led by a great grey beast, nearly half again the size of any other, the wolves paddled their way toward the island like a small army of rabid dogs.

Galladrin glanced toward Coragan and saw the bounty hunter hastily loading his crossbow. Beside him, Borak staggered to his feet, awkwardly hefting his axe in his one good hand. In the air about them, snowflakes began to fall. He looked around for something, anything that could aid them, but the island held nothing save rocks, lichen, and the lonely tree. Coragan stepped forward and loosed his bolt.

With a muffled yelp and a splash, one of the dark shapes in the river stopped its forward motion, floundered a moment, then ducked beneath the water. It resurfaced, thrashing violently. After several moments, its struggles ceased and the current carried it away in its swirling grasp. Coragan hastily reloaded his weapon. "Only nine bolts left," he said.

Galladrin nodded grimly, then slashed at empty air. "Yeah. Well, you got about thirty wolves."

Coragan fired and another dark shape went under. Undaunted, the pack paddled on, closing ranks like soldiers in war. The lead wolf drew within ten paces of the island rocks. Again Coragan fired and another shape went down. Seconds later, the great grey reached the shore. It lumbered forward, scrambling over the rocks, then stopped just a half dozen paces from the trio of men. It stared at them as if in consideration, weighing them according to its lupine mind. Suddenly, it howled. Three dark shapes rose from the water behind and rushed to attack.

Galladrin stepped up to meet them, rapier flashing in his hand. The first wolf that charged received a rapier point to the eye, the second an axe to the skull, and the third a sword through the heart. As quickly as that the first wolves went down, but others followed. Many others. They broke from the water in waves, howling and snarling as they advanced.

Galladrin lay about himself with his blade, thrusting, slashing, and stabbing. His rapier flickered like a silver serpent, dealing death and agony in his skillful hands. But the rapier was not without its adversaries. With every flicker, bright teeth flashed, nipping that much closer to his flesh.

Beside the rogue, his companions fought. Borak wielded his great axe with only his one good hand, yet he killed a wolf with every blow. Past Borak, ensconced defensively between two large boulders, Coragan engaged in a daring struggle. The bounty hunter danced about with his sword, drawing the wolves in, then hacking them down as they attacked.

Bitter pain lanced through Galladrin's leg. He looked down and stabbed. Surprisingly, the wolf clamped onto his shin managed to squirm and avoid the blow. It growled through its teeth then gave Galladrin's leg a violent shake to pull the rogue from his feet. The earth fell away, but Galladrin did not despair; he spun his rapier around and held it before him as he tumbled. Point first he plunged, with all his weight, onto the dark beast's back. Two and a half feet of steel drove through the creature's spine and struck sparks on the rocks beneath. The beast whimpered once, then lay still.

Galladrin struggled to his feet and shoved the dead wolf aside. About him, three wolves had fallen to his blade, and next to Borak no less than six were down. The progressing battle obscured Coragan and his struggles, but the rogue was sure he had heard at least two strangled yelps from the bounty hunter's quarter. That made eleven—at least a third of the wolves. Only a madman would keep up the charge after this.

Mad or not, the great grey kept howling, and more of its sinister brethren poured forth, snapping and snarling as they came, rushing forward like a great dark wave of fury. A wave, yes, and like a wave it broke. Three warriors like shoreline stones stood against the onslaught, ignoring wounds and agony as they hacked the wolves down. Beast after beast fell in the desperate battle, until at last only the great grey remained. Like a truly mad general, it howled once, then launched itself into the fray.

Drooling and snarling it charged the center, leaping for Borak's throat as the warrior swung his axe. The weapon struck the beast in its side, crushing ribs and slicing flesh. The grey wolf, however, was like no other. Larger, stronger, it continued the fight. Its body slammed into Borak's chest and knocked him heavily to the ground. Its jaws snapped shut, missing his face and throat alike, but grazing his chin. Teeth scraped into flesh, then slipped away, leaving small rivulets of flowing blood. Again, the wolf lunged for the throat; and Borak raised his arm as a shield. Its jaws closed securely on his forearm, and it shook its head in anger, sinking great fangs deep in the warrior's flesh.

With its concentration on Borak the wolf made an easy target for the others. Galladrin stepped forward, rapier in hand, and speared the grey wolf behind the ear. It shuddered once. Twice. Then ceased.

Borak let out a groan, then heaved. The dead wolf slid from his chest and the warrior struggled to his feet. He grimaced, then hobbled toward the fire. Galladrin stared in astonishment, utterly amazed the man could still move. Covered from head to toe in blood, a great deal of it his own, the warrior looked like a torturer's victim come back from the dead. His tattered animal skins fluttered crazily in the wind; both his legs and his free arm oozed blood from various savage wounds, while his chest and side bled from several long gashes. Only his injured arm seemed to have escaped the battle untouched, and that was broken anyway. The huge man staggered to a large stone, then sat down.

"Here, Borak, let me hel—" Galladrin took several steps, then winced, suddenly very aware of the pain in his own leg. The wolf's teeth had cut deep into his calf, and numerous other wounds—though none so serious—marked his chest and arms. He wondered briefly how bad he looked in comparison to the warrior, then glanced toward Coragan to evaluate that man's condition. Of the three men, it seemed the bounty hunter had escaped with the least injury. He still suffered from the wound he received on his shoulder, but beyond that ... there was one gash on his thigh, another on his side. The man's cloak, however, had seen better days. Like much of Borak's clothing, it hung in tatters, shredded by teeth, offering no more protection from the wind than a fishing net might—and a tattered one at that. With a disgruntled frown, Coragan tossed the ruined cloak on the fire.

Looking around, Galladrin gave a quick count. Twenty three lupine bodies lay sprawled about, while he and his friends were still alive. "All things considered, I think we did well."

Coragan glanced back at him. "Yeah. But I think we owe our lives twice over to Borak here. I saw him kill at least nine on his own."

The warrior grimaced. "Eleven."

Galladrin managed a pained smile. Twenty-three wolves and eleven to Borak. He thought back. He remembered killing six. That would mean he and Coragan had split the difference. Fair enough. He hobbled toward the fire. "Here, Borak, let me take a look at those wounds."

The warrior lifted up his arm as Galladrin approached. The rogue grabbed his wrist, then turned his injuries toward the light. Several ragged tears near the center of the warrior's forearm oozed blood freely. Inspection showed the wounds deep and Galladrin frowned. "It's not as bad as the other arm ... but, really Borak, are you trying to get out of using your axe? First your right arm and now this. I'll wrap it up, but I can't do much else."

"I think we should stop at the abbey tomorrow," Coragan said as he watched Galladrin dress the wound. "The priests of Drellenor may be able to help us, especially Borak."

Galladrin looked up. "Do you have a plan to get us to the abbey? We are down to two horses and if you haven't forgotten, we still have the Lord and Lady Deathbringer over there." The rogue turned as he motioned across the river. "Hey. Where'd they go?" The far bank seemed empty. He gripped the hilt of his rapier and took a step toward the shoreline. His heart started racing in fearful foreboding. "They're swimming across. We'll have to make a stand." He could almost feel the Scythe-Bearer's Sickle tickling his back.

Borak looked up. "They aren't swimming across."

Galladrin shot the warrior a startled glare. "How do you know?"

"Because they're vampires."

### Chapter Nineteen

Clarissa glided silently across the dry leaves. She crouched and reached out slowly, almost casually, through the twiggy underbrush without a whisper of sound. She paused just inches from the rabbit's neck, still undetected. With its back to her, the little forest denizen had no warning, no chance. Her hand shot out; her fingers wrapped around the small creature's throat with a vice-like grip of steel, then pulled it from its hiding place.

There was noise, finally. The rabbit squirmed violently in her grasp, knocking several dried twigs to the earth. Clarissa, intrigued by its struggles, lifted the small creature to scrutinize before her face. Its thickening coat, a smooth mix of brown and tan along its back, contrasted sharply with the soft downy white fur covering its neck and belly. Repressing a chuckle, Clarissa traced a finger across the creature's long ears. The mark of its species, the ears of a rabbit provided the creature with its first line of defense against predators and they were notorious for their acuity. Unfortunately, nature had never planned to pit them against the incorporeal stealth of a vampire. Against such, they were useless.

Clarissa dropped her arm, letting the struggling creature hang by her side. She felt hesitant about eating anything that wasn't human. It just smelled wrong. She had little doubt the taste would reflect that several times over. Her eyes strayed through the bushes toward the river. Only the keenness of her undead vision allowed her to see the island in the center. The small circle of land harbored prey of a much more delectable nature: men. Three of them, although she only really needed one. To a vampire downwind of the island, the smell of human flesh stood out sharply against the other conflicting scents of the forest night: pine needles, tree sap, animal droppings, and, of course, wolves' blood. Such carnage. She felt both dismayed and impressed by the slaughter of Lucian's precious children. Just three men, and they had killed nearly thirty of the creatures. Granted, they'd had the high ground against an amphibious charge, but that did not detract from the feat. In her mortal days, she would have called herself lucky to be in the company of such stalwart warriors.

Clarissa sniffed the wind. The amalgamation of animal and human blood mixing with sweat provided an exhilarating reminder of her need for more food. How she wished the men would leave their safety! That's why she had retreated to the shadows: to lure them out. As long as she stayed out of sight, there might be a chance they'd think she had left, and thus make a fatal error.

But then, there was the warrior.

Clarissa grimaced in silence. If that man knew anything at all of vampires—which he obviously did—she thought it very unlikely that they would move before the dawn. By then, she would have retired to the castle; her powers were no match against the might of the Sun. Her gaze lifted to the sky. Of course, Lucian's gift with weather still could turn the tables.

The snow had been falling steadily for nearly an hour, and was starting to make headway against the ground's residual warmth. Several patches of white stood out against the browns of the forest floor, and the storm showed little sign of letting up. At this rate, there might very well be half a foot of the powdery substance when dawn finally came. Would that be enough threat to force the men from hiding? They could not afford to be snowed in. Another night would mean their end.

Clarissa's teeth sank into the rabbit's flesh while she puzzled over her dilemma. The blood, though warm, possessed a decidedly unpleasant flavor, as she had expected. Although it would keep her nourished in whatever way an undead creature could be said to be nourished, Clarissa took little enjoyment from her meal.

She swished some of the blood around with her tongue before swallowing. Unpleasant. Not outright disgusting, but definitely unpleasant. Oddly, it reminded her of her old agnari friend, Gileus. The taste of rabbit's blood seemed reminiscent of a mix of normally good foods that did not work well together, like milk and wine in her mortal days. She remembered when Gileus had served her some of that so many years ago. They had been in an expensive tavern, she recalled. Gileus, a creature of odd tastes, had been deeply offended by the tavernkeeper's wine. Hoping to concoct something a bit more to his liking, he poured a small amount of milk in his cup. After deciding that the result tasted far better than just plain wine, he did the same for her when she wasn't looking. With her first taste, she poured the goblet out and drenched Gileus from head to toe.

The flow of blood down Clarissa's throat came to an abrupt end. Disappointed, she dropped the bloodless rabbit to the earth and looked around for another.

The recent presence of so many wolves seemed to have emptied most of the surrounding woods of further wild life. Perhaps it was all for the best, Clarissa mused, as she glanced toward the island again. She wouldn't want to find she had lost her appetite when the time came for the men to leave.

She stifled a laugh. Who was she kidding? A vampire's hunger was never filled.

Durek did an about-face and paced back to the other end of the room. He stopped when he reached the wall.

The woman had kissed him! Worse, he had not resisted. Not until it was obviously too late. He could not afford any interest in Marissa, not if he wanted to be a mage. It was forbidden.

A small voice he didn't trust rose up in the back of his head. _No one has to know_ , it said. That brought a scowl to his face and an urgency to his feet. He whirled around and paced back to the other wall, then stopped and leaned forward, supporting himself with his hand firmly on the stones.

It was forbidden for good reason. Only a fool would try to take the Mage's Test with even the slightest trace of emotional distraction to worry him. And Ambrisia had told him he would be testing with Korina, within a month at best, or perhaps three at the latest. He would have to be clear-headed when the time came. He could allow nothing to distract him. What could possibly be more distracting than a woman! Love. Hah! Love was death to a mage.

With surprising calmness Durek strolled to the window and looked out at the night. He frowned when he saw the clouds that had arisen with the strange storm—a storm which brought with it a fair amount of snow far too early in the season for Durek's taste. Because of the clouds, Durek could not see either moon, however, he judged that he had perhaps two hours until dawn. Dawn! He'd been up all night worrying about a fool woman. Not that he was the only one up this late. The gods knew he'd seen more people tonight than he'd seen during the entire day. Of course, he had been studying in his room for most of the afternoon; that is, until he'd gone to get some food, met Marissa in the kitchens, and then ... Still, he'd seen most of the council wandering the halls, all in a huff. Apparently, Guild Master Regecon had called an emergency meeting to discuss something of dire importance. They were probably still awake themselves, engaged in an endless debate in the wizards' High Council Chamber.

A flash of movement in the night sky caught Durek's eye. He turned to look, leaning out the window and squinting to make it out more clearly. It had been a sudden motion, something dark cutting across one of the few lucky moonbeams that had escaped the clouds. It flashed again, closer. Durek struggled to see, wondering if it would be worth the effort to cast a spell and shed more light.

Moments later, his need vanished; the creature came into view: a large bat, half again the size of any he'd ever seen, flying with the wind in the direction of the guild. Durek watched the dark shape for several moments, then lifted his eyebrows in surprise as it veered toward him. He smiled softly to himself wondering what spell he should unleash to ward it from the walls. He lifted his hand and stepped back, deliberating back and forth between a simple cantrip against the bat and whether or not he should actually cast it. Surely, it would veer off before it reached the opening.

He invoked the spell just as the bat entered the window's arch. A single word and gesture brought a puff of smoke to bar the creature's way.

To Durek's surprise, the bat flew through the smoke-filled window with ease and only a brief shower of orange sparks to announce its arrival. To Durek's horror, the bat entered the room and exploded. That was the only way to describe it. The relatively small dark creature mushroomed outward as it hurtled toward him. The wings grew, stretching out into arms adorned with vicious long-nailed hands while the small body ballooned into a man's chest and torso. Legs and head did the same.

With the momentum of flight carrying it forward, the form of a man slammed into Durek and drove him back against the opposite wall. A hand reached up to cut off the young student's scream, slamming his jaw shut on his tongue and holding it there in a titan's grip while canine teeth sank into his throat. In the brief moment before darkness took him, Durek was very much aware of the simultaneously excruciating and exhilarating sensation of blood flowing from his neck.

Coragan reseated himself on a rock, then poked the fire with a stick. "So that's the explanation then. Vampires."

"Yes. Vampires," Borak said.

"My monster lore isn't quite up to snuff," Galladrin said. "What the bloody Hell is a vampire?"

Borak shifted uncomfortably, apparently in regret that he had given voice to his knowledge. He flicked his gaze back and forth between rogue and bounty hunter. Both had their eyes locked on him. Finally, the warrior accepted the inevitable and spoke. "A vampire is a creature of the night. It is one of the undead."

"Undead?" Galladrin leaned over and picked up a small smooth stone. He breathed a puff of warm vapor on it, then rubbed it against his shirt. "Like an animate skeleton? Or a ghost?"

Borak nodded. "Yes, but far more powerful than either. Even the ghost pales beside the strength of a vampire."

Coragan folded his arms across his chest and looked doubtfully at the warrior. "How is it you know so much of these creatures? For myself, I have heard of them. But I do not know their strengths and weaknesses. I recall something about sunlight, but that is it. What of the roses, the mirror, and the river?"

Borak sighed, a distant look coming to his eyes. His voice sounded flat, without focus. "I will tell you what I know. Much of it comes from the legends of my people. I come from the wilds of Skaren, north and east of here. It is a desolate place filled with many hardships. My people live a nomadic life in a brutal, unforgiving wilderness. We have traveled across many lands and heard many tongues, but always we return to the harshness of our homeland. It is this harshness that makes us strong." The warrior reached down to grab a small handful of white snow. Ignoring the pain of his injuries, he squeezed his hand into a fist and watched as the melted water ran in small runnels down his wrist. "We have heard many legends in our times and in our travels, but few compare in horror to those of our own land. We know of men who can become as wolves when Silgaren is in full glory. We know of women who live in trees and lure the unsuspecting to an eternity inside. We know of creatures so alien, they exist as balls of light which mesmerize the unwary. But the horror we most fear, the terror of which we speak in only the softest of whispers, is the creature we have seen tonight. It is the vampire. I tell you I would just as soon wrestle a werewolf with my bare hands or track a wil-o-wisp to its lair before I'd choose to face a vampire."

"I noted you did treat Lucian with considerable respect," Galladrin said, dryly. He hefted the small polished stone in his right hand, weighing it for a throw.

"Respect? That might not be the right word. But I certainly would not take a vampire lightly."

"Why?" Galladrin tossed the rock into the night, and listened carefully for the soft plunk as it landed in the river.

Borak studied the rogue carefully, stroking his chin as he did so. Finally, he spoke. "They are nearly impossible to kill for one. We each possess weapons wrought by some of the finest human metalsmiths, yet they are useless against a vampire. Galladrin's rapier passed through Clarissa like she wasn't even there. Not even a blade made by lithlyn hands can harm them, unless it is enchanted. Only weapons wrought with the aid of magic, or those forged of purest silver can harm a vampire. Even if one does defeat one of these creatures with such a weapon, it is very unlikely that it will be destroyed. There are only three ways to truly vanquish a vampire—wooden stakes, sunlight, and running water. A stake through the heart while it sleeps in its coffin—did I mention vampires sleep in coffins? They do. They rest there during the day. If you catch one in its coffin and drive a stake through its chest it will die a horrid death." Borak motioned to the river around them, then continued, "If the vampire is immersed in running water, it will likewise be destroyed. Finally, there is the sun, as Coragan mentioned. As the bringer of light and life to the world, the sun has the power to incinerate a vampire if such a creature is ever exposed to its rays."

Coragan poked the fire again, startling everyone as the blaze sparked anew. He nodded once to himself in thought, then asked, "Why can't they fly across the river? They did change into bats, right?"

"Yes, they can take many forms: bats, wolves—the rat!" Borak's eyes lit up, and his face grew even paler in the light.

Several long moments passed, then Galladrin grew impatient. "What about crossing the river?"

"They just can't!" Borak snapped, irritably. "If they fly too close to the running water, they'll lose the power of flight and plummet to their death." Borak paused, and fidgeted nervously. "We have to get back to the guild. We have to warn the wizards."

"Warn the wizards?" Coragan asked, a little surprised. "They aren't the ones in danger from these vampires—"

"But they are!" Borak's voice had taken on a note of desperate urgency. With obvious effort he forced the anxiety from his words. "Let me explain. As powerful as vampires are, they still have several very peculiar and very distinctive weaknesses. You asked about roses. Well, a rose will block a vampire's passage across any type of threshold. They are very useful in restraining the undead inside a coffin. Likewise, the scent of garlic acts as a powerful repellent of vampires. If enough fills a room, they will be unable to enter. Then there are the mirrors. As incorporeal, undead creatures, vampires have no soul and thus, cast neither shadow nor reflection. Legend has it that a mirror reveals their inherent emptiness to them and thus can be used to drive them back. We made ample use of that tonight. I suggest we keep that in mind in the future—"

"Actually," Galladrin interrupted, "I was planning on forgetting about the objects that saved our lives. Weren't you?"

Borak glared at the rogue, then continued. "Lastly, and most importantly is the matter concerning invitations. According to legend, a vampire cannot enter a building or human structure of any sort unless it is first invited. Once invited, the creature can come and go as it pleases." Borak paused and took a deep breath before proceeding. "I saw a rat a few nights ago in the wizards guild. It was pretty big for a rat and it was watching us. I felt sure there was some kind of intelligence behind it, but I just couldn't figure out what it was. If that was one of the vampires, then that means it has entered the guild house. It can go there at any time now, and may be on its way there at this very moment. We have to warn them."

Coragan readjusted his position on the rock and frowned. Both Galladrin and Borak turned to look at him, expectant of some comment. He considered their options carefully, then said, "I'm sorry, Borak, but we can't leave here yet. I have no desire to fight these creatures any more tonight if we don't have to. If you hadn't noticed, we are all wounded. You, for one, have a broken arm and look like you're about to keel over unconscious as soon as I turn away. Galladrin's leg got chewed on, as did my shoulder. And we mustn't forget, I lost my horse. That means if we did head toward the guild, Galladrin and I would have to ride double and that would slow us down." Coragan paused to study the sky. "If what you say is true, the vampires should be done their roamings at dawn. That is only a few hours away anyway—so even if we were to head back to the guild tonight, we wouldn't arrive until nearly noon and the vampires would be gone and done whatever they were planning long before we ever got there. No, the wizards will have to fend for themselves tonight. After all, they do have the powers of magic on their side."

Borak's voice was chilled, like the dead earth of winter. "I only hope that will be enough."

### Chapter Twenty

Sweet, warm blood courses down my throat. The frayed edges of torn flesh brush against my tongue and the pulses of the beating heart shudder and grow dim. The body sags downward, the life ebbing from it like the receding tide.

Regretfully, I let the corpse fall. It lands solidly on its side, held in place where the floor meets the wall. A bended knee brings my fingers to the wounded throat. It is dry.

My tongue draws a circle around my lips, collecting the last stray drops of blood. He was a refreshing feast, this young man, one much needed after an eventful evening. Now sated, I can proceed with my plans.

This appears to be a small chamber located on the third floor of the guild. It is a sparsely furnished room, with but a lonely cedar bench and a nondescript arched window. There are a few particles of dust along the sill—all that remains of the young mage's spell. An arm's length from the corpse, an old wooden door stands closed. It is the only exit from the room.

With blood in me, my rage begins to dwindle, slipping away like a leaf in the wind. I must make a special effort to rekindle it and remind myself of the dire need. There are only two hours before the dawn—hardly enough time to slay all the wizards and destroy the guild. If the night were still young, their fates would be sealed. As it is, I shall have to content myself with the head of the serpent that threatens me.

There is a noise beyond the door: the sound of heavy footsteps falling on hallway stones. The clinking of hundreds of iron circles accompanies it, echoing distinctly through the air. If all my life were taken from me, all my thoughts and all my deeds, I would still know that sound. There is a man in armor beyond this door: a guardsman dressed in chain walking on patrol. He is a man wedded to his sword and wedded to a life of servitude. A mage's puppy, content with his existence as long as he knows he has done his master well: served him long and hard, served him until his dying day.

There is a crack between wall and door and it is through this that my body passes. The man starts as I appear before him. His hand lurches awkwardly toward his sword, his thoughts vividly playing out across the features of his face. An enemy of his master has appeared! It is a threat. It must be destroyed.

"Hold." My voice carries strength his feeble mind cannot possibly comprehend, much less resist. He stands stock still, like a statue, with only a trace of motion in breath and pulse. His mouth seems frozen in a silent challenge and his eyes are covered with a polished glaze. By the oddest fancy, my eyes catch sight of the apple in his throat. It is large, for a human, sticking out in a peculiar fashion that makes me think he has swallowed his fist. A distraction, nothing more. "Minion, tell me where the guild master sleeps. Include the councilmen and councilwomen as well."

He responds in a dry and lifeless voice, robbed of even the faintest glimmer of self will. "Guild Master Regecon does not sleep tonight. Nor does the council."

Not asleep? This will be either interesting or perhaps even difficult. "Where can I find them?"

"They are all in the High Council Chamber."

All? This may indeed prove difficult. "How many? Include their names."

"There are five. Guild Master Regecon, High Mage of Fire, Ambrisia, Mistress of Earth—"

"Skip the titles. Just the names and the elements."

"Jacindra, air, Toreg, water, Morcallenon, divination." The guardsman stops, his litany complete.

"How can I find this High Council Chamber?"

With careful words, he spells out the quickest path to the chamber, then stops. He does not move, but waits patiently for my next command. A pity that I have no more use for him.

"You have served your master well." Careful examination shows that the apple of the man's throat is only large by nature. Within or without, there is no sign of disease.

Korina awoke, stifling a scream. She shivered in horror and dread, then slowly sat up and ran her fingers through her damp hair. With single-minded purpose she forced herself to breathe more slowly, measuring each breath with care. The thudding in her chest slowed, and the feelings of dread and images of anguish slipped quietly away. She shuddered once more, then took a final gulp of air.

She could not decide which frightened her more; the nature of the dream itself, or the fact she found herself actually disturbed by it. It did not help that the dream was receding from memory—at least the images were. But the feelings ... those would be difficult to forget. There had been a sensation of spinning, mindlessly, purposelessly, and perpetually. Not just spinning. Although she hadn't been moving, she felt like she had been accelerating, as if falling forever with the air rushing past her ever faster, but the ground never drawing nearer. Such utter lack of control had been maddening. She felt uncertain if it had been the spinning itself that had been accelerating, or if they had just been two separate nauseating feelings. Other sensations had haunted the dream as well, brought on by images that had been vivid and terrifying while she slept, but were now dissolving with the vestiges of drowsiness. Never before had she felt such hopelessness and frustration. Wave upon wave of anguish had crashed into her, dragging her down into a whirling pit of darkness. The darkness seemed to emanate from nothingness, and bring about only nothingness. It fed on anything and everything and brought them all into that horrid nothingness, never to escape. Somehow, she felt connected with that darkness. It was a part of her and it was feeding on her.

Korina shuddered with the memory, then let it fade away as much as possible. That was not something she wanted to keep in mind.

Weakness? Was she being off-balanced by a simple nightmare?

Korina scowled and kicked her feet over the side of the bed. Her hand landed in a patch of dampness, a veritable puddle of sweat. She noticed many other such puddles spotting her blankets. Her frown deepened. Carefully extricating herself from the soaking sheets, Korina tried to shake her thin nightgown off with little success. Unfortunately, the wet diaphanous material clung tenaciously to her limbs and torso; it caught and amplified even the slightest of drafts.

Irritated beyond words, Korina mumbled a brief spell and sighed in relief as a wave of warmth washed over her. She paused a moment, savoring the feel of heat in her body and wiggling her toes in delight. The dampness disappeared in a veil of steam about her, rising toward the ceiling. She cut the spell off with a sigh, then murmured another word and the oil lamp at her desk sprung alight. It cast a flickering array of shadows along the wall.

A quick perusal of the room showed all in order: her desk neat with only two books on earth magic stacked in a corner: her small bookshelf filled with other magical texts stood in a place of honor against the far wall; and the books on demonology and other black magics, the real treasures of her chamber were safely secured in the two footlockers beneath her cot.

Korina stretched, contemplating her sudden wakefulness. She knew she should return to sleep, but her drowsiness had vanished and had been replaced by considerable trepidation over what other dreams sleep might hold in store for her. She wasn't frightened, exactly.

That was a lie. She was frightened. And it was a fear brought on by nothing more than nightmares. A true Daughter of Lubrochius, she berated herself for weakness.

Perhaps another walk through the gardens would clear her head. Odd, how strolling through myriad fanciful colors allowed her to relax and collect her thoughts.

Korina headed toward the door, then stopped.

What had Regecon, Ambrisia, and Morcallenon been discussing earlier? It must have been important, otherwise Morcallenon would not have gone through all the trouble to locate them. He had even broken through the ward against scrying her medallion provided.

She fingered the small amulet nervously with that last thought. She would have to be careful about that. If Morcallenon developed sufficient reason to think her responsible for the interference with his spell, he might start asking questions. If he grew suspicious, she suspected the old diviner might prove a little difficult to eliminate—not impossible, but difficult. And awkward. If she ever did kill anyone on the council she would have to be extremely careful about it. The best way would be to arrange an accident of some sort; something that would point suspicion in a different direction.

Her hand grasped the door handle and pulled, revealing a hall filled with darkness. Running her hands through her hair, Korina padded out into the silent hall on slippered feet; she pulled the door closed behind her, shutting off the oil lamp's light. The sudden absence of brilliance did not faze her, though. Out here, the dim light of Silgaren's struggling moonlight would provide sufficient illumination once her eyes adjusted. Besides, she enjoyed the dark. She found it soothing.

Korina folded her arms across her chest and padded down the hall, lost in thought.

Ambrisia had spoken of many things in the gardens. She had mentioned Morgulan, the man's sceptre, the Children of Lubrochius—fortunately, she and Regecon believed all the Children were extinct—and the Black Circle. Unlike the council members, Korina felt no reluctance to draw the obvious conclusion concerning Arcalian and his interest in the sceptre. He was evil. The young sorceress had never suspected such a thing of the guild master for he had been quite clever at concealing it. But, the mixing dish of seemingly simple design had been covered with necromantic sigils—

Korina paused in the hall, furrowing her brow.

Could that have been what Morcallenon had been concerned with? Had he deciphered the sigils on the jar? If so, she was quite impressed. She would not have expected Morcallenon to delve into the darker types of lore in his search. Very few had the courage to do that.

Necromantic sigils? The Sceptre of Morgulan? Certainly, there had to be some connection. The legends said that Morgulan had commanded considerable legions of undead in his armies. After all, his lover Zarina had been quite skilled in the black arts. In fact, the woman had been a fellow Daughter of Lubrochius in her day.

Voices ahead of her drew Korina from her thoughts. No doubt the night watchmen were having a brief discussion before they passed each other by. It could get lonely walking the halls at night. Korina approached the corner and stopped, puzzled. Those last words had had a definite air of command behind them, and a considerable amount of malice. Intrigued, the young sorceress padded to the bend in the hall and peeked around the corner.

Up ahead, a night watchman stood stiffly at attention with hand on hilt as he addressed a tall, darkly clad man. The guard, Eredith, she knew, but the man he spoke to stood on the periphery of shadows. " ... Ambrisia, Mistress of the Earth—"

"Skip the titles. Just the names and the elements." The shrouded man spoke softly, yet his voice carried a commanding edge like an iron sword swathed in cotton. It sounded oddly familiar to Korina, but she could not place it.

"Jacindra, air, Toreg, water, Morcallenon, divination." The guard's voice, dry and toneless, sounded more like the speech of an animated golem than that of a human being.

"How can I find this High Council Chamber?" Again, the guard answered as if the words were being pulled out of him by some magical force.

"You have served your master well."

Korina blinked, and saw that now the strange man held a bloody something in his right hand. Eredith tried to gasp, but no sounds came out. A fountain of blood erupted from the guard's throat and his body slumped toward the floor. Quicker than Korina's eyes could follow, the strange man grabbed Eredith by the bicep. He leaned over the dying watchman, drawing his face to within inches of the rushing blood. A tongue flicked out, and the figure straightened.

Korina pried her eyes from the gruesome scene, and pulled herself back around the corner, her heart pounding.

What had she just witnessed? Someone had just ripped Eredith's throat out with casual ease and then bent over to taste his blood like a connoisseur might taste wine. Now, this person, this stranger was in the hallway around the corner, in the hall walking toward her. She could not see the figure, but she knew. A whispering in her head grew to a dull throb and then an internal scream. Every ounce of her being shrieked a warning. She did not dare risk another look around the corner, lest she be seen. She paused, listening. Desperately, she strained to hear the sound of approaching footsteps, but she heard nothing except the beating of her own heart. Had he turned and walked the other way? Or was he a trained assassin, silent as Death? Her thudding heart could almost feel the Sickle.

Korina knew no fear of man or woman. Even as a student, she knew her skills were the match of any mage in Drisdak, save those of the council itself. Against a man without the benefit of magic her powers were nearly invincible. Yet she still felt uncomfortable facing an opponent she did not know. She preferred to know their powers, know their limits, know the enemy she would kill. It took the element of chance from the conflict, and guaranteed her success. Tonight, however, was different. Chance remained elusively beyond her control. The man in the hall ahead had looked like an ordinary human, but moved in a manner no mere man could replicate. He had ripped the guardsman's throat out with his bare hand. Only a master of unarmed fighting could have hoped to accomplish that so quickly and so easily. Could he be a bloodseeker, an assassin trained from birth by a dark cult? No, that did not explain the power of compulsion. Whatever was in the hall ahead was not a simple assassin, no matter how well trained. A cold icicle of realization plunged into her heart. It wasn't even human.

She crept slowly backward, cautiously at first, then more quickly with every step. Each passing moment stretched like an eternity of torture, an agony of expectant doom. Even in her slippered feet, her gentle footsteps seemed to pound the corridor stones like a forge smith's hammer, echoing relentlessly in the dead of night. If the man was nearby, and she was sure he was, she felt certain he had heard her.

Korina rounded the last corner before her room, then broke into a run. She sensed, rather than saw, that something pursued her. Stalked rather. Or, perhaps, it simply played with her. She pictured it strolling down the corridor after her, laughing in delight as she fled in terror, knowing full well she had no place to hide where it could not find her.

Korina closed the door in near panic. It slipped and boomed loudly in the night. Why was she so frightened?

Korina's fingers shook as she murmured several words and inscribed a hasty fire sigil on the door. Addled severely, she very nearly lost the spell. She forced herself to be calm, then stepped back. Whatever came through that door was in for a nasty surprise, one of Korina's specialties. A small voice in the back of her head, the one that whispered an early warning, whispered again. One sigil was not enough.

Korina retreated to the far corner and grabbed a small pouch. It held a fine whitish dust—cedar ash—with which she made a perfect grey circle around herself on the floor. Quickly, four more sigils joined the ensorcelled ring.

Murmuring a prayer to Lubrochius, Korina straightened and clasped the amulet at her chest. Summoning the magic imbued therein, she raised a hand and turned to face the doorway. Whatever found her would not find her unprepared.

Chapter Twenty-One

Ambrisia twirled a long tress of her brown hair around her finger, then glanced around at the other mages in the High Council Chamber. Each one sat in an ornate chair carved from oak. Five chairs for five mages—arranged in a circle around a small meeting table. They had met at this table many times before, to discuss guild policy and make plans. Tonight, however, the conversation was going nowhere.

Ambrisia sighed. They had been sitting in the chamber for nearly three hours now and they had established only that Arcalian had a pottery dish designed for some necromantic purpose. Startling news, but still wearisome when the last hours of the night were threatening to give way to dawn.

She folded her hands on the table and slumped her chin down to her knuckles. Rolling her eyes toward Regecon, she did her best to say 'It's late. I'm tired, bored, and ready to pass out,' all in a single expression. The guild master watched the performance, then frowned.

She straightened immediately and pretended to smooth her robes. Regecon might give her some leeway in matters of propriety, but she saw no point in pushing him. Especially if he was in a bad mood. Given Toreg's behavior, that seemed likely. He was just slow in showing it.

"All of you can deny the evidence as much as you like," Toreg said. Flushed in the face, he stared at each of them in turn, his eyes determined. He motioned deliberately toward the jar in front of Morcallenon as he spoke. "As for me, the very existence of those sigils is proof of Arcalian's corruption. It is my vote that we brand the man a traitor and ask the chief magistrate of the city to issue an order for his arrest."

Morcallenon's forehead slumped to his hand in exasperation. The diviner slowly shook his head. "That's a beautiful plan, Toreg. Why don't we have Regecon issue a proclamation declaring our former guild master to be a necromancer in service of Lubrochius. How do you think the townspeople will respond to that?"

Ambrisia frowned sourly. Morcallenon's point was well-taken. Common folk were often distrustful of magic. One whiff of anything as sinister as necromancy would at least create a panic, if not bring the entire city marching against the guild house walls.

Regecon looked toward Morcallenon. "If the people suffer harm from Arcalian's activities, I think they do deserve to know the truth."

Ambrisia shook her head and stared at the jar on the table. So much trouble over a simple pottery dish. And not a very pretty one at that. She wished she could smash it against the floor and wipe it from existence. It would be futile to try, of course. With those earth runes on it, only magic could destroy the jar. Yet, she felt sorely tempted.

She returned her gaze to Regecon, frowning thoughtfully. She agreed with him in spirit, but recognized something the guild master did not or perhaps, would not: prudence often demanded one act against one's spirit and its cherished rules of conduct. Regecon wouldn't see it that way, she knew. He was always stubborn on issues of right and wrong.

Toreg shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He coughed once, then cleared his throat. Ambrisia smiled. The man would hate to admit he was wrong, but Morcallenon's point was telling. "As much as it disheartens me to do so," Toreg began, "I find that I must agree with Morcallenon. It may be best to keep all talk of Arcalian's treachery and any mention of necromancy to ourselves." Ambrisia arched an eyebrow, impressed. He hadn't even tried to save face.

"That is impossible," Regecon said. The guild master leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Upon learning that necromancy was involved, I had Morcallenon do a divining to locate Coragan and his companions. They were in dire straits, stranded on a small river island being besieged by a frenzied pack of wolves. Morcallenon also detected several ripples of black time in the area." Jacindra gasped, paling visibly, but Regecon continued. "I dispatched Mathagarr with several men. They were equipped with crossbows and a dozen silver- tipped quarrels and informed of the possibility of an undead presence. They are good men, and I told them that their mission required secrecy, but rumours often have a way of slipping past even the best of men, especially in situations such as this."

Ambrisia scowled and stared angrily at the guild master. Across from her, Toreg glared and fumed with repressed fury. Neither Morcallenon nor Jacindra, however, showed any signs of anger. Morcallenon looked intent and cautiously sober. Jacindra looked, strangely, ready to vomit.

Ambrisia spoke in a strained, tight voice. "With all due respect, Guild Master, do you not think that you should have informed us of this before the men were dispatched?"

Toreg echoed her, then added a bit more harshly, "Those men should not have been told."

"I told you they'd be upset," Morcallenon said.

Regecon ignored Toreg and stared at Ambrisia until she looked away. "There was no time for debate or discussion," he said. "Coragan and his companions may have lost their lives if I had delayed. They may yet still." He turned to Toreg. "As for informing those men, Water Mage, I could see no other acceptable option. I will not send men out against such evil," he motioned to the jar, "with neither the weapons nor the knowledge necessary to defend themselves. Such an action would be tantamount to murder."

Again, Ambrisia found herself agreeing with Regecon in spirit, but all it would take would be one loose tongue, one unguarded whisper ...

Toreg's face twisted into a mask of controlled rage. His cheeks flushed a crimson red and his temple throbbed with the pulse of his heart. "Is there anything else we should know, _Guild Master?"_

"I sent Mage Methoin with them. With his aid and his knowledge of the undead, and the use of those crossbow bolts, they should have no difficulties. I expect them all back before sundown tomorrow ... er, today, actually."

"Yes, today," Toreg said, scowling.

Ambrisia shot the water mage a warning glare, then looked to Regecon. "Are we done here, then? I am tired and would like to retire. If you have already sent the men, there is little else we can do tonight—"

Regecon nodded. "If no one else has anything constructive to add to our discussion, we can adjourn until the morrow—"

"I have a question. A bit off topic, perhaps, but still important," Toreg said.

"Yes?"

"Has anyone else heard the reports concerning rats in the kitchens?"

Ambrisia looked up in surprise. "That's impossible! This guild is covered in wards—"

"Nevertheless, I have three apprentices who swear to seeing several of the vermin just this evening." The water mage stared at her, his eyes hinting of challenge, daring her to dispute his claim further. He could be very argumentative at times.

"But the wards ..."

"Have no doubt failed."

"How?"

She turned to Regecon for an answer. The guild master simply shrugged. "If the wards have failed, they can be reinscribed. If you would do me the favor, Ambrisia, please check on them first thing tomorrow—when you awake. If you can determine what caused the deterioration, do so. Otherwise, I think we have more important things to do than worry about rats. If there is nothing else, I believe we should retire. Let us meet again tomorrow after the evening meal. Hopefully, Coragan and his companions will have returned and we will have more to work on. Until then, good night."

Mathagarr felt for his sword hilt and scanned the trees with a restless eye. They didn't seem that forbidding. In fact, with the thin sprinkling of snow, they looked almost pretty. Still, Regecon had warned him of undead and even given him silver-tipped crossbow quarrels and a guild wizard to ensure their safety. He was not about to throw caution to the wind and march into the woods unprepared.

He turned to Methoin. "Is there nothing you can do?"

The fire mage shrugged. "My magic is called flamecraft. It is dedicated to combating an enemy after he has been found, not searching one out in the dark of night. In my opinion, you are being paranoid. Sending a lone scout just because the terrain has changed and you are worried of ambush seems rather foolish to me."

Mathagarr bit back an angry reply. He did not appreciate the mage's remarks in front of his men. Regecon had placed Mathagarr in charge of the mission, and then provided Methoin as an afterthought. Obviously, Methoin did not consider himself under the guard captain's authority. He would let Mathagarr lead, but Lubrochius would turn from darkness before some mages would show a soldier deference and respect. "Do you have a suggestion, Mage?" He tried to keep the anger from his words, but a sudden straightening of the mage's back showed that he had failed.

"We should waste no more time and rejoin the scout in the woods. After all, undead are not known for setting ambushes. They tend more to the mindless march and the fight unto death ...very much like a soldier." The mage's voice had trailed to a murmur for that last part, but Mathagarr still heard him. Although angered, he did not reply. He knew a losing battle when he saw one. Once they returned to the guild, Methoin would remember any slight received tonight and pay it back in full, probably with interest. Mathagarr contented himself with staying silent, and patiently waiting for the scout to return. The man appeared several moments later.

"The forest road is clear, sir. No sign of wolves or anything else for a hundred yards in every direction."

Mathagarr nodded. So the wizard was right. It mattered not. Next time, he might not be. "Let's move out, men. We have half an hour until dawn and I want to be past the Black Rapids by the time the sun rises. Re-light the torches and pick up the pace."

The torches would allow their small group to wind their way with ease through otherwise difficult terrain—at least until the sun came up; then they would no longer be needed. There was a catch, though; as long as they burned, they would make their party more visible.

_I hope that's to our advantage,_ he thought, as the two orange bursts of light flared up on either side of him. _Undead fear fire, don't they?_ He fingered a silver quarrel nervously. If the undead were actually drawn by the light, there would be some serious fighting to do. If, on the other hand, the three men they sought were drawn to the light, all the better. Unfortunately, from his understanding, the men were a good quarter of a day's ride into the woods. If they drew anything to the light at all, it would be undead.

### Chapter Twenty-Two

There is someone creeping quietly ahead of me, moving down the corridor around the bend. I can tell that it's a woman. She gasped once, not loudly, but with enough pitch to reveal that feminine taint to her voice. If I listen carefully, I can hear her heart beating, strong and fast—very healthy.

She is creeping slowly, staying close to the passage wall. Something soft is muffling her footfalls in a poor attempt to mask her retreat. To a mortal creature, her feet would be silent beyond notice, but it takes more than slippers to fool ears as acute as mine. Apparently, she suspects this too. She is picking up her pace. Indeed, she is nearly running.

Should I chase her down? My real target is the mage Regecon, and his circle of wizards. This woman, though she smells of magic, is not one of those. If she is, she is very late for her meeting and has a long way to go. As the guard informed me, there are several passages and two flights of stairs before the High Council Chamber.

A walk down the corridor brings the woman's scent more strongly to my nose. She wears a pleasant perfume tonight, one that mixes oddly with the scent of magic and sweat that still lingers in the air. If I were a man, I suppose I would find her perfume enticing. In a way it is still enticing, but mine is not the lust of a simple man. I have fed once already this evening, but the pangs of hunger are quick to return; they never stay sated for very long.

Glancing toward the crumpled guard, my thoughts consider his body and the blood it harbors. No. The man is dead and the precious fluid grows cooler by the moment; it is losing its flavor and texture with great rapidity.

I turn from the corpse.

Ahead of me, the woman is now running at full speed, no longer making any effort whatsoever to hide her presence. My feet carry me after her, quickly and quietly, but not in a rush; it is much more desirable to stalk, to play, to savor the terror of one's victim.

Up ahead, a door closes and the lock clicks into place.

She has sought a hidden refuge, foolishly thinking a wooden barrier can keep me from her. How enchanting. What else might she try? A spell to ward the door, perhaps? Another ready in mind?

I approach the barrier. It is solidly built, made of some wood I don't recognize and reinforced with bronze; the scent of magic wafts delicately up from the handle of the door, the markings of a sorcerous trap. A strong trap, too, given the time this woman had. Zarina herself could hardly have done better on such short notice. Not that it matters. Even Zarina could not keep me at bay with a spell like this; I do not need to use a handle to enter a room.

My foot steps forward, then stops in midstride. There is a commotion at the far end of the hall and the distinctive ring of chain mail links clanking together echoes down the passage. Another guard, doing his nightly rounds, approaches.

He hasn't seen me yet, seemingly more concerned with the storm outside than with the duty he has chosen. To him the storm is an oddity, an aberration of nature, something to enrapture his mind on a long and tedious night. It sends no warning to his thoughts; it heralds no rising of my power. If it did, he would flee in terror.

My gliding form makes no sound; it draws to within five paces before the man turns. With a strangled shout, he reaches for his sword while my body hurtles forward. My clawed hands rake across his chest and slam him forcibly against the guild house wall. There is a snap of breaking bones and a sudden strained outflow of breath from his lungs. The guard retains his sword, but the wheezing for lost air has driven all thoughts of resistance from his mind.

My feet glide forward and my hand grabs his chin in a grip of iron. Slowly, deliberately, I lift him up, digging my claws into his cheeks and scraping his metal helm against the wall. Realizing his danger, the mortal slashes with his sword. The unhindered passage of his weapon through my chest brings his eyes wide with surprise and shock. Desperately, futilely, he slashes toward my neck, striking a blow to sever my head. Again, the weapon passes through without resistance. A third time he strikes, this time toward my shoulder. Such a puny mind cannot comprehend the paradox that confronts it: I hold him up, but his weapon does not touch me.

A warm rivulet of blood flows from his cheek down the backside of my hand. A crimson drop splatters on the cold stones of the floor.

My smile is one of mocking contempt, challenging the man to solve the riddle. With deliberate slowness, I use my other hand to trace a drop of human blood pooling on the crevice of my thumb. The dumbfounded eyes watch my finger in confusion as it lifts up and carefully draws a circle on his head. Will he make any connection whatsoever?

Indeed, he does. The sword clatters to the ground and he swings his fist toward my chin. We both feel it, not the ineffectiveness that marked the sword, but a trace of resistance—like a special piece of iron passing near the lodestone. Neither stone nor iron is harmed, but there is contact of a sort.

I shove him farther up the wall, drawing sparks from his helm and producing a tremendous screeching sound.

Desperately he lashes out, trying to drive me back with his fist. It avails him not. The contact is frail and tenuous, like two clouds passing through each other, then moving onward in the night. In a final gesture of defiance, he grapples for my arm. His groping fingers pass through my shoulder, my elbow, then suddenly find purchase near my wrist. They slip a moment, sliding through, but he finally manages to dig his fingers into my thumb, hoping his puny mortal strength can force a loosening of my grip.

A brief thought and my hand becomes as mist to him, matching the rest of my body. The man's fingers slide through my flesh, clattering loudly against the chain links of his armor. He stumbles to his knees. Ironically, he leans over and sticks his helmet through my leg.

I reach down, turn his face toward mine, then grip his helm with both my hands. A brief moment of exertion, and it crumples inward spilling blood and gore. I twist his head around one final time, then let his body slump to the guild house stones.

Turning, I glance back to the door behind which the woman still hides. It would seem this man has saved her life, unwittingly or not. My time is short, and I have dallied far too long. It is the man Regecon that I seek, not a frightened school girl, no matter how enchanting her tricks may be. I must move on, sparing not even the time to make a proper feed.

Whirling about, my feet carry me from woman, man, and hall. I move around a corner to the first staircase the guardsman mentioned and climb down one flight of steps. Three more passages bring me to a second staircase leading to the ground level floor. From here, it is but a brief walk to the waiting wizards.

As quiet as autumn moonlight, I slip through the guild house halls. One more guardsman meets a gruesome end tonight and his corpse finds rest in a secluded niche, one which will keep him hidden until after I am gone.

At long last, I stand before the door of the High Council Chamber, peering cautiously through the crack between iron door and wall. It is such a fine line, I must insert my head partially into the room to get a clear view.

Inside, the wizards sit in earnest debate. I recognize Jacindra, but not the others. She is quietly sitting in the corner, apparently distant from the ongoing discussion. I will have to speak to her about that—she must become more active, more vocal to my cause. Perhaps, if I bit her this time ...

There is a commotion as one mage rises. By his dress, I'd say he was a fire wizard. By the respect he's given, I'd say he was Regecon, the guild master. He seems to be dismissing the mages, yet only two of them are leaving. Jacindra is heading toward one of the distant doors and one of the other men is marching in my direction.

If I let this one wizard past, that will leave three inside the chamber. Can I handle three? I am fairly certain I could, but dawn draws near. It could be fatal to find oneself embroiled in battle with the rising of the Sun. Although I will have a guild between myself and His rays, the proper spell, a well-placed mirror, or the crumbling of the stones could rob me of my strength. Best to find another means to strike my blow.

I could stalk Jacindra, but I already hold sway over her heart, if not her soul. That leaves the man approaching. Now, then, what of him?

Toreg strode from the chamber, his thoughts troubled. No matter what the others thought, as far as he was concerned his doubts of Arcalian had been justified. The man had obviously been a practicing necromancer, perhaps not the only one. He supposed it was possible that the jar had been made elsewhere, and then acquired by Arcalian at a later time. Maybe he was in fact innocent. Perhaps he never knew the true nature of the jar.

In a pig's eye. No wizard chose to hold onto an object he could identify without doing just that: identifying it. If Arcalian did not know what the jar did, he would have been doing the research to find out. If it was beyond him, he would have given it to Morcallenon. Just perhaps, he might have received the object on the very night he disappeared. That still left the matter of the sceptre. The Sceptre of Morgulan was an artifact of immense diabolical power, yet Arcalian had kept his search for the object a secret. Why? Because he was evil. He was a necromancer, a student of the black path, dabbling in the dark powers of the undead. If the others could not see this, they were fools. How much leeway could one give for a former friend before one must admit to his corruption? Although the diviner had discovered the true nature of the sigils, he probably would not lose faith in Arcalian until the man bound him as a wraith. Regecon, on the other hand, might be coming around. He had looked very disturbed and uncomfortable by the idea of Arcalian's treachery, but he had not spoken against it. At least there was someone who could be shown the truth. How unpleasant a thought that it might be limited to Regecon. Ambrisia had seemed nearly as doubtful as Morcallenon, while Jacindra had hardly spoken at all the entire night. Only the gods knew what her problem was, fidgeting and looking nauseous all night long, looking as uncomfortable as an apprentice caught skipping class. Looking guilty.

Toreg froze in midstride. Jacindra a necromancer? Was that possible? There had been no air sigils on the jar, but that did not rule her out. If there were others in the guild, why could Jacindra not be one? A secret cult of dark practitioners. Who else might be involved? It could be quite widespread.

Toreg started walking again. Jacindra herself had warned against a devil's inquisition just a few nights ago. Might that not be an attempt to ward off a rousing of concern? Might that not be an attempt to protect a cult of evil from discovery? Now she was beginning to panic as the evidence of such a presence began to mount. A normally steady woman, her fears were beginning to show through.

Toreg paused at the door to his room, wondering if he should go back and seek her out. She might at this very moment be warning others. No, he was tired. He was not certain of her involvement with necromancy. This all might be the product of a tired, over-worked mind. The best thing to do was to get some rest and approach the problem with a clear head tomorrow.

He opened the door and took two steps inside. Perhaps he might even bring the matter up with Regecon—alone, of course. Regecon might be a fool, but he doubted the man was a necromancer. He could have brushed this whole disappearance under the rug as soon as it had come up, but he didn't. He wanted to know. Dislike it as much as he might, Toreg felt he could trust Regecon.

There was a squeak at Toreg's feet, and the water mage looked down. A large black shape darted from his legs to the bed in the corner. A rat. A large one, too.

Toreg scowled, staring at the creature. It stared back with dead grey eyes that watched him with feverish intensity. Something had to be done about these creatures. Obviously, the wards were failing. If he caught this rodent and brought it to the other council members, even Ambrisia would be forced to acknowledge that fact. He took two steps forward and the rat darted beneath the bed.

This was going to be difficult.

He took another step, then knelt down with one hand braced against the bed post. He took a deep breath, grumbling a curse to himself, then reached for the overhanging bedspread and threw it on top of the mattress. He put one hand on the floor and leaned down.

A dark furry shape rushed forward and sank sharp teeth into the crook of his thumb. Toreg pulled back violently, suppressing the scream that threatened. His face contorted in bitter pain and the water mage stared mesmerized by the rat hanging from his hand, attached to the meat of the crook of his thumb like a determined parasite. Two crimson drops of blood dripped from his hand, splattering across the creature's dark fur.

Wincing from the pain, Toreg reached for the rodent. He knew the spell he'd use. The bodies of most creatures contained an enormous amount of water. It was a very painful process having it all removed.

The rodent squirmed as Toreg's fingers touched it. The furry creature released its hold and dropped to the floor beneath a small fountain of spouting blood. Toreg cursed as the spell slipped from his mind. He made another grab for the creature, but it darted beyond his reach.

The rat stopped by the doorway and looked back at him. Toreg could have almost sworn the creature smiled. The water mage stumbled to his feet, fuming that he had forgotten to close the door, and the rodent scurried into the hall. He moved to pursue, taking three steps out into the corridor, but all was quiet.

The rat was gone.

### Chapter Twenty-Three

Regecon slipped his orange-red robes from about his shoulders and draped them over a chair. Dressed in only his thin undergarments, he strolled to the bedroom window. Outside, the dark of night was giving way to the grey of approaching dawn. He could already see the harbor in the distance, a deeper darkness in the early morn. Between the waters and himself, the streets of Drisdak lay covered by a thin coating of snow. Even as he watched, the white flurries continued to fall foretelling a gloomy morning, one he would be glad to miss.

Regecon gave a final survey of the city streets, then swung the shutters closed and twisted the lock in place. He turned, sighing wearily, and headed toward the warmth of his bed. He had only gone two steps when he heard a knock on his door. The guild master paused several paces from his bed, glanced once toward the doorway, then returned his gaze to the mattress beckoning to him from beneath its covers. He let out an exhausted sigh. He'd been up all night in meetings and discussions, and now desperately needed his sleep.

There was another knock.

Regecon turned and regathered his robes. Once fully dressed, he moved toward the door. The troubles of the world did not wait for the weary. As the guild master, he had a duty to attend to.

The knock started again, this time echoed by an urgent voice. "Guild Master Regecon, Guild Master Regecon! Please wake up! It is important."

Regecon grunted in irritation, then opened the door. In the hallway in front of him, one of the night watchmen stood, dressed in chain armor, with a sword at his side and a helm on his head, his pale face accentuated by eyes full of fear. "I am awake, Guardsman. What is the problem?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the man said, "but there's been a murder. Two, actually."

Regecon's irritation vanished instantly and all thought of sleep fled from his mind. "Take me to them."

Without a word, the guard nodded and turned away. Regecon followed with steady even steps. A murder. Two, in fact. _What in the blazes is going on?_ he thought. _Curses, but this is a guild of wizards! One can not just walk in and slay men at random!_

The guard rounded a corner up ahead and Regecon followed, his thoughts growing grimmer by the moment. More men dead. Did they have families? Friends? How much blood would Regecon see before all this was over? He was certain the murders were connected to the earlier fire; they were just too close in time and he had a feeling in his bones. He knew if Morcallenon did another divining, he'd no doubt find nothing but more black time.

Regecon stopped when he saw the first of the bodies, a guardsman with his head crushed. Not just his head, the helm as well. Whatever had done such a thing possessed enormous strength. He bent down to examine the man's face to see if he could discern his identity, but saw nothing but a bloody, unrecognizable mass of gore. Disgusted, he turned away.

"You said there was another?"

"Yes, sir. Over here."

The guard led him further down the hall, around another bend, to still another corner but one with a door on the side as well. Slumped in the hallway another guardsman lay with a small bloody object covered by thin strands of flesh resting a short distance away. From the look of the corpse and the gaping hole in its neck, Regecon guessed the object was the remains of the man's throat. _What could do this?_ he thought. _Something undead, no doubt. But what?_

Two dead guardsmen, killed less than a hundred feet from each other in the same hallway. Perhaps he'd have to consider putting some of the mages on guard duty. With magic on their side, they ought to be able to handle themselves a little better than a man with a sword, especially if undead were involved.

Regecon opened the door.

"By the Sickle!" the guardsman beside him swore.

On the floor before Regecon, Durek lay. A student of Ambrisia's due for testing, the man was everything but a mage in title. Be that as it may, whatever had killed him did not seem to have taken notice.

"Have a rough night, friends?" the guardsman asked.

Coragan nodded. "We most certainly did."

On the road to Drisdak, the three companions pulled up short to address the company of guardsmen. They had been traveling for three hours now, ever since dawn, with Galladrin and Coragan both riding the same beleaguered horse. A dozen guardsman, led by Mathagarr the watch captain, had appeared just minutes earlier, riding down the road with desperate urgency. Galladrin studied the small party of men as they reined their horses in. The sounds of snorting equines drowned out the rest of the forest. "How did you find us?" he asked.

Mathagarr glanced to the mage at his side. The red-robed wizard simply shrugged. "Mage Morcallenon did a divination to locate you last night. The mages have made a discovery. It appears the jar you found had necromantic sigils on it, which leads to the possibility that undead may be involved—"

"We know," Coragan said. "We've already encountered them."

"You have?" Methoin asked, only mildly curious. "Did they cause any difficulty?"

Galladrin smiled thinly as the fire mage spoke. Obviously, the man did not consider the threat of undead very serious. For a wizard, he seemed bored, unconcerned, like a man sent on an errand as a penance for some wrong. "That depends. How much difficulty do you think two vampires could cause?" The effect of his words did not disappoint.

The mage straightened in his saddle immediately, his eyes wide. The distant distracted look vanished like smoke, replaced by one of keenest concern. He stroked his chin nervously as he spoke. "Vampires? Are you certain?" A shadow of doubt crept into his eyes. "No, that cannot be." He looked back and forth between the three men, studying them for signs of deceit. His gaze lingered a long time on the rogue, as if his eyes might bore holes into the depths of his soul.

"They were vampires." Borak's tone left no room for question.

Galladrin watched as the mage's lips tightened in irritation. He cast a disapproving glance toward Mathagarr, but the night watchman, like the rest of the guards, did not seem to take much notice. They had not reacted to mention of the vampires. The mage cast a challenging stare toward the huge warrior on his horse. "If what you say is true, and you did encounter vampires, how then did you escape? Were any of you bitten?"

Borak, though pale and weary, still met the wizard's gaze without flinching. He straightened in his horse, and stared back while he spoke. "We made camp on a river island. It was past midnight, so the flowing waters kept us safe. However, the vampires sent a pack of wolves to drive us out, but fortunately we defeated them." Borak's voice was firm and steady, despite his evident weariness. "And as for being bitten, none of us ... were ..." The warrior trailed off, circling his gaze toward the rogue and suddenly looking very worried as well as tired. "Galladrin, did the woman drink your blood?"

Galladrin scratched his chin and shrugged. "What?" he asked, a little confused. Who cared? They were safely on the road to Drisdak now. As long as they didn't waste the whole day discussing vampires in the middle of the forest, they'd be fine.

"I asked you if the woman drank your blood," Borak said. "I seem to recall her licking the wound on your chest."

Both Borak and the mage were staring at him now, and Galladrin started feeling irritated. He glanced toward Coragan, but the bounty hunter only shrugged. He didn't understand their interest either. Annoyed, Galladrin forced a tight smile before speaking. Play games with him, would they? "Don't you think that's a little personal? After all, what I do with women is my own business, be they vampires or otherwise."

"This isn't funny, Galladrin," Borak said. For once, anger showed clearly through in the warrior's voice. Shocked, Galladrin didn't know what to say.

Mage Methoin, however, did. "The bite of a vampire is a curse. Such creatures sustain their lives by drinking the blood of humans. That is also how they procreate."

Coragan turned and frowned at the mage. "What are you talking about?"

The mage hesitated before continuing, his face grim. "A man bitten by a vampire, but not slain, can expect to be revisited. Over the course of time, he will slowly be transformed until he becomes a vampire himself. There is no cure. The process is irreversible by all means save one."

Galladrin's heart started racing. Become a vampire! Perhaps his attempt at humor had been a bit premature. "And what is this means?"

"A man bitten by a vampire must ensure that vampire's complete destruction or be doomed to an eternity as its undead minion."

Galladrin paled. He had hoped it was over, that they could leave well enough alone and avoid the vampires in the future. In retrospect, he realized that notion had been foolish. In all likelihood, the vampires were involved in Arcalian's disappearance and their search for answers regarding that was bound to lead them to another confrontation. This new information sealed it. Clarissa had drunk of his blood and bound him to her in a way he did not wish to comprehend. Either she must die, or he must join her. However, just as he was about to give all up for lost, a sudden thought occurred to him. "You said that this is true of men who have been bitten, correct?" Galladrin asked.

"Yes," the mage responded.

"Well, then, your fears are unfounded. She never bit me. She only licked my wound."

Borak looked up, an odd thoughtful expression on his face.

Meanwhile, the mage scowled and studied the rogue intensely before speaking. "But she did drink your blood."

"Well, yes. But she didn't bite me."

Methoin looked to Borak and the warrior shook his head in confusion. The mage turned back to Galladrin. "That is an interesting point. To the best of my knowledge, vampires have always bitten their victims to bring about the conversion. However, it would stand to reason that the puncturing of the flesh by vampiric teeth is of no consequence, and it is the transference of blood from victim to vampire that is the root cause of the transformation."

"That assumes the nature of a vampire has a rational ground, that it behaves in a logical, coherent fashion," Borak pointed out.

"Well, of course it does," Methoin replied. "All things ultimately have a rational explanation. It is only reasonable that the blood is the agent resp—"

"Only reasonable?" Borak asked, turning to the mage. "What is reasonable about a creature that is thwarted by a rose? Or garlic? Or its own reflection? We speak of creatures that are incinerated by sunlight—"

"That is because they are Undead. They are creatures whose ties to darkness are so strong, that the light of the sun is fatal to them. It severs them from the evil which is necessary to sustain their existence. Thus, they are destroyed."

"And the running water?"

The mage looked angry, no doubt from the simple fact that his authority was being repeatedly questioned by a man who wielded an axe for a living. "I have a considerable amount of knowledge concerning undead in general, but I do not consider myself an expert, particularly in regards to such minute details as these. However, I suspect that the power of water is in part due to the symbolic attachment that the liquid has with cleansing. You will find that symbolism has a great deal of influence over matters of good and evil and water has always been a symbolic agent of purification. What is in more need of being cleansed than the taint of evil?"

Borak was undaunted. "Did you know we saw a vampire walk through a table?"

"So?"

"If a rose is placed in an archway to stop a vampire, why can't a creature that can walk through a table simply walk through a wall? How is it that I find myself capable of grappling with such a creature? How can a creature be barred from entering a building, simply because it has not been invited? How—"

"Enough. I concede your point," the mage said, raising his hand to cut the warrior off. "However, I would suggest that even though you cannot be certain that Galladrin has been affected by this vampire, you must assume that he has. This leaves you with only two options: lock him in a room for observation and take the necessary actions if he does change, or hunt down and destroy the vampire in question."

"What are the 'necessary actions' that must be taken if I start to change?" Galladrin asked.

Borak's voice came across flat and toneless. "We would have to drive a stake through your heart."

Galladrin's eyes widened in alarm. "Well, then, let's start back after those vampires right now."

"Then you risk battling the vampires again and infecting others." The wizard's voice echoed Borak's: flat, toneless, cold.

"Excuse me. I'm not about to let someone drive a stake through my chest if there is another way. Come on, Coragan, turn the horse around."

The rogue reached for the reins, but the bounty hunter shrugged him off, wrapping them securely around his own wrist instead. "I suspected we would have to deal with these creatures again before everything was finished," the bounty hunter said. "They may even be responsible for Arcalian's disappearance." Coragan turned to the wizard. "Would a vampire be capable of generating black time?'

Methoin shrugged. "That is a question best left to Morcallenon. I know very little of that field."

Coragan nodded in thought. "If that is the case, our course of action is obvious."

Galladrin started. "It is?"

"Borak's arm is still broken, my friend, and we have questions in need of answers. The Abbey of Drellenor is on the way back to the guild. I suggest we make a brief stop there to have our injuries tended to, then follow these men back to Regecon. We can discuss further plans with the guild master." Coragan paused, and looked around at the surrounding trees. "The presence of vampires definitely complicates things."

### Chapter Twenty-Four

Korina let her arm fall to her side. Now she heard voices she recognized outside. One such voice sounded like Guild Master Regecon, and she breathed an exhausted sigh of relief; her vigil was over. She had been in the same position for over an hour with her eyes glued to the door, and a spell on the tip of her tongue. She had been poised intensely, waiting for the first sign of an intruder so she could blast the far wall and anything near it into oblivion. Apparently, it had all been for naught. Whatever it was that had stalked her was gone. She did not know when or how, but the creature had left without ever opening her door.

Korina relaxed. Though tired, she still felt curious. What would Regecon make of the dead guard? Perhaps she should find out.

She broke the small magician's circle that had been her home for the last hour, then quickly swept the ashes up with a small hand broom. Straightening her robes, the young woman stepped to the door. She hesitated with her hand near the handle, anxiety temporarily thwarting her curiosity. Patiently, she listened. Regecon's voice and footsteps had moved farther down the passage, too far for her to understand whatever was being said; however, there was no indication of fear or struggle in what little she could discern. Certainly, the creature had to be gone. If still in the hall, it would have attacked the guild master by now. Nevertheless, the young sorceress waited a whole ten count before removing the ward and stepping out into the corridor.

Almost immediately, she saw a body down the hall on her right, perhaps twenty paces away. It lay in a pool of blood that seemed to emanate from around its head. Apparently, another guardsman had run afoul of her mysterious visitor. Upon reflection, she remembered hearing some strange noises at one point, a metallic shrieking of some kind. That must have been when the guardsman died. She took her time to absorb the sight, then turned and walked down the passage on her left.

Ahead she could see Regecon and a guardsman she did not recognize, examining the body of Eredith, the man whose death she had witnessed. After a moment, Regecon turned and opened a small door on his right—as far as Korina could recall, it was the very door that the stranger had been positioned in front of before he had slain the guard. Perhaps the man had even entered through the window she knew was in the room beyond.

The guardsman next to the guild master—the live guard, Korina added with an amused smile—swore out loud. He stepped into the room at Regecon's side with his hand tightly gripping the hilt of his sword.

Korina padded up to the corpse in the hall. She studied it, noting the large hole in the neck from which the man's throat had been removed as well as the strange frozen expression on his face. It was not one of fear, or horror, or anything for that matter. It was a blank and vacant look; as if the man did not realize he was dying or did not care.

"That is odd," Regecon said from the small room beyond the door. He seemed to be talking to the guard. Why he did so puzzled Korina: it was not like the watchman would have anything intelligent to say. "The only wound on the body is that small one by the neck ... no, wait ... there's a little blood on the lips. It looks like he bit his tongue."

Another body. That brought the count to three. Her strange visitor had been exceptionally busy last night; it was no mean feat to sneak through a guild and slay three trained guardsmen and then escape virtually undetected. Since no alarm had ever been raised, Korina suspected she was the only individual in the guild who had seen the stranger and lived to see the light of day. She felt no remorse about not sounding the alarm herself, since such an action might have forced the stranger to try to silence her, and, when it came right down to it, she didn't really care if any one else in the guild was slain. She pondered that last thought a moment, then reconsidered it. In a way, the deaths did bother her, though not because of any value those men's lives supposedly had. She felt protective of the guild, as if it were her hunting ground and the stranger was an unwanted intruder or poacher—a childish feeling really: a death which neither helped nor hindered her should not bother her at all. Nevertheless, she could not quell the sense of irritation she felt stirring in her bones. She mused over the issue for a moment more, then returned her attention to the corpse on the floor.

It would be terribly inappropriate to nonchalantly walk in on Regecon and the guard as if the dead bodies were nothing more than room furnishings. She would have to be a little more careful than that. Her eyes studied the corpse while her brain focused on the problem. What would Marissa do? The young woman smiled. Of course.

Korina screamed.

She threw her hands to her cheeks, worked her face into an awful visage of complete terror, and howled with all her might. She stopped to catch a breath, then started up again.

Regecon popped out into the hall with a look of worry on his face so sincere that Korina almost choked her scream off in a fit of uncontrollable mirth. Men were so pathetic sometimes, so easy to manipulate. It would only take a moment for that all-too-predictable male protector instinct to kick in. Yes, Guild Master, look at the poor innocent damsel in distress. Come, be that big, strong man, defender of the pure, the innocent, the beautiful. Drive the shadows of darkness away. The impulse to laugh swelled near bursting.

"Korina," Regecon said as the guardsman stepped out beside him. "This is not a place for you. Please, let me take you back to your room."

Korina fluttered her eyelashes up at him, darting a furtive look to the corpse and shuddering when she saw it. This was too easy. "Guild Master ... What happened here? That man ... He's ... dead."

"Yes, Korina. I'm afraid he is. Let me—"

The guardsman stepped forward. "I'll escort her back for you, sir. If you don't mind, that is."

Korina glanced toward the guard and frowned. That would not do at all; the guard wouldn't know anything important.

Regecon glanced briefly at the body, then turned to the guard. He shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary, Thelliun. I'd rather you collect a few more guards and take care of this." He motioned to the body on the floor and the room behind. "I need to return to my chamber and get some rest, and Korina's chamber is on the way. I'll lead her back. In the meantime, make certain all the bodies are prepared for funeral."

Curiosity got the better of her and Korina sneaked a peek around the corner. She started. "That's Durek! He's ... dead?" Now, she felt truly stunned. Durek wasn't a simple guardsman, the man was nearly a mage. Not as strong as her, of course, but still someone to be contended with. She suddenly felt very fortunate that she never had come face to face with his killer. Surprisingly, she even felt comforted by Regecon's close proximity. If that thing showed up again, the two of them could handle it. They had to.

Regecon gripped her gently by the elbow and guided her slowly from the gruesome scene. His words were kind and soothing, offering comfort for her fallen friend.

Friend? Durek was not her friend. She shook her head and collected her thoughts. What did Regecon know?

She looked up at him fluttering her lashes again, and doing her best to look terribly frightened. "Guild Master," she said in a worried voice, "what has happened here?"

Regecon frowned at her.

Korina twisted her lips thoughtfully and glanced down at the floor. Perhaps she was going a little too far with the frightened dimwit routine. After all, she was Ambrisia's finest student. Magic was not an art for the weak of heart. The Mistress of Earth Magic would not have been overly distressed by the mere sight of a little blood.

"I am not entirely certain, Korina," Regecon said.

That was not helpful. Korina looked up at him again, suddenly very composed. "Who could have done this? Who could murder two men inside these walls?" Ahead of them, the corpse she had seen before was coming into view. She stopped and pointed to it. "Oh, dear. There's another one."

Regecon looked over at the dead man and nodded. "This was truly a night of tragedy." He glanced down at her with a thoughtful expression on his face. Suddenly, he seemed to come to some decision. "I do not know exactly what caused this. Perhaps I should not even tell you this much, but if you are to become a true sorceress you _must_ become accustomed to some things which are not altogether pleasant. Do not repeat this to anyone outside the guild, but these men may have been murdered by one of the undead."

For effect, Korina stumbled slightly as she went through the door. "One of the undead," she whispered. The edge of fear in her voice would convince anyone but an accomplished liar.

"Yes, Korina." Regecon seemed suddenly regretful. He shook his head sadly. "Do not worry yourself too much, but do stay aware. I would not wish for you to meet Durek's fate."

Korina nodded in understanding as Regecon closed the door. One of the undead. That was all he knew. By the Scythe-Bearer's Sickle, she wasn't even a recognized mage and she knew as much as anyone in the guild. She'd even seen the murderer.

"One of the undead," Korina repeated aloud, chuckling in disbelief. "So much for the treasured wisdom of the guild master." She walked over to her cot and bent down to retrieve a footlocker.

Toreg blinked his eyes and groaned. His pupils ached, his head pounded, and he felt a strong bout of nausea coming on. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and almost immediately regretted doing so. Bright points of light seemed to swim before him, and he swayed before the onslaught of a rushing wave of dizziness.

The water mage blinked again, then stumbled to the window. In his present state, he was forced to support himself by leaning heavily against the wall. Managing a furtive glance to the sky, Toreg took a passing note of the position of the sun. It stood well past zenith, nearly three-fourths of the way to the horizon.

Again, Toreg groaned. He had slept through nearly the entire day and still felt tired. Further sleep, however, was not an appealing option. He'd had dreadful dreams last night, all about rats with big sharp teeth—about rats that laughed and spoke in languages, bit him in the face and arm, then ran away.

"Foul creatures," he said to himself. He looked once more to the sun, squinting at its brightness. If the three men that Regecon had hired were back from their journey, the council would be having another meeting soon. That meant he'd have to fully rouse himself and make some preparations.

He sighed to himself as he shuffled toward the bed _. I'm too old to be staying up all night, and then not get a proper sleep besides,_ he thought _. Maybe I should just skip the meeting and see if I can get some real sleep, dreams or no dreams._

That would not do, he knew. Regecon and the rest of the council would have his hide if he missed the meeting. But he was so sorely tired.

He brought his left hand up to rub his throbbing temple, and let another tight sigh escape through gritted teeth. The gods only knew why he felt so drained and worn out. He remembered hearing two guardsmen discussing the day after a night of heavy drinking and something called a hangover. He doubted it could be any worse than this.

Toreg drew his hand from his temple and raised it before his eyes. The wound had stopped bleeding shortly after the rat had disappeared last night, and he hadn't even bothered to wrap it up after he cleaned it. Two reddish circular holes were all that marked its presence; small holes, surrounded by ragged whitening edges which reminded him in an odd way of tiny eyes. There was no itch, but he rubbed at them anyway. Nothing, not a tingle. The flesh felt dead to pain. He was sure the wounds would heal quickly.

Toreg lay down on the bed, resting the back of his hand against his forehead while weariness drew itself in around him. He yawned, once. _But I have a meeting to prepare for..._

The water mage closed his eyes and sighed. If only he could rest just a little while longer. He was far too old to have a night like that. Rest. Sleep. Those were luxuries ... he could not ... afford.

Several moments later, Toreg was snoring.

Jacindra pulled the slab of bread from the bowl of soup and plunged it in her mouth. Many people lost their appetites when they were frightened. Not her. Fear made her ravenous.

She ripped another piece of bread off the small loaf and buttered it with her knife. She let it soak and absorb the thick red-orange liquid throughout its many pores, then she opened her mouth and popped it in. It tasted delicious.

Tonight was the night. An apprentice. Any one, it didn't matter which, but one that wouldn't be missed. She knew how she could do it. It wasn't uncommon for a sorceress to send a young apprentice to the library to get a book. Of course, it would be extremely uncommon for said apprentice to run into that ... thing. He had said he'd take care of the body and not to worry about it, but she couldn't help it. What was he going to do once he killed the young man?

She stared sourly into her soup.

Probably nothing. The guards had found four dead bodies this morning. Four. Three watchmen and one mage-in-training. If the man, thing, beast, whatever-it-was didn't care about leaving four bodies in the guild, he certainly wouldn't make the effort to hide a fifth. She thought about the mage-in-training, a young man named Durek. By all accounts, a fairly talented lad... and now he was dead. Lucian's threats had not been idle; magic did not intimidate a creature like that.

Jacindra gulped down another piece of soup-drenched bread.

What could she do? She had to send an apprentice, she had to! If she resisted ... the memory of what Lucian had said returned to her, what he'd shown her, what she'd seen. She shuddered. How could anyone face that?

But to send an unsuspecting man to his death? That was wrong, horribly wrong.

The Mistress of the Air stifled a sob. Why was this happening to her? Lucian didn't need her. He could kill her at any time he chose; he'd already demonstrated that. What could he possibly want from her? It took a moment, but suddenly she knew the answer. It was a matter of power—power and domination. Killing her was not a challenge. Controlling her, terrorizing her, driving her to destroy herself, that was what Lucian enjoyed.

Perhaps she could tell Regecon? She trembled fitfully with that thought, then discarded it immediately. Lucian had been quite horrific with that particular threat. But if the other mages knew, perhaps something could be done. There had to be something! Three dead guards and a fallen student. If she did not comply with Lucian's wishes, they would have a councilwoman for company.

### Chapter Twenty-Five

Regecon listened carefully as Coragan recounted the experiences of the three men. As the bounty hunter spoke, the guild master could not help but notice his tattered clothes and disheveled appearance. A hole in his tunic gaped large enough to reveal the entirety of the man's well-muscled shoulder, leaving the impression that the shirt was intended for a creature with, not one, but two heads. Blood stained the grey fabric around the hole, and several jagged scars streaked along the exposed flesh—it was unfortunate that the priests of Drellenor could not mend clothes as well as wounds; they could make a small fortune dealing with men like Coragan. The rest of the bounty hunter's attire was covered with small rips and tears, and on more than one location the stains of additional blood. Regecon remembered the man had once had a black cloak which he had worn everywhere. Where that was now, he could only guess. Next to Coragan, the rogue stood in similar straits. He, too, lacked a cloak and his once blue shirt now consisted of a dull mix of brown blood stains and black streaks of dirt. Clearly, they'd had a rough time. They were only fortunate that the warrior had been so well-versed in the knowledge of such creatures and had been able to find a safe place for retreat. It was a shame the man was absent; his personal knowledge of the vampire would be extremely useful.

"Borak is now with the priests of Drellenor in their abbey?" Regecon asked.

"Yes, they said his arm needed some special care," Coragan replied. "That was right before they provided us with these." The bounty hunter reached inside a pouch and pulled forth four metal medallions, each carved with exquisite perfection in the form of a rippling pond beneath the rising sun—the waters of healing and the light of life. Four holy symbols of the god of healing could prove extremely useful against a vampire. "Neither Galladrin nor I are practitioners of that particular religion so we are somewhat doubtful of how effective these might be in our hands, but surely someone in this guild might be able to make use of them."

"Yes, I'll have them dispersed throughout the guards ... Keep one for yourselves, though; anything is better than nothing." Regecon turned to Ambrisia. The Mistress of the Earth wore a puzzled frown on her face and seemed very much distracted. Her eyes focused inward while her lips pursed in troubled thought. "Is there a problem of some sort, Ambrisia?"

The sorceress looked up, startled. She glanced rapidly around the room and frowned. Regecon knew why. Neither Toreg nor Jacindra had shown up for this meeting. Apparently, both had found matters more pressing than the disappearance of a guild master—he would have to take some disciplinary measures with those two. "I just had a disturbing realization," Ambrisia said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "Did you say that the man, the vampire you encountered, identified himself as Lucian?"

Galladrin nodded, then glanced toward Coragan. "Yes, we did," the bounty hunter said.

"That is troubling," she said.

Regecon raised both eyebrows. "Does that name mean something to you, Ambrisia?"

"Perhaps." Ambrisia glanced first at the rogue and bounty hunter, then returned her gaze to Regecon. She cleared her throat once before speaking. "There is a historical Lucian mentioned in some of the texts dealing with Morgulan. I was wondering if that might be the same man."

"The same man?" Regecon asked, a little surprised.

Sitting on Regecon's right, Morcallenon abruptly straightened in his chair, his eyes widening in shock. "You must be joking. The time of Morgulan was a thousand years ago!"

"Yes, it was." Ambrisia's face held no sign of levity.

To the left of Coragan, Methoin the fire mage scowled in challenge. "Do you realize what you are saying, Councilwoman? From what little research I have done, I have learned that vampires grow stronger with the passage of time. After a hundred years of existence, their powers overshadow even those of a wraith lord. It is said that the vampire Balzulan reached an age of five hundred years before he was slain by the dark wizard Ageros. Ageros, a powerful wizard in his own right, was only able to accomplish this feat with the aid of two minor demons he summoned. Before being destroyed himself, Balzulan slew both demons and wounded the wizard so severely that the man died the following week—he barely had enough time to leave his account of the events in writing. There is no other undead of comparable might. If this creature we now face was alive in the time of Morgulan, he will be a being of unrivaled power. It will take the efforts of every mage in this guild to ensure this creature's destruction, if such can be ensured at all!"

"The fact that the truth is not in our favor is no reason to reject its veracity." Ambrisia's voice sounded steady, but her eyes acknowledged her fear. "Lucian val Drasmyr was Morgulan's finest general. He led the charge on Rahmin Ordendra with a force no one thought capable of winning. They sacked the castle within a week and posted the head of King Ordesius on the gate. He was the only one of Morgulan's human generals to willingly pass over command of mortal troops so that he could lead the Death Talons—a legion of wraiths, zombies, and other perverse creations of necromancy." Ambrisia paused, her face pale. She licked her dry lips, then continued. "There are two corroborating accounts which claim that before the last battle and Morgulan's Fall, the Sceptre of Morgulan was delivered into the safekeeping of Lucian val Drasmyr. He was charged with securing a secret haven in which to seclude the sceptre until some future time when Morgulan could return and wield it. Apparently, Zarina was asked to make Drasmyr immortal to keep constant watch—"

"Immortality is impossible—" Methoin began.

"Yes it is, for men," Ambrisia said, "not for vampires."

Morcallenon was aghast. "They _made_ the man a vampire!"

"History does not tell us that, but it seems likely," Ambrisia said. "So he could keep eternal watch over Morgulan's sceptre."

Morcallenon shook his head. "That is insanity. How could anyone conceive of such a thing, let alone allow such a curse to be inflicted upon them?"

"Drasmyr was a zealot. From what is recorded of the man, I would not be surprised if he volunteered."

Regecon stared soberly at the Mistress of the Earth, contemplating the gravity of her words. He frowned thoughtfully, then spoke. "If what you say is true, then it seems likely that Arcalian's search for the Sceptre of Morgulan disturbed its guardian, a thousand-year-old vampire. If they were forced into a confrontation—"

"Arcalian would be dead," Methoin said. "Alone, he would be no match for a vampire that old. None of us would be."

"Why the other murders?" Morcallenon asked. "Last night, three guardsman and a student of magic were slain. Does this vampire have some vendetta against mages in particular? What was the purpose behind these killings?"

Galladrin stepped forward. "Guild Master Regecon, now that you know of the existence of this creature, what is your intent?"

Regecon folded his hands on the table before him and leaned back in his chair. "Well, obviously it must be destroyed."

The rogue turned to Morcallenon. "With all due respect, Mage Morcallenon, the motive is obvious: kill or be killed. It knows we work for you and it knows we were heading back here when we escaped its clutches. Obviously, it is well aware that humanity would rest much easier if vampires were wiped from existence. Add to that the fact that it is sworn to protect the Sceptre of Morgulan—if I were evil and I wanted to protect such a device, I certainly wouldn't want any wizards alive who knew that the sceptre existed and where it could be found."

Beside the rogue, Coragan spoke. "Consider the weather as well. It has been snowing steadily since about midnight last night. By Lucian's own words, he admitted to being responsible for this. It was intended to snow us in and keep us from reaching the guild. It also serves as protection, secluding his keep from your reach. As it was, by the time we finally reached here, we were having quite the time. Some of those drifts along the road are already the height of my waist. By this time tomorrow, any passage between Drisdak and Fortress Nightguard will only be possible by air. Our vampire has a distinct advantage in that mode of transportation. I now regret leaving Borak with the priests; he may not be able to make the trip back to us."

An eerie moment of silence descended on the hall, then Morcallenon spoke, his voice quivering. "The warrior, Borak, might not be returning, but we can be sure this creature, Drasmyr, will be." He paused, his face and tone dropping into hopelessness. "We're at war with a thousand-year-old vampire, and he's got the upper hand."

_War,_ Regecon thought as the table erupted into argument, _that was an apt description._ Around him, Morcallenon, Methoin, and Ambrisia started yelling and shouting, engaged in their own type of battle. Each was very vocal about his or her thoughts and more than one was quick in making demands about what should be done and how to do it. Unfortunately, fear was starting to get the best of them and few of their plans made any real sense.

Regecon studied the mages and wondered briefly if he should be disappointed with them. They were obviously afraid, that was natural, but they were letting it control them and _that_ was unacceptable. His gaze shifted to Galladrin. He supposed if there was one thing in the universe that could truly unsettle a wizard, they had found it. Death alone couldn't do it—they faced that all the time in training—but death was not what faced them here. A vampire could do more than kill; it could make them what it was, an undead creature of the night. Many people risked their lives in their duties, but very few risked their souls.

The rogue met Regecon's eye. For a man whose soul might very well be on the line, Galladrin seemed remarkably calm. Perhaps the wizards could learn something from the example he set. Regecon stood. "We may be at war, but Drasmyr does not have the upper hand."

Silence filled the room.

"My friends, we are wizards. Each of you possesses powers ordinary men and women can't even begin to comprehend. You've passed tests that could have claimed your lives if you failed. Everything has a price, my friends—with power comes responsibility. A vampire is loose and we alone are capable of facing it, yet you bicker around this table like a pack of frightened children."

Morcallenon opened his mouth, then closed it as Regecon glared at him.

"We have two hours before dusk, two hours before Lucian will return, and we _will_ use that to our advantage." He turned to Methoin. "Methoin, find Azarin, Ortherius, Delreen, and anybody else you can locate. I want fire sigils on every window, every door, every peephole, and every crack between the inside of this guild and the outside. If anything tries to enter, I want to be sweeping its ashes up tomorrow morning. Ambrisia, find Korina and any other mages under you who you deem necessary and help them. Find Porthion, as well. He should have a map of the guild. If you run out of time, you may have to section off parts of the building until tomorrow. Mathagarr—" the guardsman stood stiffly at attention, "I'm leaving you in charge of the wooden stakes. I want as many of them as possible in this guild before sundown. Carve them, buy them, whatever; just get them here. Once that's done inform your men that all watches will be doubled. No one will patrol these halls by themselves. As a matter of fact, every patrol will have a wizard assigned to them. Ambrisia, Methoin, see to that. Three from each of the elements. Morcallenon, find Jacindra and Toreg and the three of you collect every rose and silver weapon you can find in the City of Drisdak. Once all this is done, the Council will meet me with two mages of every discipline in the Chamber of Making." He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. "Now, go!" he said.

The High Council Chamber emptied moments later, leaving Regecon alone with the rogue and the bounty hunter. "Gentlemen, I need a moment of your time if you would. I believe I have a plan and I need to know what your intentions for this evening are. Come, follow me, and we shall discuss it."

A glance passed between the two travel-weary men, then Galladrin shrugged his shoulders and nodded. "Lead on, Guild Master."

Regecon led the men to one of the doors leading from the room. He opened it, and the men followed him into a well-lit hall beyond. "Tell me. What were your plans for this evening?"

Coragan shrugged. "Actually, I wasn't really decid—"

Galladrin cut him off, his weariness burnt away by a sudden flash of angry determination. "Clarissa. We were going to hunt Clarissa."

The bounty hunter started. "What? How do you propose we do that?"

Galladrin stopped in the hall. "Actually, it's remarkably simple," he said. "I figured we'd wait for her at a tavern called _The Roaring Lion_. It appears I may have inadvertently managed to get the lovely young vampire invited into the establishment. It stands to reason that the number of buildings to which she has unrestricted access is rather limited. Meaning, she'll turn up there some time soon when she's hunting. When she does, we'll kill her."

"With what?" Coragan asked in exasperation.

Galladrin opened his mouth, then closed it again. A puzzled expression worked its way across his features. "I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps we could use a wooden stake?"

"Yeah, sure. You wrestle her to the floor while I drive a stake through her heart. Somehow, I think we'll need a better plan than that."

Regecon motioned for the two men's attention. "I may be able to offer you some advice, but I will need your help after."

Galladrin shrugged. "Sure. I guess we're open to suggestions."

"In my opinion, your plan should work provided you are properly equipped. At the moment, I would suggest that you forestall any action for one evening so you can prepare yourselves. There is a weaponsmith in town with a considerably sized shop renowned for his speed and skill in the forging of weapons both common and rare. If you provide him with the silver, and he has the help of one of our wizards, he and his lads might be able to deliver several silver weapons of high quality before sundown tomorrow."

Coragan frowned suspiciously. "By tomorrow? That would be impressive."

"As I said, he is renowned for his speed and has several young men helping him. Plus, with a wizard's aid... If you keep the order reasonable, he should be able to deliver. If he gives you any problems, show him this." Regecon pulled out a small yellow sash from a pocket in his robe. He handed it to the bounty hunter.

Coragan took the sash and opened it, studying the symbol laced in black on the front. "The sign of the guild. Thank you, Guild Master, this should prove useful. What is it you need from us?"

Regecon motioned for the two men to continue following him. He led them to a door which he opened to reveal a large stone staircase descending into the earth. He walked down the steps, the two men coming behind. When he reached the bottom, he entered a passage going perpendicular to the stairs. This he followed to the right. After thirty paces he stopped and turned to a large wooden door. Arcane symbols marked the surface, crawling across the wooden planks at the height of a man's head.

"You have told me of your plan to destroy the vampire Clarissa, so now I shall reveal to you my plan to destroy the vampire Lucian," Regecon said. "Both creatures are diabolical, and both must be hunted until the end. Unfortunately, we cannot go to them, therefore they must come to us. As you noted, Galladrin, a vampire may often return to a building into which it has been invited. In our case, I think we are assured that Drasmyr will find his way into this guild. Our problem here will be to survive long enough to set a trap for him. If we can keep him out until we are ready, we just may have a chance at victory. What I need from you gentlemen is a little help in regards to the final element of my plan."

"What is your plan?" Galladrin asked.

"It is very much like yours. I wish to trap Lucian and destroy him."

"What do you need from us?" Coragan asked.

Regecon hesitated. Perhaps there was another way to do this. It was not an easy thing he was about to ask them to do, but he saw no alternative. The mage stared at the two men for quite some time before finally speaking. "I need a lure. Once the vampire is in this building, I need to get him inside this room."

"How do you intend to do that?" Galladrin said, his voice filled with curiosity.

"I don't know. One possibility that had occurred to me was using ... live bait."

Coragan's jaw slowly opened in disbelief. "You want us ... to be fish food ... so you can catch a shark?"

"If you have a better suggestion, I will gladly listen to it. Lucian val Drasmyr must enter this room. If he cannot be driven, he must be lured."

Coragan turned to stare at the door. "This room, huh. This isn't exactly the typical service required of a bounty hunter."

"I'll double your pay."

Galladrin's eyes widened. "All right, we'll do it. When's the big showdown?"

"You have five days to plan. That is how long it will require for us to make preparations."

"I hope you can keep the vampire out of this guild for five days."

"So do I," Regecon said. The guild master dismissed the two men and watched as they headed back up the corridor and disappeared.

Turning, Regecon opened the door and stepped inside.

The guild master strode along the length of the room counting thirty steps before he reached the far wall of the Chamber of Making. It was an old room residing on the first subterranean level of the guild and it was little used. In ages past, it had been used by the wizards in the enchantment of weapons and other items. A door on Regecon's right led to an old forge, a room whose fires had not burned for any length of time longer than a day for nearly half a century. No, it was a rare thing for the wizards of Drisdak to construct an item requiring the use of a chamber such as this. Most of the work done in the field of item construction now was accomplished in the privacy of a study. Arcalian's pottery dish, for example, had no doubt been constructed in the very study that had been ravaged by the fire. In fact, the last time this room was used was probably when Regecon had made a helm of fire warding some five years ago. It had been a grueling task, requiring three months of arduous, painstaking, continuous labor.

Regecon paced to the center of the chamber. A rarely used room; one that was completely expendable. It was perfect.

How many circles would they need? Legend said that nine were required to hold a minor demon, but only a demonologist would know that for sure. He supposed the same demonologist could tell him if twenty-two actually could hold Lubrochius. Then again, maybe he couldn't. It would take quite a mage to draw and cast twenty-two circles. Regecon had little doubt that such a feat was well beyond his own powers. Even with a helper. It would be Ambrisia, of course. She was the next in power and skill, and it would be best if the strongest mages were at the center. The others could help with the secondary wards and the elemental amalgamation sigils. He'd also need two to construct the containment jar. Initially, he planned to have Toreg and Burudon the earth mage do it, but according to Ambrisia, Korina was considerably stronger than Burudon.

Regecon laughed quietly to himself with the thought of Korina. The more he learned of the young woman, the more impressed he became; it seemed almost like she was born to study magic. For a brief moment, he'd even considered having her take Ambrisia's place, but had rejected it. If the young sorceress had had another year or two of training, she probably could have cast the whole spell herself, but she was still too young. Besides, he knew what the young woman was taught in her classes; she would be hopelessly unfamiliar with anything like a circle of binding. It was better to keep her working on the jar. After all, she still had a month or two before she would even be considered a true mage.

Regecon scratched his beard as he went over his plan one more time to himself. He had the two strongest to bind the circles, the next two strongest to construct the jar, and more than enough other mages to set the base elements in order and take care of all those other little details which required neither Ambrisia's attention nor his.

After that, all they needed was the lure. They couldn't go to the vampire, but they were sure the vampire was coming to them. Once he entered the guild, they had to figure out how to get him in this room. They had to trap him, contain him, then kill him. According to Methoin, vampires were notorious for being elusive foes. If they engaged a superior party, they would fight for no other reason than to inflict injury, then flee. Consumption of blood would speed recovery of the vampire's wounds. Once healed, he'd return. Slowly, he'd wear you down and bring the odds to his favor. Then, he'd kill you, or worse, make you his undead slave.

But now, Regecon had a plan. Unfortunately, though, he could think of nothing to lure a vampire into a room except the promise of a fresh corpse, and that presented a host of difficulties. Things could turn bad very quickly once Lucian entered the guild. The matter had to be handled with the utmost delicacy. Otherwise, it would be a long time until spring.

### Chapter Twenty-Six

The smith, a stocky, heavy-set man with a balding head and thinning grey hair wore a light grey shirt stained with both sweat and soot. His face was a rugged reddish hue from too many long hours at his forge and it had the hardened appearance of rough leather. His iron-hard eyes spoke of a strength further exemplified in his cord-like muscles and his barrel-shaped chest. _Truly, a man to be reckoned with,_ Coragan thought, then placed the dagger he'd been studying back on the wall.

The smith's voice sounded thick and throaty. "Silver? You want your weapons made of silver?'

"Yes," Galladrin said. "Four daggers, a rapier, a broad sword, and a battle axe."

"Silver'll dent with the first blow. You got to be mad!"

Coragan stepped forward and took a quick survey of the room: a tidy shop, with supplies sufficient for the needs of almost any warrior. Swords and axes hung along one wall while daggers and spears covered another. A large table to the right held an assortment of different weapons: metal-tipped darts, throwing knives, several short swords, a rapier, and even a few steel-tipped arrows. All useless for their purposes. The bounty hunter locked eyes with the smith. "How many hands do you have working for you?"

The smith beamed. "Five. Mine's the biggest shop in Drisdak."

Coragan glanced at Galladrin, then smiled at the smith. He reached carefully into his belt pouch and pulled out the small yellow sash Regecon had given them. He closed his fist tightly about the fine cloth, obscuring it from view and making no attempt to brandish it while he spoke. "How fortunate. We need those weapons by afternoon tomorrow. And they will be made of absolutely pure silver. Nothing else will be acceptable."

The smith's jaw dropped. "Tomorrow? You're mad for sure. It can't be done. Even if I drop all my other orders and call in all my lads. It'd still take a week."

Coragan didn't even blink. "You will have assistance." The bounty hunter tossed the silken patch onto the counter table. It dropped squarely in the center and unfurled, revealing the black-etched symbol of the wizards' guild. He turned and motioned toward the door. "Come in now, Arzon."

The young earth wizard stepped through the doorway into the room, the look in his eye hard and serious.

The smith uneasily studied the symbol on his table, then looked up at the wizard. "You're still mad... Where am I to get the silver?"

Coragan hefted a large sack onto the smith's counter, then a second. Each clinked melodiously with the sound of coins inside. "The islands of Aloria have always prided themselves with the fact that they only use pure silver for their griffons. We had them checked. They do."

The smith stared at the two sacks for a moment, then gingerly reached down to open one and look inside. His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed suspiciously. "How're you going to pay?'

Galladrin hefted another sack onto the counter; it groaned from all the weight. "In gold, of course."

I am alone, sitting in an empty chamber in my highest tower. Clarissa still sleeps, but she will awaken soon. As for myself, I am pensive.

Alone. I had never thought to ever characterize myself with such a term. Until recently, company was always the exception, not the rule. Now, however, things have changed. Clarissa is with me every evening, perhaps not the night through, but always is her presence noted, by my thoughts, my deeds. I spent a thousand years with only books and short-lived victims to provide me company, but now I have a woman. For the rest of eternity, there will be a voice beside me, a presence to share my path. Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing? She can be so difficult sometimes, whining or complaining, yet she is still a comfort. The aching silence of untold centuries has shed at last its quiescent veil. The madness that haunts true solitude has been thwarted by her voice.

Peace. Silence. Company. Such is the substance of my thoughts tonight. Turning inward, delving into the fabric of my solitude ... these are the activities of a philosopher's mind. Have I grown complacent in my years? Too much the ponderer, not enough the warrior? At times, this does seem to be the case, yet, there are others when wisdom is much needed, and my ruminations seem quite appropriate and revealing.

A golden ray of sunlight is streaming across the room and splashing against the stones of the wall. Motes of dust rise up, glittering in its light. It has that special golden sheen, that dull fading look of the passing of the Sun. It will be dusk soon. Time to hunt, time to kill, time to leave the musings of eternity and move to my true spiritual fare. I will fly to the guild again and exact my revenge; I will kill more mages, drink of an apprentice, and perhaps even bite Jacindra when I see her.

And, of course, I have business with my latest victim.

The wizard Toreg is skilled in seacraft. He'll be my slave soon, but that is not enough. His is the magic that truly unsettles me. If he were exceptionally cunning, he could destroy me. On the other hand, if he retains his powers as a vampire, although he may still be dangerous, he could become a boon like no other. Imagine! A sorcerous vampire capable of parting the flow of a running river. My own powers are sufficient to withstand the Sun; with him, I could mold a weapon against water. A weapon, though ... a weapon should have no will. Clarissa has tested my patience and willpower on more than one occasion. A mage skilled with water should never get the chance. I must break him. I must drive him mad.

I rise from my seat. The light is fading more quickly, growing dimmer and narrower with every passing second. It's a brilliant orange now—a certain sign that it will soon be gone. I glide forward, then duck beneath the ray. It couldn't hurt me, of course, but it could break my contact with the storm in Drisdak. It would be a bother to reestablish that.

Shielded by the wall near the window, I can watch the forest as twilight sets in. Orange and pink fade into purples, violets, then darkness. The trees wear the cloak of shadows once again.

I make a third circle around the guild. It is a long and lazy circle, since there is little need to rush. Clarissa is stalking the streets and will meet me at midnight. It should take very little persuasion to have Jacindra invite her in. In the meantime, there seem to be ample opportunities for entertainment.

To the best of my knowledge they have only added more guards. Where one man with sword and helm could not stop me, they expect two with the aid of a mage to succeed. I am almost insulted. Surely, they can do better than that. Do they not know what I am? If those guards aren't at least armed with silver weapons, I will be half-inclined to go home. They will have taken all the fun out of this. Perhaps they need to be better instructed in exactly what it is they face.

I dive silently through the sky, a black shape hidden by darkness and the raging storm.

There is one group of guards in a passage ahead of me. I'll come from above, go through the window, and take out the mage before they know what's happened. If they have silver, one guard will die quickly, and the other will be tortured slowly and left for the whole guild to see.

The wind rushes past me and the scents of the night fill my lungs. There is the distant smell of pines from the forest, the scent of muddied filth from the city, and flesh, sweat, and the oh, so sweet odor of blood from the wizards guild. The window draws near, and the men are coming into view. They have their backs to me as I hurtle forward—What is that? There is another scent, the distinctive smell of magic, strong magic.

Too late.

I crash through the window in an explosion of fire and earth. Even as my form changes shape, bits of enchanted stone tear into my flesh, and infernal fires engulf me. My screech of pain tears through the night like the thunder of the gods themselves. A sigil! The cursed wizards trapped the window!

So much for the silent approach.

I stagger to my feet as the men turn to face me. My left leg and forearm are charred and numb. Bits of dead flesh hang down the side of my face and a long jagged gash mars my chest. My clothes are tattered and my cape is aflame.

One guard freezes with his face contorted in horror while the other draws a dagger and lunges toward me. Dazed, I watch as a glittering metallic blade drives into my stomach. There is a sharp jab of pain, and a thin tendril of smoke rises from the wound. Silver.

The guard drives the blade in to its hilt while behind him the wizard chants his words. Ignoring the agony, my fingers circle around the watchman's elbow, then give a sharp and violent twist. There is a snapping sound and the man screams.

"Alrithiel duon kal zamir," the wizard cries, pointing his wretched finger. I raise my arm to shield my face, but it avails me not. A bolt of blue fire the size of a man's arm rips through the air, splashing across my chest and stomach. Searing pain drives me choking to my knees and the smell of burnt dead flesh fills the air. I gag on the acrid fumes, but not so much that I fail to see the wizard as he smiles. The arrogant mortal begins another chant.

His mouth forms the second syllable when my fingers close around his throat. A smile. Yes, even as his body falls his face still wears that gleeful smile, apparently not cognizant of the fact that he'd lost.

One guard is injured, and the other is terrified. The first rises slowly to his feet, desperately searching for his weapon. Unfortunately for him, it is still embedded in my stomach—odd, that through the harm it has inflicted it has been negated as a threat. Beside the first, the second guard is staring at me with rigid eyes and mouth. I smile at him. He backs away.

There is a sound down the left-hand corridor, then another from the right. I have two more groups of guardsmen bearing down on me. Four men, two mages, and myself wounded. There is neither time to fight, nor even time to feed.

It takes three heartbeats for me to break the window sigil. That is almost one heartbeat too many. A crossbow bolt tipped with silver sinks into my thigh. It causes pain, but it is nothing I cannot endure. However, the sound of arcane chants fills the air, carrying with it a promise of a far more certain destruction.

Grasping the outside wall, I swing cat-like onto the window sill, then up. My hand is the last part of me to exit from the hall. Unfortunately, it is a trifle slow. A grip of iron encircles my wrist. Startled, I give a brief tug to loosen its grasp.

It holds.

What could possibly be strong enough to thwart my power? Snarling, I heave with the strength of a god. Surprisingly, it still resists, but only for a moment. There is a loud crash and a grinding sound as my hand comes up, dragging a second hand that had thought to retain me. It is made of dark grey stone and its fingers encircle my wrist like a noble's bracelet. Blue sparks flare along its broken edge, then fade. Without the magic to aid it, the stone cannot grip me against my will. It passes through my flesh, then falls into the darkness below.

There are shouts from the corridor and a head pokes out the window. There is very little time. Fortunately, I am an exceptionally fast and agile climber.

### Chapter Twenty-Seven

Little Jeredin shook his head, then squeaked in pain as his skull bumped against something hard and unyielding. Startled, he opened his eyes. A quiet darkness surrounded him, and he had the feeling of a large weight pressing down on his back.

Jeredin took a long frightened breath. Slowly, realization dawned; he must have fallen asleep while hiding.

The young boy crawled forward and extricated himself from the surrounding debris. As he did so, his thoughts strayed to his older sister. Where was Sirah? Maybe she'd forgotten him? No, she wouldn't forget, not about him. She couldn't. Maybe the men had gotten her? He whimpered at that thought. The three men had chased his sister and him down an alley. They had howled awful things at him, and scared him almost witless. Terrified, he had just run and run as fast as his little legs could carry him. Although only six years old, he was fast for his age and hard to get a hold of.

Jeredin didn't know how it happened, but somewhere in his flight he'd lost his sister. One moment, they were running side by side and the next he was running all alone. In desperation, he had called out for her, shouting her name at the top of his lungs, but the men had been coming. He had heard them getting closer, so he had tried to hide. If he could stay out of their grasp, he could search for his sister when they left. The pile of old garbage smelled bad, but it had been the only thing available. Shielded from the storm by a convenient overhang, it offered an alluring hiding spot which Jeredin gladly took to. He crawled beneath the filth, closed his eyes, and held his breath. He was only six, but he knew if the men found him, they would hurt him. Somehow, buried in the rubble with his eyes squeezed tight and his breath locked in his chest, little Jeredin had fallen asleep.

A sharp, jagged piece of rusted metal slashed across the little boy's hand as he crawled out into the snow-filled alley. Giving a pained cry, Jeredin pulled his arm to his side and cuddled his injured hand against his shirt. It was a small wound, barely more than a scratch, but it bled a lot and stung quite badly. He tried to scratch and rub it, but that just brought more pain. A lonely tear fell from the young boy's eye. Sirah would know what to do. She knew how to take care of cuts and bruises. Where was she?

"Sirah," Jeredin called, walking carefully down the alley. He saw no sign of the three men or his sister. Where could she be? He couldn't find his way home without her. What could he do?

Find a lady. That's what Sirah always told him: if he was in trouble and needed help, he should find a lady. According to Sirah, men wouldn't help a little boy, but a lady might. Jeredin didn't understand why such a thing might be true, but Sirah knew best, so he didn't question her.

Jeredin peeked around a corner, then ducked back. He watched as two men strode by. They weren't any of the earlier three and they didn't look mean, but he didn't want anything else to do with any grown up men tonight. He waited until the men were gone, then peeked around again.

There. He saw a very pretty lady walking down the alley.

Jeredin sighed in relief. She was the most beautiful lady he'd ever seen! She didn't just move down the alley, she flowed with the grace befitting an angel of the gods and she wore hair that shone like spun gold. Surely she could help! Her white dress was a little ruffled and dirty, but she was a wonderful, comforting sight for a small child to behold.

Crying, he rushed into the alley toward her. She started when she saw him coming, but didn't move. Sobbing loudly, he wrapped his arms around her hips. For an odd moment, he was frightened that he'd found a ghost. It almost felt like his hands were passing through her, but then she was there, firm, and solid, and so very real. He looked up at her sobbing, barely noticing the small circle of blood he'd smeared on her dress.

"Can you help me?" he cried. "I can't find my sister."

The blue eyes that looked back down at him were pools of liquid anguish.

The sparkling spring water ran down the hillside in a thin, narrow runnel. It collected in a small pool at the base of two jagged teeth-like rocks, then burbled forth in the cascades of a diminutive waterfall. From there, Toreg knew, it continued its winding journey, all the way to the forest floor.

It had been many years since the water mage had last seen this place. Many years. Growing up, this secluded spot had offered a safe refuge from the village bullies when they had bothered him. Now, when he looked about himself, Toreg felt stunned to find the small glade as enticing and as comforting as it had been so long ago.

A small village, Azerlock held barely seventy households within its bounds. The cozy community had proved to be a fine place for a young boy to grow up in; a fine place with many memories. Most vividly, Toreg remembered the many long days spent with his father, fishing in the bay. He had known so much of fishing then: the proper bait, the proper cast, even how to tie the line in the proper way. All that was forgotten now. Something else had consumed his interest, his passion. Unfortunately, he could not remember what.

" _I'm forgetting something," Toreg said to himself. "Azerlock ... I'm not in Azerlock. Where am I?" He tried to think, to remember, but clouds fogged his mind._

A crash sounded to his right. Turning, he saw a small footpath leading into the trees. The obviously well-used path struck him as particularly odd; he did not remember such a path being there in his childhood days. No, he'd always followed the streamlet from the valley floor.

Intrigued, the water mage walked down the path, delighting in the warmth of the spring air. He saw colors everywhere and a great abundance of vibrant life. He watched in fascination as a butterfly landed on his nose, gently flapping its beautiful wings. The gossamer-thin membranes looked alive with orange and yellow colors, laced about with black lines, very much like the black trim on Reg ... A name tugged at his memory, then slipped away. Orange with black lace. Those colors meant something to someone. What? Who? He groped for the answer, but it eluded him.

The trees changed.

Where before they were the budding heralds of awakening new life, they became something else, something forbidding and sinister. They writhed about with their limbs twisting and contorting like the struggles of a dying beast. The spring day passed and a winter night arose. Shadows played across limbs and leaves, enshrouding trunks and covering the whole forest in gloom. Roots ripped up from the earth, twisting in violent coils and the leaves themselves curled into blackened husks. Toreg shivered.

A voice called to him from amidst the gloom. "Toreg, my son." He recognized the voice as his father's.

The aged man stood alone in what appeared to be a prison cell. Nearly bald now, he looked just as he did on the day he ... died?

Dressed in ragged clothes, torn and disheveled from his labors in prison, his father had a searing burn across his chest, a wound in his leg, and gruesome scars across his arms and face. Surely, he was suffering from excruciating pain. However, Toreg knew that his father's agony would soon come to a long-anticipated end. The hangman's noose waited and with it, the Scythe-Bearer and his ever patient Sickle. Toreg looked up at the darkened night sky. Dawn. Dawn would bring Death.

Toreg returned his gaze to his imprisoned father. The guards had certainly done their best to lock him up; however, he found it odd that they didn't use metal for those chains. What were they made out of, anyway? Leather? Toreg squinted to take a closer look. No, not leather. Plants. Around and around the dark green stems coiled, up his father's arms and across his legs. Interspersed amongst the coils he could see flashes of brilliant red, the last petals of the plant's radiant flowers. Toreg stepped closer.

His father stared at him, then spoke. "Let me in, Toreg." The voice seemed to echo over and over again in his head. Clearly, his father, an unjustly accused and convicted man, wanted out of his cell. If Toreg let him out, they could be reunited. The thought of father and son together again, fishing in the bay of Azerlock, brought a gentle tug on the strings of the water wizard's heart. Toreg reached forward.

" _Break the sigil first, my son."_

Toreg looked down. Someone had scrawled a strange pictogram beneath the prison's window sill. Somehow, he knew it was a danger. Likewise, he knew he could destroy it. He did so.

" _Now, the rose."_

There was an apple on the sill. Is that what his father meant? Was he hungry? He lifted the apple and stretched it toward his father. Shedding his vine-like chains, the man stepped up and took the small fruit from him.

Everything shifted.

Toreg found himself swimming now, floundering in an old, stinking swamp with murky waters that threatened to consume him. He saw a fallen branch ahead: a thick limb of a dead tree, lurking just above the water. He struggled toward it, through muck and slime while something slithered past his leg causing him to shiver.

Reaching out with his hand, Toreg grabbed the branch. He sighed in relief as his fingers closed on the rough, damp bark, but then his breath caught in his throat. A large leech crawled along the branch. Long, brown, and covered with slime, the leech clung to the side of the branch like a malignant fungus. It lurked near his hand, and waited patiently for its opportunity. Toreg stared in concern, contemplating what he should do. Perhaps he should crush it? Grind it up beneath his fist and hurl it into the swamp? Another flash of movement swept across his legs, and sent shivers dancing up his spine.

Toreg peered anxiously into the murky depths, but whatever had brushed past him was no longer visible.

A leech posed only a small threat, he decided. Crawling forward, the water mage put both his arms over the side of the branch, and then relaxed. He could rest here. Safe from the threat of the swamp and whatever lurked in its foul waters.

Safe? He wasn't safe.

The leech crawled toward Toreg's neck. The water mage sighed, and tried to brush the creature away. Oddly, he couldn't grab it. His hand passed through as if it were a ghost.

What did it matter? He was in a comfortable position and so very tired. What possible harm could a leech inflict? He could rest now.

A distant part of his mind tried to rouse him, but weariness won out.

The leech crawled forward and attached itself to Toreg's flesh.

Clarissa wrapped her arms tightly about her knees and rocked herself gently back and forth. She let the tears of blood stream unchecked down her face for several long moments before she finally stirred.

When she did move, she reached over, and lifted the blood-soaked remains of the diminutive shirt to her face. It was blue and ever so tiny; just big enough for a little person. She sobbed.

How old had he been? Five? Six?

She clenched her fist, crushing the fabric together with inhuman strength. Small drops of blood squeezed between the spaces of her fingers, but she didn't even bother to lick them up.

What had she become? A monster? A hideous beast of nightmares? She had been so sure she could fight it. The wicked, no one else. They were the ones she had chosen to hunt and kill, not ... little boys.

Clarissa dropped her head across her arms and sobbed. She'd killed a child; there was nothing worse than that. No crime was beyond her now, no punishment could be deemed unworthy. If she were to live a thousand years and kill an evil man every night of her wretched existence, it could not make up for this one terrible act. She was beyond redemption.

Lifting her eyes to the heavens, Clarissa shook as the waves of anguish pummeled her. They thrust inside her like spears, deep into the core of her heart. Every attempt to push them back failed, and her will slipped uselessly around the edges of sorrow like rough fingers trying to climb a wall of glass. The pain struck too deep, too close to the foundation of her soul. She let loose another sob. _What soul? I don't have ... a soul anymore,_ she thought, _not now._

She went rigid in pain. Nothing could have prepared her for this. That boy had needed help! Why did he have to have an injured hand? She might have been able to resist if he hadn't been bleeding.

Clarissa's gaze shifted to the edge of the rooftop on her right. His body lay down there, in a pile of stinking garbage. A little boy, and he was food for rats.

Clarissa stood. "LUCIAN! YOU BASTARD! MAY THE GODS CURSE YOU UNTIL THE END OF TIME!" Her scream ripped through the night and echoed in the wind. She looked down at her hands, the hands that had ripped open the flesh of an innocent child and felt the spears inside her heart twist around again. She had a sister, Athlien, in Sederia. They hadn't seen each other in months. Before she had become a vampire, she had been planning on visiting her after she finished the job for Arcalian. Now, she wondered if she would kill her only sister if she ever saw her again. _Yes._ There was no doubt in the thought, barely even hesitation. She would rip the heart from her own sister with as little care as she had when she'd destroyed that young boy.

The spears drove in deeper, twisting more. She could feel her heart being pierced, her soul being ruptured. Since her fall to Lucian, she had kept a part of herself hidden, safe; a vestige of humanness driven to preserve some measure of itself, no matter how small. It was this that had struggled with Lucian and his dark plans. It was this that had struggled with the bloodlust of the vampire. And it was this that had struggled to find a purpose in the abomination she had become. She had lost every one of those internal battles, one at a time. Her only brief success had been the stalking of the wicked in lieu of the innocents, but now that too had crumbled.

She dropped the bloodied cloth and watched as it tumbled toward the ledge. The wind grabbed the fabric and carried it gently away in the darkness. It was not alone. The last vestiges of her humanity followed it, through the darkness, through the night. Blown by an icy breeze, her soul slipped away from her, dancing from her grasp like ashes on the wind.

### 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 felt 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.

### Chapter Twenty-Nine

The tears fell, slowly at first, then more quickly, obscuring Marissa's face behind a mask of shock and pain. From the bloodshot look of her eyes, Korina guessed this was not the first time the young woman's thoughts had turned to the death of Durek.

"How ... could ..." Marissa's words came out broken, stuttered, and incomplete. Overcome by another bleary-eyed wave of anguish the young woman broke down and began sobbing on the bedsheets.

For a brief, fleeting moment Korina felt a tiny shred of sympathy for the woman. She had obviously cared deeply for the young man, far more than Korina would have expected given how little time they'd had together. Now she was in pain, all for the sake of a fallen love. Or perhaps just the hope of love.

Korina studied the woman's scalp as she buried her face in the pillow. It was a pity; a sorceress in training with her heart ripped and broken. Couldn't she see that there was no point to it? The man was dead, she could find another. They had hardly known each other. Sorceress or not, she was still a moderately attractive woman who could find comfort elsewhere, if she so desired.

Then, Korina caught herself. She was being dragged into this woman's misery against her will. This woman's pain meant nothing to her. If she wanted to wallow in the dark depths of sorrow, let her. There was no room in Life for the weak of heart.

Marissa sobbed again. "I ... miss ... him so."

A contemptuous laugh reared up but did not quite surface. Instead, Korina reached out with false sympathy and affection to pat the young woman's head. "I know, my friend, I know. But come, you must take over my class; Ambrisia has a special task set aside for me. Please. It will help—having something to do. It will keep the pain at bay."

The young woman lifted her tear-stained face and stared at Korina with hollow eyes bereft of hope. "The pain will never go."

Korina sighed. She really was pathetic. "I know dear, but Durek would want you to struggle on."

Jacindra could hardly keep the joy from bubbling forth as she marched down the hall. She had defied Lucian and lived! Lived! What a beautiful, beautiful day!

It really wasn't beautiful outside. In fact, it looked rather gloomy and oppressive, with a grey overcast sky and more snow on the ground than Jacindra had recalled seeing for years. But that didn't matter to her; a day was what you made of it. And any day was glorious if you were thankful for your life.

It had been close. She had called Elri to her study and had been a word from sending him to the library at midnight, but she had resisted. Yes, resisted. She was quite proud of herself for that. Ushering Elri back to his room was the bravest, most difficult thing she had ever done; but she had done it. Capitulation was unacceptable, she had decided. Lucian could kill her, but he could not take her soul.

She stopped in midstride. Actually, he could; he was a vampire. Morcallenon had paid a visit to her late yesterday afternoon and given her all the details, far more than she had ever wanted to know. Lucian was a creature of the night, a beast that sucked the life from mortal men and was capable of sentencing her to a horrid existence which would mirror its own. She had been mortified by the discovery, but she had hid her fear as best she could and had even assisted with the collection of roses. According to Morcallenon, the flower of a rose could prevent Lucian from entering the guild. A boon beyond measure if true, but for the life of her, the sorceress of the air could not fathom how an innocuous plant could thwart such a monster.

Suddenly, Jacindra felt tired. Tired and worn. What had she been thinking? Lucian could unmake her being, and remold her soul in his own image—a fate far worse than death. She had only really been thinking of death when she had decided to betray him. Death seemed a small price to pay for the opportunity to spit in the face of evil. She had been ready to die last night, even expected it. Waiting in her chamber, watching the window in anticipation of Lucian's arrival had been a cruel form of emotional torture. Fortunately for her, the vampire had never shown. He had appeared elsewhere in the guild, though, diving in through a window early in the evening, setting off a sigil, and even killing a fire mage during a brief scuffle; but he had never sought her out. She would have fought him if he had, of course, but she would have lost.

Jacindra stopped in the hall to look out a window. The sun hid behind a distant canopy of clouds, but she knew it was up there. Her protector. How she wished she could hold it there and keep it forever frozen in the sky. But it would edge inexorably forward and circle through its course. It would be driven ever onward until at last it sank beneath the distant horizon. Dusk would come and with it Lucian.

If she could only tell Regecon, perhaps she'd have a chance. Unfortunately, if she told Regecon the truth, how could she possibly explain her hesitation? She had kept the secret of this thing's existence from Regecon and the whole council. That was a treachery which had very likely resulted in the deaths of several guardsmen and at least one student of magic. She could not face such shame.

A thin stream of sunlight broke through a part in the clouds. It streaked across the sky like the glorious touch of a god, and with it came a sudden realization. She was about to die, or worse, and she was afraid of a little shame? That was so absurd, it bordered on the ridiculous.

Jacindra smiled to herself. The promise of extinction, it would seem, could be a very liberating thing.

Galladrin caught Coragan's eye, then leaned forward across the table. He pulled a mug of ale up to hide his whisper. "You know, I tested the daggers—the weight's off."

Coragan frowned.

The rogue glanced around the room, then continued. "You can throw one, but I would be surprised if you could hit anything smaller than that window over there." The window he motioned to was over an arm's length on every side.

"At least they were completed on time." Coragan too, studiously watched the crowd. His eyes darted from patron to patron, scanning the room restlessly in search of a mass of golden hair. "One day is fairly remarkable for the order that smith filled. As long as the blades are made of silver and will harm our pale-faced friends, I'm not going to complain."

"The rapier's a little off, too."

"Oh, shut up, Galladrin. Are you sure this is the right tavern?"

" _The Roaring Lion._ I wouldn't forget it if I lived to be a hundred."

"And she'll show?" Coragan's voice dropped to a whisper. No one was in earshot, but there was no point in taking chances.

The rogue sighed. "I hope so. I can't imagine she's been invited into too many other places. She's only been a ... uh, you know, for what? A week? Probably less."

Coragan nodded, silently considering the thought and running over the details of their plan in his head. It seemed reasonable enough. From what Borak and the mages had told them, vampires could not enter a building unless first invited. Once invited, they could come and go as they pleased. Logically, one would think that a vampire would be inclined to take advantage of an invitation into a tavern such as this. Hence, Clarissa could very well show her face here this evening. Alone. Without Lucian.

A smile crawled across Coragan's features. Divide and conquer. Two vampires at one time were clearly beyond them, but one, and the weaker at that? That might be feasible. He fingered the hilt of his silver sword. _Come on, Clarissa,_ he thought, _show your pretty little face._

They waited.

Anduri of Lethuan stared into the mug of ale on the table before him twisting his lips in consternation. Beside him, the elder guardsman, Thelliun, gazed into his own mug with a vacant, almost mindless look, his face drawn and his breath soft.

Anduri knew the life of a guardsman could sometimes be fraught with danger, but he expected that. Thelliun expected that as well. But what they had witnessed ...

With a sudden motion, Thelliun reached over, picked up his mug, and downed its contents in a single gulp. The table resounded with a loud crack as he slammed the empty cup down and the fragile handle broke off in his fist. "Barkeep," he roared, "give me another."

Snorting derisively into his own mug, Anduri merely shook his head. "Careful. Don't want to give the impression something's bothering you."

Thelliun ignored him.

Anduri shrugged, then leaned over in his stool to study the froth and foam of his beer. The white top might be a little more interesting visually, but in his opinion, it did little to improve the taste. Reaching up, he carefully wiped his finger along the side of his nose as Thelliun had once shown him. Then, he lowered his finger into the foam and began to gently swirl the contents around. In a matter of moments, he knew, the small amount of grease would have its effect and he would be free to quaff a foamless beer.

"Ahem," the barkeep said, strolling over with a second mug of ale in hand. He placed the cup down, then swept the remains of the broken one to the side. "That'll be two ravens for the ale." The barkeep paused to glance uncertainly at the guild house insignia on Thelliun's arm. " ... and a griffon for the damages."

Thelliun reddened and looked up. "Damages? You expect me to pay damages? It was the cup that did the breaking, not me."

The barkeep glanced nervously around the room. "I'm sorry sir, but it's only fair. Mine's a poor tavern, and every mug I have is precious."

"Now look here—"

Anduri laid a restraining hand on Thelliun's shoulder as the guardsman tried to rise from his stool. Fortunately, the head full of ale made Thelliun's footing awkward and it was not difficult to force the man back down. "I'll spot you the griffon," Anduri said, then reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a single silvery coin. It clinked distinctly as he tossed it on the counter.

Thelliun paused to stare at the coin, then grudgingly added his own two coppers.

The barkeep collected his money, then headed off to wait on other patrons. Thelliun grabbed his new mug and pulled it toward him, but he did not drink. Instead, he just shook his head in disbelief and stared off into distant space. A look of horror spread across his face. "He moved ... he screamed."

"I know," Anduri said, a little shaken himself. He tried to force the memory from his mind, but its shadow simply would not fade. "I was there, remember. Just keep your voice down."

Thelliun took another swig of ale, then grumbled. "Keep my voice down ... keep my voice down. I drive a stake through a dead man's heart and his body screams—you're worried about my voice?"

"We are sworn to silence."

"Easy for you to say. You staked one of the guards, I got to do the mage. His was the corpse that did the screaming." Thelliun suddenly grew suspicious, and more than a little frightened. "Did you miss?"

"Miss?"

"The heart. Are you sure you got the heart when you staked him through?"

"Yes, we were all careful about that. The young mage was the only one that reacted. Come, you are drinking too much and you're starting to babble. Barrooms have too many ears for us to continue this discussion."

Thelliun stared at Anduri with a hint of challenge in his eyes. He seemed on the verge of replying, then suddenly shook his head. It was a long moment before he took another drink, and an even longer one before he spoke. "Have you noticed the smell? It's all over the place now. It's like a curse being breathed by the bloody guild house stones."

Anduri nodded. He had noticed it this morning, actually, shortly after they had performed their grisly task. A faint, musty, almost charnel odor had appeared over night and spread rapidly throughout the guild. It varied in intensity from place to place, being extremely faint near the windows and other areas of ventilation; but it was always there, even if only a trace. It had grown stronger as the day progressed; so much so that by dusk some of the lower corridors were so bad one could hardly walk through them without gagging. At one point in the late afternoon, Anduri found one young guardsman on his knees in a particularly potent spot; the young fool had wanted to take a stroll after an early evening meal. Much to his dismay, the man found that the odor of the undead did not mix well with chicken soup—he'd emptied the contents of his stomach throughout the hall.

Thelliun stared soberly at Anduri, then gulped the last of his ale. "I'm not going back there."

Reaching out to pat the older man on the shoulder, Anduri did his best to offer reassurance. "Come now, you've had too much to drink. Things'll look different in the morning."

The elder guardsman snorted. "Morning? Who's going to live 'til morning?"

Try as he might, Anduri could not help but wince at Thelliun's words. The guardsman's drinking was starting to catch up to him and his normally unrecognizable accent was beginning to show.

"Thelliun ..."

"Go back yourself, if you want. Me, I'm leaving the dead ones to the wizards. No job is worth that." Thelliun reached down and ripped the yellow sash from off his arm. He discarded it on the table. "Tell Mathagarr I quit."

With that the guardsman staggered up, and headed for the door.

### Chapter Thirty

The light grey powder formed a complete circle before the door. It measured a pace and a half across and was decorated at four evenly paced intervals, with each point bearing a symbol of one of the elements studied at the guild: earth, air, water, and fire. Fire, of course, had the dominant position, followed closely by earth. Air and water shared comparable levels of importance, each only present to round out the full power of the spell, power rooted directly in earth and fire.

As Korina looked on, Regecon began circumscribing a second circle about the first. He alone had to complete each ring. Only when a circle was fully completed could any of the other mages offer assistance. Aside from Regecon, Ambrisia was the only other wizard allowed to inscribe any of the dominant sigils. Be that as it may, there was still plenty of work for the remaining mages in the chamber. With a spell of this complexity, there was an average of eight minor sigils for every major one, and there were some two to four major sigils per circle. With the exception of divination, there was at least one mage present to help with every discipline. The talented wizard Methoin helped with fire, Burodon with earth, some water mage Korina didn't know waited to add his art, and Jacindra herself was due any minute to help with the symbols of air. With sixteen concentric rings of binding, and the plethora of symbols and other chants required around each circle, the spell was going to take several days to prepare, even with the small army of mages working on it. Once completed, they needed to get the vampire to step inside the center—an interesting feat to witness, if it could be done. Granted, the circles lay right before the door, so as soon as he entered the chamber he was bound to step within. It was just that small matter of forcing the vampire to enter this particular room.

Korina shuddered.

A vampire. All the mages knew now. For herself, Korina had already suspected such when she had finished doing some of her own research the day before. An undead powerful enough to slay a full mage with ease, yet still retain a remarkably human form in appearance—that alone had nearly clinched it. With the bite marks she remembered seeing on Durek's neck, there had been little room left for doubt.

It was an old one, too. A thousand years old, according to Ambrisia. Given the fact that one of the earth mages had failed to hold it with a hand of stone grown from the wall of the guild house, the earth sorceress' estimation sounded accurate. According to several witnesses, the hand of stone which had successfully grasped the creature had been subsequently ripped from the wall by an exertion of sheer physical force. The amount of strength required to accomplish such a feat was totally unprecedented. It seemed all too likely that this vampire had been around since the time of Morgulan.

Lucian val Drasmyr, right hand of Morgulan and guardian of his sceptre.

For some odd reason, that name seemed to resound repeatedly inside Korina's head. Although just the name of a vampire, a man who should have died centuries ago, it still tugged at some remote part of her brain. She wrestled with the notion a moment, trying to trace the odd feeling in her stomach, then decided it was unimportant. Hardly worth as much interest as Morgulan's mystical sceptre. Now that was an object worthy of contemplation. Perhaps when all this was done, Korina herself could make a try to recover the ancient talisman. She would have to move quickly, though; once they defeated Drasmyr, Regecon would very likely move to recover the sceptre himself and have it destroyed. And that was something she could not allow.

Amidst his work, Regecon finally looked up and spoke. "You do understand what I want?" His eyes gripped Korina with a sudden fierceness and strength that the young woman found quite discomfiting. Her heart quickened in sudden fear, and she nearly choked from the dread that he could somehow sense her inner thoughts.

She forced the feeling down and cleared her throat before speaking. "Yes, Guild Master. A containment jar in which to confine your vampire so that he can be destroyed. I can handle it."

"Good. That's very good." The fire mage completed the outline of the second ring and motioned Ambrisia to join him. Together, they began inscribing more symbols. Korina relaxed as the two mages returned to work, then sighed. They were using Ascerion Circles. There was nothing wrong with them, of course; they were just hopelessly antiquated and rather awkward for some particular uses. A comparable spell cast with the Rings of Denzer would take half the time and half as many circles; but only a demonologist would know that. Ascerion Circles would have to do.

Korina turned to leave, but before she took two steps Ambrisia spoke. "Make sure you find Toreg to help you, Korina. A jar based on earth alone won't be sufficient to hold this vampire."

Looking back, Korina forced a smile to her face. "Of course, Mistress. I was just on my way to find him." That was considerably more polite than the remark the young woman diligently suppressed. She knew that earth alone wouldn't hold this vampire, but she had other means at least as effective as anything mage Toreg might offer. All it would take would be some modifications of several demonic sigils: an alteration of the influence to encompass undead instead of demons. Of course, disguising the true nature of such sigils might be difficult, but surely she could think of something if necessary. Ambrisia might not realize it, but Korina could construct the entirety of the jar without Mage Toreg's help. Be that as it may, necessity forced her to accept a smaller role.

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 stood 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.

### Chapter Thirty-One

In a small, little-used chamber on the third floor of the guild's easternmost wing, the guild master stared at the shackled form of his strongest water mage while the Mistress of the Earth and the Mistress of the Air looked on.

An inhuman howl erupted from Toreg's lips, and the man convulsed violently against the constraints that held him. Over and over, he thrashed, threatening to tear his own flesh in his efforts to get free.

Standing on Regecon's left, Ambrisia watched the struggling water mage. After a moment, she began to chant in a low voice, then made several quick gestures in the air.

The stone slab on which the water mage lay twisted again, undulating along all its length. A thick band of stone arose, encircling the sorcerer's neck and securing his head. Another followed, wrapping around the wizard's waist.

Regecon nodded appreciatively. "Hands, feet, neck, and waist. Very good, Ambrisia."

The earth sorceress wiped a stray lock of hair from before her eyes, then nodded in return. "An ogre wouldn't be able to break those bonds; they are stronger than steel."

"We aren't dealing with ogres, Ambrisia. We're dealing with vampires."

Ambrisia grudgingly looked away. Regecon understood. By now, she had heard the news of the almost capture of Drasmyr just two nights past. Almost capture, because the vampire had done the unthinkable—he'd broken an earth hand that had held him. As the Mistress of Earth Magic, she was bound to take that event a little too personally. Her voice sounded distant, perhaps even cold. "Lucian is very old. These measures will suffice for Toreg—he's not really a complete vampire yet anyway, he's something in between."

"I know," Regecon said, returning his gaze to the water mage. Despite the unbreakable restraints, the man still struggled. He trembled and strained against the stone, flushing his face and quickening his breath, all to no avail. Ambrisia's bonds still held, secure enough to prevent him from any injury. Realizing this, the man howled in impotent rage and gnashed his teeth in fury. He spat forth drool and mucus, mixed with bright red flecks of his own blood. He might still be a living, breathing, human being, but the sharpening of those two teeth in his mouth was a telling sign.

Shaking his head, Regecon turned away to confront Jacindra. The elder woman quivered at his glare and dropped her gaze to the floor. She seemed to shrink inward, as if trying to crawl inside her own flesh to hide from his judgment. Her face flushed crimson in shame.

_She should be ashamed,_ Regecon thought, _withholding information like that from me. She should have told me what she had known from the start._ But would it have done any good? Where would they be now, if he had learned of Lucian's existence a day or two sooner? _A day or two closer to completing the binding rings, that's where._ "Jacindra. You deliberately withheld information from the council and myself, information that may have prevented several tragedies. Do you deny this?"

Jacindra straightened, finding some reserve of self-esteem and inner strength. "No, I do not, Guild Master. I only wish that you consider the circumstances of threat to my own life, and the fact that I have finally come forward. Please, show clemency."

"This is not a formal hearing, Jacindra. Such will have to take place before the whole council."

Ambrisia lifted an eyebrow, then motioned toward Toreg. "I believe, Guild Master, you and I are all that is left of the council." She eyed Jacindra. "At least, the only ones who would have a say in this particular matter."

Regecon glanced toward Ambrisia, preparing an irritated reply, then stopped. She was right. Morcallenon was dead, and Toreg incapacitated. Jacindra could not be involved in any hearing regarding punishment for her own actions, and that left it up to Ambrisia and himself. He almost laughed. Some council. Two people, and himself with the deciding vote. The fire mage glanced back to Toreg, writhing on the slab of stone. "Under the current circumstances, I urge that any formal hearing on this matter be postponed until the end of the week ... until after we have dealt with Drasmyr." He met Jacindra's eyes. "We need you alive and unhindered, more than we need you imprisoned. Ambrisia, do you concur?"

Ambrisia hesitated, taking a final look to weigh Jacindra in mind. "I agree. Let any hearing wait until a later, more convenient time. She has come forward, we can trust her through this. In the meantime, let us turn our attention to other things. Such as Toreg." She motioned to the stricken mage. "And my student, Marissa."

Regecon nodded. "When did you say Marissa disappeared?"

"Early this morning. _After_ sunrise."

The guild master passed a puzzled look in Ambrisia's direction. "After? Vampires can't move about in the day."

"I know. That makes it all the more puzzling. I summoned her to my chambers for a small chore early in the morning. It didn't take much time, so I let her leave when she finished. Several hours later, I required her assistance again and she was nowhere to be found."

"Might I suggest something?" Jacindra interjected, a little hesitantly.

"Go ahead, you haven't been stripped of your council seat yet." Regecon felt a twinge of regret as he spoke, then shoved it aside. He still felt angry, and he wasn't entirely certain she could be trusted. She had betrayed them after all. Perhaps it was a mistake to delay her trial. Perhaps justice should be delivered here and now, swift and severe; but there was no one else of comparable skill with air. Although that discipline played a minor part in the spell they were preparing, it was crucial nonetheless. They had to trust her. There was no other choice.

Red of face, Jacindra cleared her throat, then spoke. "News of the vampire has spread throughout the guild. Many of the common servants have decided to leave, even some of the guards. It is possible that she decided to flee."

Regecon turned to Ambrisia.

"She would have told me," Ambrisia replied, "or Toreg, here. After all, they are cousins. She has much to lose by leaving this place."

Jacindra's voice was flat. "She may have decided she had more to lose if she stayed."

Ambrisia started to respond, but Regecon forestalled her. "That is one possibility, Jacindra. Let's ..." He paused, his thoughts turning to Morcallenon again. It was times like this when he would often turn to Morcallenon and his art for answers no one else could provide. Not anymore. The man was dead. Dead. It was a cold feeling in Regecon's breast. He'd faced death before, but never like this. The presence of the vampire was turning everything into a bad nightmare with people dying every time he turned around. It was too much for one man to deal with. Too much.

No! Regecon grew resolute. He would not bend, he would not yield. Everything has a price. Existence is a toil of sweat and blood and Death is the price of friendship. "Check with Porthion," he said. "See if he can locate her. In the meantime, we should also check with any of the friends she has among the other students. Perhaps they might know what became of her."

"Yes, Korina knew her," Ambrisia said. "I'm not sure if I would call them friends, but they did speak together on occasion. I know of a few others as well."

"Good. I'll also send a couple of guards to search the guild. It is possible, however unlikely, that she injured herself in one of the lesser-used sections and has been unable to make her way back."

Ambrisia nodded, then motioned to Toreg. "And what shall we do about him?" The man had finally stopped his struggles, but his eyes held an alien glaze. There was a trace of something in the way he looked, something they'd never seen before: madness and perhaps even malevolence.

"Korina said she knew enough about water from her own studies that she could complete the jar herself. It only has to hold Drasmyr for an hour or so," Regecon said.

"That's not what I mean," Ambrisia said. "What of Toreg?"

"But that is precisely my point: he's not a vampire yet. If we destroy Lucian, he may yet be saved." Regecon ground his teeth together; he had no desire to countenance the alternative. He and Toreg had never been friends, but he had never considered the man an enemy. If he had to kill him ... No, he could not order his death. To kill him like this would be unthinkable. "We shall post a guard to keep watch, perhaps even Mathagarr, and fill the room with garlic. The garlic should keep Lucian from returning—we certainly don't need him making the conversion complete."

Jacindra folded her arms across her chest. "If he does change? If he crosses over?"

Regecon shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "By All that is Holy, I just don't know."

### Chapter Thirty-Two

Utter darkness surrounded her. There was no light, not even the faintest of glimmerings. In the depths of the guild house, Korina found the silence ominous and foreboding. Here, in the furthest reaches of the long-abandoned catacombs she felt cut off and alone, isolated from the world above. She had come here many times before and had long since put the path to memory, but that did not dispel the uneasy feeling that somehow she was being watched. She had no need of a light—especially since one would announce her presence and make her that much easier to follow—but ever since the vampire had seemingly stalked her to her room, she had become quite ill-at-ease when alone in the dark. It wasn't fear, precisely, it was just a strong sense of discomfort and a disquieting realization of her own vulnerability. She was being foolish, of course. The wizards had set sigils around the guild to keep the creature out and so far they seemed to have been successful. It had set off one of the sigils two nights ago, and killed a fire mage in a brief scuffle, but since then it had yet to make another try to penetrate the defenses of the guild. A guardsman had spotted it last night scurrying across the outside of the guild house wall, but it had made no attempt to gain entry. The wizards were keeping it at bay.

Sighing, Korina tried to put thoughts of the vampire out of her mind, resolved herself to her task, and pressed on. She walked, for a time that seemed like eons, until she finally came to the door she sought. Reaching out to stroke its time-worn surface, Korina breathed a sudden sigh of relief. The vampire could not touch her here; it was her secret place, her private altar. Gathering herself, she uttered the unlocking spell, and smiled in satisfaction as the wooden frame swung inward. Its oiled hinges emitted no sound and from the room beyond a light sprang forth. As the brilliance flooded the tunnel, Korina's vision fled and she squinted in pain. Although once again vulnerable, this time she felt no fear.

The disorientation passed and her vision cleared.

Just inside the room, a figure to the left moved toward her. It stopped by the doorway, then bent down in a sweeping bow. The man, Jornon by name, stood covered from head to toe in a long, flowing, ceremonial black robe, unadorned save the belt holding the sheathed sword at his side. Once, he had been a guardsman looking to join the guild. He had been a man searching for a cause, hoping he could wield his sword as a servant of magic. Then he met Korina. The man, hopefully the first of many, served her now; he had been entranced by the young sorceress's beauty. His weakness had allowed Korina to manipulate him and exploit his feelings until he was at his most vulnerable. She had seduced him with empty promises at first, then lured him into service, coerced, actually, when the man showed doubts. With her guidance, he became a servant of Lubrochius bound forever by magic and the skillful manipulations of the evil young woman. Indeed, one might even dare to say he was one of the Children; but not one who would ever acquire any meaningful rank. Korina's hold over him tended to prevent his full supplication to the Soul-Eater. Only those who came to Lubrochius of their own free will would ever rise high in his eyes. Those who had to be bound were, more often than not, very much expendable.

Jornon straightened from his bow. "Greetings, Mistress. Are you prepared?"

Korina nodded.

The man glanced back over his shoulder. "Our guest is terribly frightened; she has not stopped bawling since I brought her here. Shall I remove the hood?" He motioned to a bundle in the corner, propped up against a thick obsidian slab of stone.

Korina stepped forward and closed the door. Once inside the room, she could hear the young woman's sobs and whimpering cries. They did nothing to stir her heart. "No, not yet."

The bundle shifted. "Is that you, Korina?" Marissa's voice called to her from the bundle. "Help me. I've been captured."

Korina ignored her, then moved toward a small stone table lying near the opposite wall. Several of the gruesome paraphernalia that marked her craft lay spread across the smooth surface: a human skull affixed with a black candle atop its cranium sat in one corner, a large black book on demonic rituals sat in another, while a scarlet altar cloth tightly rolled and bound, an obsidian dagger with a curving blade, and an iron brazier filled with unholy ashes specially prepared for burning rested in a neat arrangement around the center.

Stepping forward, Korina reached out and picked up the black dagger. She pulled it from its sheath and examined its blade in the torchlight. She took a long, deep breath, reveling in the exhilaration that always accompanied the inception of her rituals, then sheathed the weapon, and strapped it to her side. "Let us begin," she said, turning to Jornon. "Spread out the cloth and bind her. Quickly."

Jornon strode toward the table and grabbed the scarlet altar cloth. With rapid motions he unbound the cords on the cloth, then spread it out over the slab of obsidian. He grabbed the trembling figure obscured by the black hood and lifted her to her feet. "Now?" he asked.

Again, Korina nodded.

Jornon pulled the hood from Marissa's face, revealing a countenance streaked by bitter tears of dread. Blinking in the sudden brilliance of the torchlight, the young woman did not at first notice Korina standing a short distance away. When she did, she brightened. "Korina! Help me ..." She trailed off staring from Jornon to Korina, then back again. No one moved. Marissa let out a sob. "You're with him. Aren't you?"

Korina saw no reason to hide the truth. "Yes."

Marissa straightened, trying to look brave and defiant. "What are you going to do to me?" Her eyes quivered and her lips trembled.

Korina nodded to Jornon, and the man shoved the young woman on to her back on the scarlet cloth of the altar. She landed uncomfortably on her corded wrists, pinning both her arms behind her with her weight. Frantically, she tried to wriggle into a better position and squirm away, but Jornan pulled forth an iron manacle and secured it to her foot. Thus bound, the impossibility of escape became apparent and the fear Marissa had been holding back let loose. "Help! Somebody help me!"

Korina picked up the skull and brazier, then stepped forward. "Scream all you want, my dear. I warded this room in every corner. A thief listening at the door couldn't hear your cries." She moved deliberately around the altar, studying the terrified woman's face. On the upper corner of the altar closest to the young woman's head, Korina placed the skull and candle. At the corner by her foot, she placed the brazier. A single word and gesture sent a spark of flame drifting through the air to light each one. Turning, Korina drew a pouch from her side and emptied a small portion of grey powder in the cup of her hand. She murmured a few soft words, then sprinkled the grey dust over Marissa in a pattern of widening circles. Marissa sneezed and snorted, and vainly tried to blow the powder away.

Chuckling as her prisoner continued to struggle, Korina began walking in a circle and trailing the powder behind her as she went. When finished, a circle of grey, as far across as her outstretched hands, rested on the floor behind the altar, its perfection only interrupted by two stone fire sconces strategically placed on the floor. The sconces were set in a line parallel to the altar on the further half of the sorcerer's ring. With a word, Korina set both alight.

She needed one final element to make the preparation complete. Reaching into another pouch, Korina drew forth a small brown rodent apparently fast asleep. Another murmured word woke the creature and it began to squirm desperately in her hand. Korina smiled, then silenced the creature forever with a sudden motion from the dagger. Moments later, the young woman set herself to work using the creature's blood to draw sigils around the ring.

When finished, Korina stood and wiped off her hands. She glanced at Marissa. "It's your turn, now," she said, then moved around to the other side of the altar with the dagger in her hand.

"Korina, please! Don't do this." Tears streamed down Marissa's face, yet she remained surprisingly articulate. "I'm begging you!"

"Really, Marissa. I would think you would be happy to join Durek. After all, he is your eternal love. Is he not?"

"I don't want to die! Korina ... why are you doing this?"

It would be a waste to kill the woman too soon; it would be far more enjoyable to prolong her suffering and give her time to see Death coming for her. Korina gestured meaningfully with her hand. "Life is filled with these wonderful things called opportunities. When one comes along, one must be sure to seize it and take advantage of it as fast as one can. One such opportunity has presented itself to me ... In fact, I would have overlooked it if not for a book I have been reading— _Taladirion and the Twelve Genies._ Have you ever read it?"

A look of confusion came over Marissa's face and the young woman shook her head.

"Really? It seemed to be the type of tale a woman of your character would like. If you're interested, it's about the young prince Taladirion and his quest for true love. It starts rather simply: the young prince falls in love with a princess, but she rejects him. He goes on a quest to find a genie to grant him a wish so he can woo the princess and gain her hand in marriage. Unfortunately, the genie tells him that true love is beyond his powers so he sends Taladirion on a quest to a second, more powerful genie who might be able to help."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Marissa asked. "Please, Korina..."

"Just listen, Marissa," Korina said. "The second genie is not strong enough and he sends Taladirion on a quest to find the third, and so on, and so on. In the end, he finds the twelfth genie, the King of Genies, the most powerful genie of all. Unfortunately, the King of Genies tells him that true love is beyond the powers of all the djinn and offers his own humble service instead. Heartbroken, Taladirion takes the genie and his mystical lamp, then starts on his journey home. He cannot have his love, but he has the King of Genies bound to a bottle to grant him wishes until he dies. A more than fair trade one would be inclined to say; unless one were as hopelessly romantic as you are, Marissa."

Marissa stared at her without saying anything, her pale face numb with horror and fear.

"Anyway," Korina continued, "when he gets home, Taladirion finds that the princess he loved has grown to miss him and fallen in love with him anyway. They get married and live happily ever after with a genie in a lamp as a servant—a perfect fairy-tale ending for a perfect fairy-tale world."

Marissa shook her head, completely confused. "Why are you telling me this?"

The sorceress smiled coldly. "Don't you find it ironic that an overly romantic sod such as yourself is going to lose her life because of a fairy tale?'

"What ... what? I don't understand."

Korina's words turned acid. "No, I don't suppose you do."

Stepping back, the dark-haired sorceress spread her arms and intoned her voice in a demonic chant. She spoke slowly, swaying her arms with the undulations of the rhythm. The black dagger in her right hand drew a small circle with its tip, then pointed toward the ceiling. Thick black smoke began issuing forth from the iron brazier and it hung heavily in the air, obliterating all sight of the burning sconces.

Korina descended to her knees, and pulled forth a pair of small earthen jars just recently constructed. An intricate design decorated each dish covering it with a variety of sparkling gemstones—rubies, sapphires, emeralds and others—arranged in parallel lines rising from bottom to top. Each jar mirrored the other exactly. They seemed oddly beautiful in that place full of horrors, and they captured Korina's stare for a remarkably long time. Finally, the sorceress placed both jars to the side and supplicated herself in homage before the altar. In a loud voice, she cried out.

"Lubrochius, I call to thee, beyond the Veil of Shadows.

"Lubrochius, I call to thee, Ruler of the Deepest Hell.

"Lubrochius, I call to thee, beyond the Infernal Darkness.

"Lubrochius, I call to thee, Master of All that Is, All that Was, and All that Shall ever Be.

"Devourer.

"Consumer.

"Destroyer.

"I beseech with thee, grant me audience. Show unto me, thy chosen daughter, the almighty fury of thy face. Grant unto me, one boon, one gift, one honor that I might bring thee glory. I must bind what I cannot bind, and I need thy unholy aid. I am thy most accomplished daughter, thy truest servant, thy most devout and loyal slave. Come unto me, Lubrochius. Come unto me, O Eternal Eater of Fallen Souls!"

Korina rose to her knees, lifted the inverted dagger in her hands, and pointed the weapon at Marissa's breast. She stared across the altar at the cloud of roiling black smoke. Strange fires and alien lights started to burn within its depths. It hummed and vibrated, forming a cloak of darkness that drew in all the radiance about it and consumed it within. Like a hole in reality it pulled at her with a palpable force, bridging a dark pit of nothingness that spanned a chasm between two distant worlds. The air, the altar, the room itself began to bend toward that hole, warping and twisting in its blasphemous presence. She felt fear rising in her breast and panic reaching out to grasp her. If she lost control, if the spell slipped, or if the fragile circle of powder were somehow broken, she would be hurled into that darkness and the world beyond. In the deepest pit of Hell, the demesne of Lubrochius, she and all she had worked for would be consumed at the arch-demon's leisure.

Without warning, the hole of darkness grew still, and the room silent. For a moment, Korina felt a chill of uneasy dread work its way up her spine. What if Lubrochius did not show? It was the demon's choice, not hers; she could only open the gate that allowed the audience to take place. Everything after that was up to the demon and his own personal whims. Her eyes flicked to the pair of jeweled jars at her side. He had to show! Her plan was brilliant! More than brilliant! It would give her power beyond her wildest imaginings; enough power that the retrieval of the Sceptre of Morgulan would become a laughably easy task. And with the Sceptre of Morgulan would come even more power.

Power. That's what mattered. Power to set herself up as a god, like Morgulan before. Worshipped and feared by all, she would become Queen of the Realms and master over the inhabitants of the world.

But first, Lubrochius had to show.

She felt a tremor in the darkness, then saw a purplish flash of light. Suddenly, Marissa screamed. She didn't have to see The Face to sense that something was coming. A presence filled the air, like the calm before the storm, but far more menacing, and far more evil. Korina's heart began to pound in fear and elation. He was coming. He was actually coming! O power, sweet, decadent power.

There was just one final step to secure the bridge.

Looking down, Korina met Marissa's stare, saw the terror locked behind the young woman's eyes. The young demonologist spoke in a flat, dead voice, her eyes never wavering. "Master, accept this offering. I give unto thee, this woman. Consume her soul as is your way."

Marissa screamed.

The obsidian dagger plunged downward.

### Chapter Thirty-Three

Regecon glanced briefly at the three sheafs of paper Porthion had handed him. He scanned the first few lines then placed the papers on the top of his desk. He walked around the edge of the desk to his chair, then sat down.

Porthion fidgeted uncomfortably. "May we go now, Guild Master?"

Regecon shook his head. "No, not quite yet. You and Tenovah are sure of your results."

Porthion nodded. Of course they were. They were the next in skill after Morcallenon, and with the head diviner dead, they were the only ones Regecon could turn to concerning the necromantic jar. The short report on his desk summarized their findings.

Regecon lifted the top sheaf of paper again, and began to read. After several lines, he raised both eyebrows in surprise. "The jar ... undoes the invitation? That is an odd power to have. How does it work?"

Porthion shuffled his feet and looked around as if expecting to find someone else in the guild master's chamber who might be able to answer the question. There was no one else present, however, except Tenovah and Tenovah was probably the only mage in the guild more reticent and reclusive than the old librarian. Indeed, Regecon should be thankful he had received the report at all; it had taken the guild nearly an hour to find these men. Finally, Porthion began to speak. "Well, a great number of the sigils on the jar are descriptions of the ritual involved ..."

"Yes?"

"The paste itself is the crucial element. When specially prepared, it burns easily and the smoke and fumes it releases will wipe a vampire's presence from a small, confined area."

Regecon scratched his beard. If they could figure out how to work this jar, it might be a great boon indeed. "How does ...?" The implications of what the diviner had just told him crashed into him. His voice trailed off and he felt a sickly sensation in his stomach. "Arcalian knew."

Porthion's face twisted in something close to pain. "That would seem likely."

Regecon shook his head. The evidence against Arcalian had been steadily growing over the course of the past week. And despite the fact that he had previously said that Arcalian was somehow involved in dark doings, a small part of himself had held out hope. Like the others, he had wanted to doubt treachery on Arcalian's part, but this jar left no more room for excuses. The object and its contents were designed to remove the effects of a vampire's invitation, to allow one to meet with a vampire in a building and place of one's choosing without giving the vampire any advantage whatsoever. With this magic, Arcalian could meet with the vampire in his own room and not have to worry about the creature sneaking back to destroy him. Once he removed the invitation, the creature would be unable to re-enter the building until he invited it again. Arcalian had met with Lucian, perhaps on more than one occasion. Arcalian was evil.

Regecon's eyes lifted up to meet Porthion's. The wrinkled figure read his face and shivered. "I could not help but come to the same conclusion." The librarian reddened. "I think we are fortunate that Arcalian is no longer with us. Perhaps it is to my shame, but I find myself praying for his death."

Regecon nodded grimly. "He is dead."

"Can you be certain?"

"Lucian can slay men with ease. A guardsman wouldn't even slow him down and I doubt that Aristoceles would stand much chance either. If by some miracle Arcalian managed to escape Lucian's clutches, I do not believe he could have gotten far." Regecon glanced toward the report, then shook his head sadly. "Perhaps it is a twisted justice, but I suspect that Arcalian's dealings with necromancy sealed his fate."

Porthion nodded. "You are probably right."

Regecon glanced at the sheaf of paper in his hand one more time. "How does the jar work? An invitation does not seem to be the type of thing that can be revoked. To me it seems like something that once done is over and done with. I've never pictured it being tied to magic in any way."

"Trying to understand it as the dispelling of a magical spell might be somewhat erroneous. From what Tenovah and I learned, it would be better to regard it as a type of exorcism."

"An exorcism?"

"Yes. As you know, demons and other nefarious spiritual entities have the ability to possess people and inhabit human bodies. The priests of most religions have developed rites and rituals to exorcise such demons and spirits. When the proper chants are performed, a priest can drive a demon out and cleanse a human being's body."

"What does that have to do with the vampire and invitations?"

"In a way, a vampire who has been invited into a building has been given leave to possess the building. It is not the same as demonic possession since there is no conscious entity being subdued, but it is similar. As I said, the jar and the paste inside allow one to perform a ritual to effectively exorcise a vampire's presence from a small area."

"Would we be able to use this now? Could we exorcise Lucian's presence from this guild?"

Porthion shook his head and frowned. "I'm afraid not. The paste has a limited area of effect, perhaps one room could be cleansed at any one time. There are also time constraints as well. The longer one waits to invoke the magic, the more difficult it will be to exorcise the vampire. Lucian has had a grip on this guild for nearly a week now; even if we had enough paste to exorcise every room, I don't think we would succeed. The ritual seems specifically designed to allow one to meet with a vampire in a place of one's own choosing, and then take measures to protect oneself as soon as the creature has left. For our needs, it is useless."

### Chapter Thirty-Four

"There she is."

Coragan looked up from his mug of ale and followed the rogue's extended finger. They had spent the last two nights waiting in this tavern, at the same secluded table, in the same secretive position, hoping that Clarissa would appear. Each night had been fruitless, however. Whatever Clarissa had been doing the last few evenings apparently had nothing to do with _The Roaring Lion_ or any of its patrons. Tonight, though, their long hours of tedium had finally paid off.

The vampire they sought stood framed by the doorway of the tavern. After a moment, she strolled inside.

Coragan hastily motioned Galladrin's hand down, lest his pointing finger attract undue notice. Then, the bounty hunter scrunched down on the table, doing his best to obscure his features behind the half-filled mug of ale he held.

In the chair beside him, Galladrin started to rise. "Come on. Let's get her."

"Not here," Coragan said, motioning Galladrin to return to his seat. "There's too many people."

The rogue thumped back into his chair. "What, then?"

"Wait."

The vampire glided across the room, seemingly at ease amongst the laughing patrons engaged in revelry. She paused near the bar to glance around the tavern, then pulled up a stool and ordered a drink.

Galladrin let out a sarcastic chuckle. "Great, our vampire's a drunkard. Maybe she'll pass out and be an easy kill."

Coragan looked over at the rogue, then smiled wryly. "Somehow, I don't think it's going to be that easy. She's just taking her time ... she's up to something."

Galladrin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah, she's going to kill someone."

Clarissa glanced at the mug the barkeep handed to her, and offered an alluring smile in greeting. She reached to her side, then suddenly looked down in apparent confusion.

"What's she doing?" Galladrin leaned forward, peering intently at the scene.

"It looks like ... she's trying to explain to the barkeep why she doesn't have any money." Coragan downed the rest of his ale, then gently placed his mug on the table. He looked to Galladrin. "Come on, I don't like the looks of this. Let's start wandering over ... but be casual."

Galladrin shot the bounty hunter an irritated frown. "I'm a thief, remember, I know what I'm doing."

The two men stood and moved off separately through the crowd, winding through the mass of people like hunters in stalk of their prey. Coragan groped for the hilt of the silver dagger at his side and traced his finger across the pommel for reassurance. It felt smooth and cool to his touch. At least they'd be able to hurt her this time—not like the battle in the castle. They had been lucky to escape from that fiasco alive. Coragan felt his heart beginning to race and he forced himself to wander casually toward the door in hopes of blocking the entrance. Halfway there, he realized how foolish he was being.

Clarissa was a vampire. Now that she was inside, door or window would make very little difference to her; and there was no way he could keep her from all the possible exits. He caught Galladrin's eye in the crowd, then motioned for him to hold up and stay ready. The rogue quickly engaged himself in a polite conversation with a young woman who had been walking by. _A dangerous move, my friend,_ Coragan thought, looking toward Clarissa perhaps a dozen paces from the pair. If she recognized his voice ...

Clarissa, however, was engaged in a conversation of her own, and did not seem to notice. One of the men who had been sitting next to her started pushing several coins toward the disgruntled barkeep. After briefly studying the coins, the barkeep swept them up into his outstretched hand. _So she got some 'gentleman' to pay for her ale ... that's just great. Poor fool._

The gentleman in question, however, was all smiles. Clarissa shook her golden mane and let out a startled laugh of pleasure at some joke the young gentleman made. The man, well-dressed with long dark hair—perhaps a merchant's son—raised his mug in toast. Clarissa answered by lifting her own mug, and the man spoke a few inaudible words. The mugs clanged together then rose swiftly to thirsty lips. Clarissa, however, lowered hers after but a moment. She might be thirsty, but not for ale.

"Hey, buddy. Are you going to stand in my way all night or am I going to have to beat you to the ground?"

Coragan glanced at the man who had spoken to him, an unkempt ruffian with snarly hair, rotting teeth, and an obnoxious personal odor which seemed to open a path before him in the crowd. The bounty hunter looked about noticing the open space around himself, then frowned at the scraggly looking stranger. As a man looking for trouble, the stranger did not look particularly intimidating. In fact, the most frightening thing about the ruffian was his noisome breath.

Unfortunately, Coragan did not have the time to make a point of the stranger's hygiene, or lack thereof. Clarissa could move at any moment, and he had to be ready. This man had to be dealt with quickly and efficiently.

Controlling the sudden urge to gag, the bounty hunter smiled broadly at the stranger as if greeting a long lost friend. The man started in surprise at the odd reaction, giving Coragan his chance. Without hesitating, Coragan lunged forward and drove his knee upward into the stranger's groin. Within a heartbeat he shoved the man backward through the swinging door and stepped outside to follow with sword in hand. Granted, pulling his weapon seemed a little extreme, but he did not wish to leave anything to chance. The open threat should be sufficient to drive the man away without any further violence.

The stranger scrambled up from the dirt, enraged. He paused when he saw the sword, then drew a wicked-looking dagger with a curving blade. He eyed the bounty hunter with caution, and stepped forward into a fighter's stance.

Coragan's jaw fell open in surprise. "My friend, I have a sword. You have a knife. Basically, that mean's you lose."

The man did not seem to care; he advanced flipping his weapon effortlessly around in his hand. "We'll see about that."

"Go home. I don't have time for this."

"Make time."

The man lunged forward slashing with his knife. Coragan parried the man's wrist with the flat of his blade, then added a wicked twist to slice the flesh across the stranger's forearm. The ruffian winced in pain and took a cautious step back.

"Next time, I'll take your whole arm off. Now get out of my face."

The man nodded, dropped his arm to the side, then turned as if to leave.

_Easy enough,_ Coragan thought, then rounded on the door. He barely noticed the strange, almost maniacal glint in the stranger's eye. It took a moment to register, but once it did, Coragan dove to the side and rolled back to his feet. The dagger the man hurled whipped past his face and sank into the outside wall of the tavern.

Rage overcame reason, and the weaponless stranger launched himself at Coragan. This time, however, the bounty hunter had lost all patience. The flat of his sword cracked against the man's temple and he dropped like a stone. There were no more words or threats, just a sudden stillness as the man crumpled to the earth. Coragan nudged the comatose body once with his toe, then finally turned to step back inside the tavern.

His rapidly darting eyes shot toward the bar only to come up empty. Clarissa and the man she drank with were gone. Growing more anxious by the moment, the bounty hunter desperately looked around for Galladrin, but the rogue, too, had vanished.

Cursing to himself, Coragan shouldered his way to the barkeep and flagged him down. He grabbed the startled man's arm, and pulled him forward. "Where's the woman that was just here?" he hissed. "The one with the blond hair who couldn't pay?" Galladrin was just arrogant and foolish enough to try to tackle Clarissa alone. The rogue might be adept with his rapier, but he was no match for that woman. By the Sickle, hadn't he noticed when she wrestled Borak to the ground?

The barkeep pointed upwards to a wooden balcony and a line of doors.

"Which bloody room?"

"Room four, I think."

Coragan released the barkeep and started for the steps. Unfortunately, a large crowd of people had gathered in a tight mass before the staircase blocking his way.

A hiss of frustration ripped from Coragan's lips causing a nearby stranger to jerk to attention and give the bounty hunter a wary stare. He didn't have time for this—any of it—Clarissa could be sinking her teeth into the rogue's neck while he wasted precious minutes down here. His friend could be gasping his final breath right now.

In desperation, Coragan yelled and raised his sword high in his right hand. Howling as loudly and as maniacally as he could, the bounty hunter charged. A stunned moment of sudden silence followed, then the mass of people scattered before him in all directions. With remarkable alacrity, the staircase opened wide before the bounty hunter, and frantic patrons began stumbling over each other in their attempts to get out of his way.

His path cleared, the bounty hunter started up the stairs taking three steps at a time. Behind him, a shout rose and utter chaos threatened to break loose. Men and women started scurrying about the room in a panic, and several voices started yelling for the town guard. Ahead of him, Coragan could see the line of doors set up on the left hand side of the balcony: one, two, three—

Door number four exploded.

Flailing wildly, Galladrin's body hurtled backward through the doorway to smash into the balcony rail. The railing cracked and gave way, and the rogue's feet skittered past the edge to dangle dangerously over the side. In desperation, Galladrin groped for several intact balusters to provide him with support while shafts of broken wood and pieces of railing tumbled past the precipice into the chaos below. They rained down into the tavern room spreading more confusion, more mayhem.

Coragan sheathed his sword, dropped to one knee, and pulled up his crossbow. He drew a silver-tipped quarrel from his quiver and loaded it into the weapon. Only a vampire could hurl a man through a doorway like that. And only a vampire could bring that look of terror to Galladrin's eyes.

Sure enough, Clarissa strode onto the balcony with blood dripping from her claw-like hands and crimson foam from her snarling mouth. "Well, milord, I believe it is time for our romance to end. The Scythe-Bearer has marked your soul for his sickle tonight."

Galladrin, draped precariously over the ledge of the balcony, vainly struggled to pull himself up and regain his feet. He groaned, not even bothering to give one of his characteristic rejoinders.

Coragan took aim and fired as Clarissa advanced. The silver-tipped quarrel ripped through the air like a bolt of lightning, hissing as it went. As the silver metal struck undead flesh it flared to life, sparking a brilliant tongue of blue flame upon the creature's pallid skin. A violent scream erupted from Clarissa's mouth forcing Coragan's hands to his ears. Gripping her injured shoulder, the vampire whirled, scanning the hall for her unseen foe.

The bounty hunter drew his silver sword and rose to face her. They exchanged looks, each with eyes set in determination.

Clarissa glanced from bounty hunter to rogue, then back to Coragan. She contorted her lips and sneered. "You can wait your turn," she said. Without further warning, she lunged toward the rogue just as he recovered his feet. Tumbling to the side, Galladrin rolled across the balcony and sprang up from the floor. A pace and a half away, Clarissa's clawed hands came down across the remains of the balcony railing. Wood shattered and cracked, and splinters scattered in a vast cloud of destruction.

A hand grabbed Coragan's shoulder. "What the Hell is going on here? Who do you—"

A quick glance told the bounty hunter he was being accosted by one of the tavern's hired hands: a bouncer, hired to keep order at the inn. He had come up the stairs to find the source of the sudden commotion. Seeing Coragan with his blade drawn had provided an obvious target for accusations. Now, however, his questing eyes had caught sight of Clarissa. With all the blood running from her mouth and hands, the animalistic glint in her eye, and the all-too-apparent jutting canine teeth, it would be impossible to mistake her for an innocent bystander. Indeed, it would be impossible to mistake her for human.

The tavern guard stared, transfixed by the grisly scene, then shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. "You, sir, drop your weapon and get down below." He obviously meant Coragan, but the bounty hunter paid no heed. Suddenly, the man's voice rose to a near shout. "You there." He took two steps forward and puffed out his chest in challenge. Clarissa looked at him, arched an eyebrow, then slowly licked her lips like a ravenous reptile. The man's voice trailed off in horror, and even Coragan found his stomach getting queasy. Clarissa pulled her lips back in a vicious snarl and the mortified tavern guard drew his sword.

Coragan shouldered past the man with his own glittering weapon raised. Behind the vampire, Galladrin drew his rapier and circled slowly in from the rear. The bounty hunter spoke. "Give it up, Clarissa. You're surrounded."

Across the balcony, Galladrin chuckled morbidly. "Sure, Coragan. Reason with her."

Coragan frowned. Then the vampire moved.

She hurtled at him as if loosed from a sling, howling with inarticulate fury and covering the short distance faster than he would have thought possible. Vicious claw-like fingernails raked painful furrows across his arms and chest while canine teeth lunged for his throat forcing the bounty hunter to stumble back. A sharp pain seared across the skin of his throat and Coragan fell to the floor. Fear began to seize him. He had lost his balance, he had lost control. Another moment and he might be ...

Growing more frantic with each passing second, Coragan slashed out with his sword. The silver weapon raked across the woman's abdomen, making a jagged gash and lighting fire to her gown. A small cloud of smoke wafted slowly toward the ceiling and Clarissa recoiled, screaming.

Beside Coragan, the tavern guard entered the fray. He lunged forward thrusting at the woman's heart with his blade. Whether by skill of the guardsman or apathy of the vampire, the steel blade struck its mark. Sword, hilt, and wrist passed through Clarissa with ease and the tip of the weapon lodged in the wall behind. For a moment, the startled man could only stare at the ineffectual weapon that pierced his foe, then Clarissa's backhand sent him tumbling toward the stairs.

Coragan scrambled to his feet, wiping the front of his throat. It was a shallow wound, but it had drawn blood. If she had reached forward an inch further, she would have snared both teeth in the apple of his throat and he would very likely be dead. As it was, his hand came away half-covered with crimson fluid.

The bounty hunter circled to the vampire's right, poised, ready, and cautious. Clutching her stomach, Clarissa watched him carefully as he moved then licked her lips once again. Slowly, she began to advance. To Coragan's relief, he heard Galladrin shuffle up on his left; he would not have to face her alone. There was a flash of motion and a small dagger made of silver hurtled toward the woman.

With cat-like reflexes, Clarissa struck out with her hand and knocked the small blade from the air. She recoiled sharply, licking her fingers, but the weapon tumbled to the side. "Silver? Are all your blades made of that substance?" She looked from man to man, as if expecting an answer. Slowly, she nodded. "Lucian warned me of that accursed metal. I had not thought you resourceful enough to come up with such weapons so quickly. After that fiasco with the wolves, I should have known better."

"That you should have," Coragan replied, advancing.

Clarissa sneered, and playfully danced toward the bounty hunter's flank. "You are a typical man, Coragan of Esperia—yes, I have heard of you. You are arrogant and foolish, and deliciously hot of blood." Her gaze flickered to include Galladrin. "By now, mortals, it should be obvious that even with your silvered blades your battle is hopeless. Surrender willingly and I can promise you the rich rewards of immortal pleasures. Resist, and you will die more slowly and more horribly than you could possibly imagine."

"She seems to think her type of immortality is a good thing," Galladrin said.

Coragan readied his sword. "You go right, I'll go left."

Galladrin leveled his rapier at the vampire before him and circled carefully to the right. She moved fast. Incredibly fast. But he was ready with muscles taut, itching to strike if she came too near.

She had to be destroyed; there was no other way to save his soul. Whatever arguments Borak had made, he felt a part of himself touching her, yielding to her. Blood had passed between them, and through it their souls were intermingling. She was a shadow of a presence at the back of his mind; still weak, but slowly growing stronger. Every look of those eyes, every smile of those crimson stained lips, sent shudders through his body. He felt a dull ache inside his chest, a longing to please her he could not understand. A strange desire grew within, to kneel before her, to offer himself over, and become her slave.

Galladrin reached behind his back to grasp the haft of a length of wood. He pulled it out, watching Clarissa's eyes dart to the sharpened point. She glowered at him; she wasn't about to let him come at her with that.

But she was wounded. Perhaps enough to slow her down. If he could get past her guard ... if he could get in one solid thrust with the stake, she'd be finished.

Behind the vampire Coragan had circled in to attack. He moved forward swinging his sword in a deadly arc; but she saw, or heard, it coming. Ducking down beneath the blow, Clarissa twisted around and came up beneath the bounty hunter. Her clawed hands raked across his ribs and her snapping teeth sank into the flesh of his sword arm. With a cry, Coragan dropped his sword clattering to the floor.

_By the Sickle!_ Galladrin thought. _Now Coragan's been bit, too._ He moved forward to intervene, but Clarissa forced the bounty hunter back and away, then whirled to face the second threat. She circled to Galladrin's right, claws and teeth dripping blood and eyes flicking upward to lock with his. The rogue ground his teeth. He faced a vampire with the instincts of a trained warrior; and an exceptionally skilled one at that. Even if she had been human, he would have been wary.

Rather than advance, Galladrin continued to circle until he managed to maneuver himself in front of the injured bounty hunter. Coragan let out a soft moan, followed by a grunt. Galladrin heard the man stumble to his feet, then heard the sound of the silver sword being lifted from the floor. Good. He had retrieved his weapon.

Clarissa's eyes seemed to reach forward into Galladrin's soul. Her face lit up with a seductive warmth. "Come, my love. Drop your foolish weapons and bring yourself to my side." The presence in Galladrin's mind reared up, echoing the thought. He could feel her reaching toward him, groping across the distance with invisible fingers to bend his will.

Instinctively, he tensed, struggling to fight back. He had felt this sensation before. Lucian had tried the same thing on him, but with a great deal more strength. He could hold her off; but it made for a considerable distraction. Suddenly, he had a delightfully sneaky idea, something worthy of a rogue.

Galladrin lowered both his arms to his sides, shook his head, then let Clarissa's mental presence slide within. He purposely gave some ground, then locked her out. She was as new at this as he was; perhaps he could trick her.

He took a halting step forward. Then another. Slowly, he started to close the distance to her while staring listlessly at the woman.

She started at his sudden acquiescence. _Damn,_ Galladrin thought, _she's surprised I 'succumbed.'_

Clarissa eyed him, almost suspiciously, then said, "Come forward, slave. Kneel at my feet."

Galladrin took two more steps toward her. Behind him, he heard Coragan curse, then begin moving forward to intercept him. The rogue started to kneel, crouching down on a single knee; then, without warning, he lunged forward with rapier and stake. He struck out simultaneously with each just as Coragan had shown him.

She was prepared for something tricky, but not for that. The hand with the wooden stake she grabbed, and slammed point first into the tavern wall amidst a shower of splinters. The rapier, however, she never parried. It drove into her chest just inches from her heart, piercing her torso from front to back. Any man, any beast, any thing that lived and breathed would have died from such a wound. Lungs should have filled with blood, arteries should have ruptured. She should have collapsed on the ground to convulse in her final throes. But she didn't. Pain and agony were clear on the vampire's face, but behind them raged fury, and an undead hatred that simply refused to die.

With a single motion Clarissa's hand swept up under the rogue's chin and lifted him off his feet. Galladrin slammed into the wall, jarring his teeth and skull. Undaunted, the rogue struggled to pull back the rapier and strike again. He would kill this thing if it was the last thing he did.

Clarissa let go of Galladrin's chin and swiped at his arm. Clasped in the rogue's hand, the rapier whipped from the vampire's body and hurtled uncontrollably through the air. Galladrin could only watch in dismay as his silver weapon tumbled down the stairs. Then the woman backhanded him into the wall again.

The rogue groaned and the bounty hunter charged. With the speed of a demon, Clarissa ducked to the side of Coragan's thrusting sword, grabbed the man by the shoulder, and catapulted him down the corridor. He tumbled face first along the balcony, rolling over and over, until finally coming to rest by the railing.

Clarissa turned to Galladrin and pressed him gently back against the wall. He could feel the cool touch of her hand on his chest, and the hot breath that splashed across the muscles of his neck. "Time to die, my lord." Dazed and winded, the rogue could not reply; he could only stare in complete shock and terror as the vampire leaned toward him.

Sharp canine teeth sank painfully into the flesh of Galladrin's neck. Clawed hands reached around the rogue's shoulders and pulled his body forward. Like a lover being drawn to an ecstatic embrace, Galladrin felt himself being engulfed by her presence, consumed by her lust. She surrounded him, permeating his breath and clouding his soul. Still conscious, the rogue could feel the sharp points of the vampire's teeth wedge into his flesh. He could feel the cold, dead lips pressing against him and the warm blood being slowly drawn from his body.

Galladrin felt unconsciousness rising to take him, swelling toward him like a black, numbing cloak. Refusing to yield, he clung to his senses by focusing on the pain. He groped to the side with his left hand to gain leverage, then reached out with his right hand to shove the vampire from him. The fingers of his right hand wrapped around the front of the woman's gown, but she stood as immovable as a mountain of stone. She grabbed his wrist and slammed it painfully against the wall. Useless. She was too strong. He could see over her shoulder at the backside of the wound his rapier had caused. Ever so slowly, the wound began to close. As she fed, she drew strength from him to heal her own injuries. How could he ever hope to kill this creature?

Only a half dozen paces away, Coragan finally regained his feet and now stood in horror as the thing from nightmare fed. Galladrin could see the fear in his friend's eyes, the shocked horror of disbelief that the rogue was about to die.

Galladrin's groping left fingers brushed against a haft of wood, then closed around it. He almost sighed in relief when he realized what he had found; the wooden stake that Clarissa had knocked from his hand and embedded in the boarding of the wall. His fingers wrapped around its splintered grip, driving thin pieces of wood into the flesh of his palm. Ignoring the pain, he pulled. With the slowness of a dream, the stake of wood came free.

He turned the wooden shaft over, reached behind the woman, then pointed it inward at her back. Intent on her feeding, the vampire never noticed. With a desperate grunt of pained determination, Galladrin pulled the stake inward with all his strength.

There was a sickly squishing sound, then Clarissa pulled away from his neck with an inhuman scream. Her arms flailed wildly behind her and her body arched in desperation as she tried to reach the stake.

Sagging toward the floor, Galladrin tried to keep his wits and remain on his feet, but the black tides of unconsciousness proved stronger. His last fleeting vision was one of Coragan running up behind the vampire. The bounty hunter hurled himself at the woman with both his hands extended before him. His outstretched fingers caught the stake and shoved it forward. It drove through.

Galladrin saw the point exit on the other side. It came out between her breasts, accompanied by a fountain of rushing blood. Clarissa unleashed another scream: one final, incomprehensible shriek of a dying monster's fury. After that, there was only darkness.

### Chapter Thirty-Five

"Your arm is now healed, warrior," the priest said. "You are free to go."

Borak nodded, then lumbered to his feet. He had been at the abbey far too long and felt the need to rejoin his companions. Granted, his arm had been broken and he had needed time to recuperate, but it had been five days since he'd seen his friends last; five days since the wizards would have learned of the existence of the vampire; and five days during which the vampire could have struck or the wizards could have retaliated. And he had been in the dark for the whole of that time. A great deal could have happened by now, a great deal.

"You are aware of the snow, warrior, are you not?"

Borak glanced over at the young, grey-robed monk, perhaps a year or two less in age than himself. He had a hardened look and a manner which spoke of a steady strength and an indomitable will. A priest he might have been, but a warrior he could have made.

"The road to Drisdak is buried," the priest continued, "and the snow is still falling. Many of those drifts are deeper than you are. Are you sure you can make it?"

"I've dealt with snow before." Borak reached down to pick up his large axe and slid it into the straps on his back. With the snow as it was, he would need to have both his hands free. It was going to be difficult, but not impossible. Winters in his homeland had always been severe and had always brought with them a great deal of snow. Perhaps not as much as this, but enough. He had spoken the truth; he could handle the snow. It was the vampire that was the problem.

"At least accept this cloak to keep you warm." The priest stretched forth his hands, proffering a sturdy fur-lined cloak.

Borak hesitated. With his recently mended animal skins, he really didn't need the extra protection. The priest, however, looked truly concerned. If accepting the gift would provide some comfort and reassurance for the man, perhaps it would be worth the effort. Reluctantly, Borak reached out and grabbed the small bundle. He whipped it up and around, then clasped it at his throat. After securing it, he motioned to the priest.

The robed figure turned and led him from the room. A short hallway brought them to a large dining chamber where the other devoted followers of Drellenor gathered. After several minutes of final farewells, a small contingent of priests led the huge warrior to the abbey door. Two of them grabbed the pulley chains and slid the massive obstruction back.

The howling of the wind rose in an instant and drowned out all sounds of conversation. Several torches along the wall guttered out, and the chilly fingers of winter's cold clutched tenaciously at the warrior's cloak. He could feel it gnawing at his bones, trying to bring him down, but he stood strong, unflinching in its gelid embrace. The majority of the priests edged back down the hall away from the razor-like wind. Borak, however, strode forward.

At the threshold he stopped. He now stood on holy ground, one of the few places in the world a vampire could not enter, even if invited. He could be safe here forever. A sudden vision of Coragan and Galladrin trying to fight Lucian alone spurred him forward. He turned once to wave a final time, but the door was already sliding shut.

The black cloud hangs low in the sky over Drisdak, spewing forth a raining fountain of ivory snow. Ominous and oppressive, the cloud broods, relentlessly churning in the waning light. By all accounts, the cloud should have passed away long ago. Indeed, by most accounts the cloud should never have formed. But form it has, and above Drisdak it stays, stubbornly refusing to give ground even when all the land around is enjoying the remaining days of a pleasant autumn. It draws its strength from the Sea of Sorrows, pulling up moisture and wind from an alien current the fishermen refuse to name. Never before have the waters of the sea been as troublesome as they have of late, claiming more in life and cargo than the worst and most foul season. Indeed, it is as if sea and storm have found common purpose together and now strive as one against the city.

But storm and sea are mindless things. They have no life, no soul, no reason to wish harm. They are what they are; born to live and die with the dictates of nature. It is not they who wish harm to Drisdak, but their master.

Buried under snow, a long forgotten road runs north from Drisdak. The devoted pilgrim can follow it to the abbey of the priests of Drellenor, but that is not its end. Though its path is tattered and overgrown at spots, it can be followed deep into the Kirshtar Forest, that ancient woodland once known as The Forest of Shrouding Mists, a place of legend and myth and monsters most fell. There the tangled trees grow strong and reach spidery branches toward an unforgiving sky. Day in, day out, they shroud the earth in darkness and protect the preternatural fog from its enemy the Sun. In the heart of that darkness a fortress looms, long forgotten by the minds of men. Rahmin Muirdra, the Guardian of the Night. It is in that citadel that the wind can find its lord. It is in that keep where the storm bends knee.

While Drisdak lies helpless beneath the scourge of ice, here, at the castle, winter is still waiting. If one were to search, perhaps, one could find a patch of white or two, along the side of the road by a group of muddied hoof prints. Of course, it would not be wise to linger long. Of all the forest, this place gives birth to the darkest rumors, most of which are far more pleasant than the truth.

In the distance, the sun is setting. The golden lord of light has marked another day and wearily sags beneath the rosy sky. His vigil is at its end and the second watch must start. But alas for men, the moons are ill-disposed toward mortals. In the castle above, in its highest tower, something is stirring. As the final glow of the sun fades into the night, a figure cloaked in darkness approaches the window and takes a look outside.

I have lost my faith, it seems; in Life, Creation, the gods, and men—all those aspects of that treacherous estate which mortal man has deemed to call existence. Perhaps, given what I am, I should not be concerned with matters such as these; but the soul does ponder of its own accord.

There was a time, once, so long ago, when things were different; a time of truth, conviction, and moral purpose. A young lad given to the fancies of battle, I felt the call of War and sought out its glorious challenge. Many weapons did I wield, many talents did I bring to bear; but no weapon, no talent could surpass that which I bore within: total Adoration. I knelt in the fullness of reverence before the feet of my god, he whose voice echoed like the sounds of trumpets, he who was the most blessed saviour of my wayward soul. Devotion to his whims, loyalty to his cause—these were the foundations of my life, my existence. Morgulan! Morgulan! A thousand years have passed since I last saw the vision of your face, a thousand years since the glory of your name spread throughout this vile world. In the fullness of time, it seems, all things must come unto their end; but that should not have been the destiny for the man who made himself a god. Where are you, traitor? What of your divinity now, deceiver?

You left me. Abandoned. A grim sentinel bound to an even grimmer fate. Left to rot, ensorcelled to the confines of a single room for five lonely centuries of utter solitude. Five hundred years. That is how long it took to break my faith; to grind my trust to ashes, my love to hate, my devotion ... into blasphemy. If the Sun should turn red as blood and sink forever; if the moons should be rent asunder and their broken shards rain upon the earth; if the blood of nations should well up beneath my feet to pool before me as a gift of penance; still would I despise you with every measure of my being. A hundred thousand painful deaths is a fate too kind for you. Do you hear me? I call to you Morgulan, wherever you may be. If my voice can penetrate to the lowest depths of Hell, may it reverberate through your skull for every day that Lubrochius receives his due. The Guardian of the Sceptre has thrown off his shackles, nevermore shall he be your slave.

Nevermore.

No god nor demon shall receive my praise; least of all, will a mortal man. A man. Is that not the ultimate mockery! My liege, my god, was mortal. Nothing more than a man; raised up, glorified, deified as the Lord of Battle, the Master of the World. Hah! The only master this world will ever have is He who wields the Scythe ... And that one, yes, that one, kneels to me.

Words cannot describe the anguish that I feel, the raging fury that will not die. I gave everything to you; my wisdom, my skills, my prowess in battle. In the end, I even gave my soul. I became what I am out of loyalty to you. I sacrificed mortality for the honor to serve a god and I was repaid with the bitter wine of slavery. Five hundred years I waited, five hundred lonely years bound to the sceptre in the recesses of my keep, bound to an incomprehensible existence inside an isolated room with nothing but books to keep me company. I waited until the day came when all would be made aright. The day of your return, Morgulan, the day when Lubrochius would release you from your tortures in that black pit in which he lairs. The day when we would once again rise up to conquer and subjugate all that lives.

The day came.

And then it passed.

I still waited, of course, the ever loyal servant. A year did pass, perhaps even two, yet still, I waited. In truth, there were few other options for me in my state—a slave not in body, but a slave in soul. I had spent so much time contemplating the glories of our reunion and the honors of my service, it never occurred to me to consider the unthinkable. I had books to read to sharpen my mind, but books do not give one drive—they could not provide a life for one who did not choose to live. Indeed, my servitude had left me bereft of will and bereft of thought. I could not comprehend an existence in which my master played no part. Everything within me had revolved around you, and you had left. Now I was alone, aimlessly adrift on the ocean of eternity.

It took me two years to summon the will to make a decision. Four more to enact it. Day in, day out I struggled, wrestling with the energies that bound me. Zarina was a skilled and mighty sorceress in her day, but even so, time does take its toll. Five hundred years proved a blessing to my strength, and a curse to the fabric of her spell—no matter how much care she had taken. Fiber by fiber, I severed its touch. Piece by tortuous piece, I unbound its core. It broke, at last, in a scintillating shower of vibrant lights freeing me from that horrible library that had become my cage. Exhilarated with my newfound freedom, I set about exploring an alien new world, a world without Morgulan, a world without my god.

I was five hundred years old in body, but little more than an infant vampire in mind. Drisdak was a much smaller city then, perhaps half the size it is now. They were not prepared for the likes of me, nor I for the sudden possibilities of my freedom. For weeks I fed, slaughtering humans at night and leaving their corpses to greet the day—subtlety was never an interest of mine, and I took no care to hide my presence. Unfortunately, the city realized it faced an insidious threat. Dubbed the Dark Shade of Drisdak, the Cloaked Nightman, and a plethora of other names that escape my memory, I realized I had made a mistake. A small group of men learned of my fortress and sought me out in the depths of the keep. After I slew them, I had to reevaluate my plans. If I continued, more men would come; eventually in numbers I could not quell. I had no wish to flee, but I knew I could not continue on my current path. Instead, I played possum, and went to sleep for a span of two centuries. The nightly killing sprees stopped, presumably because the threat was destroyed, and those in power, if they ever knew, forgot of my existence and my fortress. Since then, I have learned to take care; that is, until the guild of wizards became involved.

Now I am embroiled in a battle to the end. There can be no possum-playing this time, the wizards are too clever for that. They will hunt me until they know I have been destroyed and banished eternally to the dark regions beyond. Oh, how I loathe the day I ever set my eyes on that accursed wizard Arcalian. He disrupted my peace with empty promises, and then he turned around to betray my trust. I suppose treachery should not come as a surprise to me; I have been victim to the greatest of deceits. But quibbling about the past accomplishes little. Morgulan rots in the clutches of Lubrochius, and Arcalian I have sent to join him.

It is almost laughable, the fate that has befallen my former god. A traitor betrayed by an even greater traitor. I wonder what thoughts have comforted my god in his cage. His empire was collapsing and his end was drawing near. What can one do if one's enemies are closing in and there is no way to escape? A cunning man will know the answer, of course, for it is the same ploy that I would later use. Of course, in Morgulan's case, faking his own death would have done little to save him. Such was the fury of his enemies, they would have mutilated his body and made it a corpse for real. Then they would have paraded the mighty god around through the streets, like a common criminal to be scorned. No, he had to do better than that. He had to go someplace where no one would ever find him. So, rather than let his enemies send his accursed soul to Hell, he beat them to it and went there first of his own accord. A few rituals, a few chants, then he and his lover are off to patiently wait through the five hundred year sentence they so willingly took on. I wonder if by now he has realized the utter stupidity of his actions, the inherent madness required to make a pact with the Eater of Souls? Did he think Lubrochius could feel compelled to keep his word, no matter the charms that Zarina cast? Well, the two of them can rot together; the day of their atonement has long since slipped away. Never again shall I kneel to god or man (or demon, as the case may be). Never. I am my own creature, existing by my own whims. From now until the end of time it shall be as I will, I shall stand by myself against the toils of the ages, resolute in conviction, unyielding in manner; and utterly, totally ... alone.

Clarissa has fallen. Last night, I felt her die.

A thousand years of solitude ... then her ... now ... I am alone again. Vampires are incapable of love, or even that which mortals simply call friendship. But there is an emptiness within me, stronger than ever before. It fills the pit of my stomach and clouds my thoughts with its ache. She whined, she complained, she was a trouble all around; but she was a voice, a comfort to ease my loneliness. She was strong, immortal as I, a familiar presence to keep the solitude away. And far more stimulating in mind than any of my other pets. Wolves, bats, rats ... they cannot argue. They can communicate with me in the way of their kind, but their minds are far too limited to be of worth. Not a one of them would I ever call companion.

Clarissa was a brief, flickering candle in a thousand years of darkness. Now, she is gone; slain by mortal men. I too shall soon join her, if the wizards have their way. There is no place to run, no place to hide. As it did when I served Morgulan so long ago, battle calls to me and summons me to its glory. This time, however, I fight alone, for myself, and those things which I desire. This time, too, I have a weapon far greater than anything my soul has ever seen before. This weapon drives me forward, into the heart of the guild to settle this matter once and for all. It is this weapon which fills me with an unquenchable fire.

And I call this weapon Vengeance.

The figure at the window raises his arms as if in homage to the inimical sky. The air about him warps and bends, and in a moment he has disappeared. In his place, another shape now hovers; a diminutive shape born on small leather wings that hurtles upward. South he flies on the wings of a demon. Good and Evil cannot live long together. One must live, the other must die. Such is the way of things; as they are and as they have always been. Forward does the master fly, forward to his fate. He will come back victorious, or he will not come back at all.

"It's their magic, I tell you. The wizards have brought a curse on the whole town." The old, weather-beaten farmer waved his fist in the air for emphasis and scowled about the room with a reddened face. He eyed several of the men in turn, daring them to give challenge. "I say, enough. Let's rout them out and drive them from the city. We've worked hard every day so they can sit on all our gold in their keep. If we can't drive them off ... We kill them."

There was a long moment of dread silence throughout the warehouse. More than one head scanned nervously about the room. None had ever spoken so openly against the wizards before and even though none of the sorcerers was present, the mood of the crowd was wary. The simple folk present expected nothing less than a bolt of lightning to come and strike the farmer dead. As the minutes passed and the unspeakable wrath of the wizards failed to manifest, the mood of the crowd began to change. They began to stir.

As if bidden by some silent cue, a roar of shouting and cheering rose up and the thunderous applause echoed throughout the building. "Hold on! Hold on!" A man raced up through the crowd, desperately trying to reach the old farmer so that he might speak. He wore the insignia of the town magistrate, and behind him a dozen armored guards fanned out into the room.

"What do you want, magistrate?" the old farmer said with a glare full of both confidence and menace. After all, he had insulted the wizards and lived. The magistrate before him was only a political figure; he had no real power.

"Duradan," the magistrate said, "you ought to know better than this. This 'meeting' is illegal and totally uncalled for. I have half a mind to arrest everyone here." A loud murmuring spread through the crowd, a murmuring of discontent mixed with fear. "But at the request of Count Arkwin, I'll be lenient and let you all go home. The wizards are a valued part of this city, they offer protection, security, and provide a great deal of stimulus for trade and wealth. Each of you owe more to the guild than you realize—"

"The wizards are _evil!"_ Duradan screamed. That brought a shriek of disbelief and fear from several members of the crowd and Duradan straightened. Superstition or no, he had made up his mind. "I say it's high time we did something about it."

"Duradan!" The magistrate's sharp voice cracked like a whip. "This meeting is over. If you persist I'll arrest—"

"Didn't you hear of the Blood Woman?" Duradan's face turned purple with rage. "She killed all those people at that inn and wouldn't die until a stake was driven through her heart and her body burned to ashes. That's the work of magic I tell you, and magic is the work of wizards!" A shout rose up from the crowd and several of the guardsmen looked around in concern. They were well-armed and well-trained, but they were only twelve in number. If this crowd grew agitated, they could be swept away in moments.

The magistrate clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. "Duradan ... Have you gone mad? Don't you realize that the Blood Woman is nothing more than a rumor? Do you want to know the real story? The Blood Woman was a prostitute who killed the man she was with to rob him. By the Sickle, man! Stakes through the heart? Are you insane?"

At this point, Thelliun stood. "Magistrate, you are a fool. I worked at the wizards' guild. I never saw this Blood Woman, but I tell you I drove a wooden stake through a dead wizard's heart and he screamed. Did you hear me? A dead man screamed." Thelliun's voice rose to a shout as the rumbling amidst the crowd grew. "These creatures that plague this town are called vampires! And the wizards have brought them to us!"

The enraged magistrate whirled on Thelliun and motioned to a guardsman. "That's it! You're under arrest!"

Duradan launched himself atop an old crate and screamed at the top of his lungs. "The city government is hereby cast down! Take them! Take them!"

"Duradan! Shut up! You're going to prison too!"

The crowd erupted in a maddened frenzy. A dozen armored guards were no match for the swarming peasantry and within moments they were overcome. Their weapons and armor were stripped from them, and they, with the magistrate at their side, were bound and gagged.

Duradan picked up one of the guardsmens' swords and strolled over to the captive men. He leveled the weapon at the magistrate's throat. "You may be the ruler, but we're the ones you rule. Push us too far, and we'll cut you down." He turned to the still milling and enraged crowd. "To the guild! To the guild! Let's get the wizards next!" The shout was taken up and the crowd rushed into the darkness of the night. Within moments, four dozen torches were burning and a veritable army of peasants moved through the streets. They began to chant. "Bring down the guild! Bring down the guild!"

And their numbers were growing.

### 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.

Curses on wizards and all their rotten spells! For four nights now I have tried to win my way into this guild, but always do I run afoul of these cursed sigils. They are everywhere, sometimes even accompanied by roses. I have found not a single door, window, nor crack left unguarded. By Morgulan's Glory, this must end tonight. A warm wind has risen from the south and my storm grows more troublesome with each passing day. I am strong, but I do have my limits. It will be better to end this and let the storm do as it may. But I can do nothing, if I cannot get within!

Above me a light flickers on, arousing my curiousity. Upon moving closer I recognize the chamber and the wind witch, Jacindra, busy at her toils. She is bustling about with some papers and very hard at work. A solitary drop of sweat falls from her gleaming temple, and her trembling lips are a pale pink in shade. She is nervous about something. Me, I suppose, given her recent defiance.

Even now it is amazing that Jacindra showed such strength of will. When I approached this window last night, I never suspected that she might refuse me entry. But locked within this guild house, she felt safe and secure, beyond my reach. By my very asking for her aid, I exposed my weakness. From inside her haven she could mock my strength and I was powerless to strike back. That will change, however. Tonight, that will change.

I move in closer to peer inside the room. The etchings of the sigil on the rock glitters in the torchlight. It still shocks me that they warded every window; they must have worked day in and day out. If I could get closer, I could unmake the magic, but given the spell's design, I would have to be near enough to set if off, and that would do me little good. My only chance to get inside is the old hag herself. Perhaps she has had time to reconsider her folly.

"Woman. Come and remove the sigil."

The sorceress looks up, startled. She sees my face framed in the window and her countenance grows pale. Her hand clasps spasmodically at her quill and her jaw clenches like a fist. Slowly, it works its way into words. "I will not."

"Woman. I command you. Let me in!"

"No."

She is a sorceress, after all, and a fairly strong one. At this distance, with herself in a harbor of safety I cannot compel her. Curses, curses. I must get in.

"I can promise you a slow and painful death woman, or I can grant you eternal life."

"My life means nothing if I give in to you. I will not sell myself into such abominable slavery. I may die, but I will die free!"

A sneer rolls across my features. "Very seldom do pretty words offer solace to the dying. In your case, that will be doubly true. I shall guarantee it." I pull back from the window and duck from her view. There must be a way in, there must!

I sense a presence reaching out to me, a presence wracked by anguish and bitter pain. It is calling to me _. Master. Help me, I am trapped by the sorceress Ambrisia's spell. Tell me what I must do._ The fool wizard! He is of no use to me like this, trapped and contained. I broke him too quickly; he has been found out and captured.

_What is it you need, slave?_ An image comes to me. I see my troubled puppet clasped to a slab of stone with earthen hands of magic securing him to his bed. He is a vampire, but one newly formed; one without my insurpassable strength or my ageless guile. He is trapped and cannot break free. To make matters worse, he is being watched by a man with a silver sword and his room is filled with garlic. Curses on that foul plant! Its very image makes me ill.

An interesting dilemma, but one easily solved. _Mist, you fool! Pass through the shackles in the form of mist._

_Master. I don't understand. What do you mean by 'mist'? Help me, I am trapped._ His pleas are desperate now, almost worshipful.

Next time I break a wizard, I will have to remember to leave some trace of self reliance. His mindless footlicking is repulsive _. Become as mist. Change your shape and pass through your bonds. You are a vampire now. Use the power that I have given you._

_Oh._ The grasping thoughts recede from mind, but I still sense them in the distance. I begin to climb again, scowling as I move. My wizard's pestering has reminded me of one avenue I have left unchecked; an avenue I have been avoiding until now.

I climb to a window not far from Jacindra' room, but not close enough that I will be seen. It is shuttered from within, but the boards leave many gaps. Peering inside reveals nothing but emptiness.

I pause to concentrate.

There. The sigil throbs gently on the other side of the stone. My presence has alerted it and it is poised to explode. The wizards were wise to ward their walls with such weapons. Each and every one of them is set to go off the moment I pass through. I am not a wizard, but I do possess some knowledge of the arcane arts. It is only reasonable that the sigils would be set off by the corporeal presence of a creature; be it man, rat, wolf, bat or whatever. But what of the wind? What of mist? Will this spell detect me if I take such form?

In truth, I am uncertain. Up until now, I have been hesitant to take the risk. I still remember the pain the first sigil brought to me. It will be a worthless venture if I cripple myself entering the guild and alert all the guards to my presence. A worthless venture indeed!

I glance up at the clouds, toiling beneath my grip. This battle has gone on long enough. Whatever the cost, I must get inside.

Several moments later, as a cloud of white mist, I pour through the shutters. Beneath the cloud, tickled gently by its vapors, a pair of sigils flicker and glow, but do not unleash their power. There is no explosion, no fire, no roar; only the silent echo of my diabolical laugh. Within the chamber, I resume my shape. With a flick of my will I release the outside storm; it is no longer needed, and in the battle that is ahead I will need all my strength. Turning, I approach the door.

"Free or not, my dear Jacindra, you will still be dead."

### Chapter Thirty-Seven

Regecon awoke with a start. Leaning back in his chair he stretched his arms out behind him, then groaned with pleasure as his tense muscles relaxed. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, then set alight the second candle on his desk.

Outside, night had fallen. Strangely, however, the storm had stopped. For the first time in days the wind was calm, and the air warm. Regecon paused to consider briefly what such an occurrence might mean, then leaned his head forward to rest gently on his palm.

The spell was complete; they had completed the final sigil this afternoon, and now only waited for the bounty hunter and rogue to devise a means to ensnare the vampire. The two men had agreed to offer themselves as bait, but the guild master had decided to postpone the matter another evening, hoping a better plan would present itself. Struggle though he might, Regecon could not think of a better alternative. They had to get the vampire inside the guild, and then lure him into the Chamber of Making. The former task seemed problematic at best, and the latter, hardly better. Drasmyr was no fool; the sudden removal of all the sigils around the guild would surely give cause for suspicion. He would be hard enough to manipulate as it was; if he were given the advantage of foreknowledge, he would be impossible.

Regecon let out a sigh, and then stretched out his arms again. Although unintended, he felt glad for his nap; his senses were beginning to return and at the moment, he felt far better than he'd had earlier just after completing the final circle. Then, he had been so full of aches and pains and weary exhaustion, he had been surprised he had managed to make it to his conference room. Once there, he remembered the report Mathagarr had given him earlier regarding the climbing numbers of resigning servants and guardsmen. He had decided to sit at his desk and give the report a quick read, but his effort proved fruitless. As far as he could tell he had proceeded no farther than the first page before falling asleep.

Overall, this week had been one of the most grueling and terrifying he'd ever experienced. Between all the deaths and the general mayhem, he could not blame any of the servants for leaving. Though disappointed that a number of the guardsmen had decided to join them, he did understand. By the glory of the gods did he understand. His friend, Morcallenon, was dead and gone forever. Toreg, the mage who had killed him, was soon to follow, if he didn't become a vampire first. Arcalian, Aristoceles, young Durek, the guards ... all dead. How many lives did he have to see taken before he finally broke? It was his guild now. Those men and their lives were his responsibility. Granted, the monster they faced was truly a thing from legend, but he could not repress the feeling that somehow he had failed those men. If he had known sooner ...

There was a knock on the door. _What is it now?_ Regecon thought, and looked toward the entrance. He didn't want to face the madness again, not now, not quite yet. The burdens of the guild, the killing, the horror; it all weighed down on him, threatened to bury him. He could only take so much.

_You are the guild master. You must endure._ The thoughts came grimly, but that did not make them any less true.

Regecon opened his mouth to respond to the knock, but a scuttling sound in the corner distracted him. The fire mage turned his head and caught a glimpse of a large black rat as it scampered under a lamp stand.

More rats. Would this vampire's curse never end? He'd broken all their wards and now the guild was plagued with scores of the filthy rodents. And the stench! Methoin had said that the smell infesting the halls was a product of the vampire's presence and his influence over the guild. One would think that if the nefarious creature was not continually present to reinforce the odor, it would fade away. But no, not this odor. Every day the stench grew worse, compounding the stink of the one before. If they did not kill this vampire soon, his malodorous reek would drive them all from the guild.

The knock returned, more sharply. "Guild Master! Please wake up, it is urgent."

The burdens of a guild master were demanding his attention. Enough with rats and worries. "Come in."

The door swung inward and a man dressed in chain strode into the room. He came to an abrupt stop before the guild master's desk and stood sharply at attention. "Sir."

"Yes. Anduri, isn't it? What is the problem?"

The man's lip quivered for a moment, and his face paled. "There's been more murders, sir."

"What!" Regecon's eyes widened in alarm, and he half-rose from his chair. "But the vampire can't get in. How could ...? Who was it?"

Anduri stiffened. He looked positively nauseous. "Councilwoman Jacindra, sir, and her two guards."

Regecon thumped heavily back into his chair. Jacindra. He'd known her for years. And now, she, too, was gone. And her guards as well. "How did they die?"

"The two guards had their necks broken and the sorceress was ..." the guardsman swallowed uneasily, "impaled, sir. He took one of the guardsmen's spears and drove it lengthwise through her body. I heard the screams and when I got there she was spiked up and hanging in the center of the room."

Regecon's breath whizzed sharply through his teeth. He desperately fought the urge to scream. "Spread the word, the vampire is here. Find Ambrisia, have her meet me in the Chamber of Making, then locate the rogue and bounty hunter."

"Yes, sir." The guardsman turned sharply on his heel and left the room. Once again, Regecon was alone with his thoughts.

He was here. The vampire had found a way into the guild, he'd killed Jacindra and he was now loose in the halls. He could be anywhere now. Who even knew what form he was in? He could be a cloud of dust, a patch of fog, or, by the Sickle, something as innocuous as a rat. Regecon's eyes widened. The rat.

From the corner of his eye Regecon saw a figure move. A pallid white hand reached across his desk to encircle his wrist in its icy grip. An inhuman strength jerked him upward to his feet. Looking up, his eyes came to rest on the features of his enemy. He had a cold bloodless face, framed by short dark hair. For a fleeting moment, he looked almost innocent, perhaps even human. But only for a moment.

The vampire opened his mouth to reveal his sharpened teeth.

Borak ducked out of the alley and raced down the street, his heart pounding and his blood burning. The grueling journey from the Abbey of Drellenor to Drisdak had sapped much of his strength and now he had a short supply of time. Some kind off uprising had started; the crowd he'd seen numbered in the hundreds, perhaps even in the thousands. All of them were armed, angry, and chanting threats against the guild and its wizards. Borak didn't know what was behind the uprising; however, night had fallen and he knew that he'd never be able to get past that mob once it came down on the guild. He had to get there first.

The warrior rounded a corner in the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He could see the guild now, less than three hundred yards away. He took a large gulp of air and broke into a final sprint toward the gate. He'd be there in moments. Behind him another death chant arose, carried by a hundred voices on the wind. He only hoped the wizards were prepared.

### Chapter Thirty-Eight

The guardsman burst into the room, hurling the door wide and shouting for the sorceress. Startled, Coragan turned to face the man while Ambrisia motioned him to silence.

"A little decorum, please," the Mistress of the Earth said, holding the man's tongue with her stare. After he had regained his composure, she nodded. "Proceed with your news, guardsman."

"The town, milady. It is marching."

Ambrisia arched a brow. "Marching? What do you mean?"

"They are marching, milady. Several hundred men and women with torches are storming through the streets. They are working themselves into a frenzy chanting 'Down with the guild' as they go."

Ambrisia's eyes widened in alarm. For a moment, she seemed truly shaken; but then her composure returned and her sorceress eyes gave the guardsman a shrewd and calculating look. "How long before they get here?"

"I would say ten, maybe fifteen minutes. They're marching through the merchants' quarter right now and everywhere they go they gather more people. When they get here, we'll have a bloody army on our doorstep." Ambrisia's frown brought a quick addendum. "Milady," the guardsman said, swallowing uncomfortably.

"Go gather the other mages and have them meet me at the gate. This rabble will not dare to threaten us if we stand to face them." A hint of anger tinged Ambrisia's words and Coragan was once again reminded of her station. To her, this rebellion was a form of mutiny on a mass scale. The ignorant peasants had become agitated and were daring to defy her might.

By the Scythe-Bearer's Sickle did he dislike nobility, be they mages or not. Their airs of superiority could drive a common man mad. For his part, he could not help but side with the peasants, although with respect to the vampire, the timing of the revolt could not be poorer. He repressed the urge to reach out and throttle the woman.

The earth sorceress turned to the bounty hunter. "Find Regecon and inform him of this happening." The tone in her voice was clearly an order. As she headed for the door, she looked back a final time. "Have him meet me at the gate."

Coragan ground his teeth together and briefly considered ignoring the woman. How dare she think she could order him about like that! He was not one of her guardsmen. The guild was paying him to find a vampire, not become an errand boy.

"You look like you've swallowed a lemon," Galladrin said, walking up to his side. "I think I understand your dislike for these mages, at least some of them anyway." The rogue reached up to pick at the white bandage on his neck. Through the thin tissue, two small circles of red were clearly visible.

"Never again, Galladrin," Coragan said. "We will never again work for their kind."

"They pay well."

"I don't care. Never again." Coragan slowly regained his composure, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface.

Galladrin shrugged his shoulders. "If you truly feel that strongly, I won't argue. But I will not promise to hold myself to your decision."

The bounty hunter shook his head slowly, then headed toward the staircase. He took five steps then stopped and looked back to Galladrin. "Are you coming? We did promise to discuss Lucian's lure with Regecon tonight."

"Do you think he'll be interested once he finds out the city is up in arms? No, I think I'll wait here and let you play messenger boy."

Coragan glowered at the rogue, then continued on his way. It had been over a week since he had last tread up these steps for that fateful audience, but it seemed much longer. He remembered that night distinctly. He had been reluctant then to do these wizards' bidding, believing it was best to leave the mages to their own devices, and as far as he was concerned, this 'investigation' had done nothing but prove him right. Things were never simple when magic was involved. In his experience, it always brought more trouble than it was worth. And a vampire was more trouble than most. Compared to such a creature, a street riot was a trivial affair.

Coragan took several steps in a single bound and rounded the first turning in the stairwell. He nodded once in greeting as a guardsman strolled past. The man met his eye with a blank stare, his expression shielding troubled thoughts. Coragan suspected the man did not even see him.

The bounty hunter continued on, pondering the young guard's reaction, or rather, his lack of reaction. He supposed these days must be trying for a guard; it must be difficult to remain loyal to your master when half of your fellows had abandoned hope; every day must be a burden.

The door to the guild master's chamber loomed ahead. Behind it Coragan heard the muffled sound of voices and he cocked his head in surprise. As far as he knew, Regecon was supposed to be alone. Of course, one of the other wizards might have some problem which required the fire mage's attention. Regardless, a marching army of townsfolk surely took precedence. Coragan raised his hand to knock, then thought better of it. He had put up with these wizards and their airs long enough.

Coragan grasped the handle and flung the door wide. "Sorry to disturb you, Regecon," he said, "but it is urg—" The bounty hunter's mouth went dry and his stomach lurched into his throat.

Lucian was here.

The vampire held the guild master's arms at both his wrists, and splayed them back painfully to the sides at awkward angles. At any moment, it looked as if Regecon's joints might snap and the fire mage's face contorted with the pain. A brief flicker of hope surfaced beneath the agony as the wizard caught sight of Coragan. With his arms pinned like that, the master of the guild was all but helpless. If he couldn't move his hands, he couldn't cast his spells. Lucian was in complete control.

Drasmyr turned to the sound of Coragan's voice, his eyes widening in surprise. As he did so, his torso twisted, and with it, Regecon's elbow. The fire mage choked on a bitter, haggard gasp.

Coragan hesitated, then responded like a cat. His left hand came up in a blur, grabbing the silver dagger at his side and tearing it from its sheath. With a single fluid motion, his hand whipped forward and hurled the blade through the air. In the same instant, his opposite hand reached down to draw his sword.

The blade of the dagger tumbled end over end through the distance between them, and for once the startled vampire was too slow. The creature's hand reached up to strike the weapon from its course but only grasped at empty air. The blade found its mark in the side of the vampire's neck.

Six inches of pure silver drove deep into Lucian's flesh. A brilliant burst of blue fire seared along his neck and jaw, and he stumbled backward, flailing wildly. Forgotten and discarded, Regecon stumbled to the side behind his desk while the vampire back-pedaled toward the wall.

Still clawing at his wound, Drasmyr snarled. "Mortal! I will rip out your heart for that!" He grabbed the glittering blade embedded in his neck, and pulled it free with a gasp.

Coragan dove to the side as the silver dagger hurtled toward him. The precious weapon drew a thin line of blood across the bounty hunter's thigh, then smashed against the stone wall. There was a brief shower of sparks before the twisted dagger clattered to the floor. Quickly, Coragan glanced at his leg. It was a shallow injury but it stung bitterly; in spite of the pain, the bounty hunter rolled nimbly to his feet.

"Esthirion, deslak tiridien," Regecon said, rising from the ground. The fire mage raised his arms above his head and coils of fire raced along his form.

Clasping his injured neck, Lucian glared at the guild master in frustration and fury. He took one step toward the mage, then seemed to realize his danger. Snarling, the vampire bolted toward the exit.

Coragan tried to step forward to intervene, but found himself shouldered to the side. He slammed hard against the stones, and gasped aloud as the wind was forced from his chest. He lost his balance and awkwardly stumbled to the floor.

"Morthius rellenem." Regecon pointed both his hands at the fleeing vampire just as the creature reached the exit. There was a loud crack of thunder, then a horrendous explosion of heat. The further half of the room disappeared in a terrible conflagration, obscuring the whole wall from view. Coragan stared in amazement as the ball of fire erupted, destroying everything in its path. Even the stones and the mortar between them blackened in the blast.

When the smoke and dust cleared, the vampire was gone and in his place the door of the chamber stood, charred and cracked beyond repair.

"Bloody Curses," Regecon swore, slamming his fist on the desk. "He shut the damn door!"

Coragan staggered to his feet. "How did he get in here?"

Regecon shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is one moment I was alone, the next I had him leaning over me." He turned to the bounty hunter. "Your timing is exceptional, my friend. I am forever in your debt."

"Forget it, let's just get moving. He can't have gone far."

Regecon muttered a word and a small ball of fire burst forth from nothingness, quickly filling the room with its incandescent light. He motioned Coragan toward the exit, then proceeded forward himself.

The door, blackened and cracked, was all too brittle. The moment the bounty hunter pulled it wide, it broke free of its hinges and crashed to the floor. They were forced to wade through a jumbled heap of debris.

Regecon sent the fire forward to illuminate the stairwell.

It was empty.

"Hurry," Coragan said, rushing forward. "Galladrin was in the chamber below."

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.

### Chapter Thirty-Nine

Galladrin slowly put his fingers to his jaw, and carefully felt along his cheek for fractures. Standing above him, Coragan smiled then extended his hand. The rogue accepted the proffered aid and scrambled to his feet.

"You didn't see which way he went, did you?" Coragan asked.

"Sorry, I was eating dirt at the time."

The guardsman, Anduri, stepped forward. "I did. He went down that hall." His extended finger pointed to a small archway where an old wooden door hung open on its hinges.

Galladrin shook his head. "Every time I see that bastard, it seems like he's moving faster. We heard that explosion up there, and started up the stairs to investigate. Next thing we knew, Lucian came hurtling down and bowled us both over."

Anduri pointed to a twisted corner of his metal shield. "He dented this with his fist! I'm glad he didn't stick around to do the same to my skull."

"Yeah, well, now we have to find him." Coragan lifted his crossbow for emphasis. "Then we have to bring him in." It would be a little cramped using the missile weapon in these narrow halls, but it was nothing the bounty hunter couldn't manage. Grimly, he loaded a silver-tipped quarrel.

The guild master had been standing beside them listening to the conversation; at last, he spoke. "Remember, you must drive or lure him to the Chamber of Making. Don't rush it. It will take us about fifteen minutes to prepare."

Galladrin rubbed his stinging wrist. In the commotion with the vampire, he had tumbled down the stairs and landed awkwardly on his arm. "Ambrisia should be at the front gate with most of the other wizards. The town is marching down on us."

Regecon raised both eyebrows. "The town is marching on us?"

"Yeah, they seem a little ticked off about something. They're chanting 'Down with the guild' as they go," Coragan added.

"That's just wonderful," the mage said, then turned to go. "Remember, fifteen minutes, then into the Chamber of Making. We will be waiting. Anduri, go with them. I will find Ambrisia." Several moments later, the guild master disappeared into the far passage.

Galladrin turned to the guardsman at his side and grinned. "Care to hunt a vampire with us?"

Anduri frowned sourly, then motioned for the rogue to lead. Together, the three men headed toward the door. Anduri held a torch, Coragan his crossbow, and Galladrin his rapier.

The guardsman's blood is warm and sweet as it flows down my throat. My pursuers have been cast off, and I have time to recuperate. As the fallen warrior's body sags to the floor, the injury in my neck and the burns along my chest and arms grow warm. There is a tingling sensation as my flesh begins to mend, and a hissing sigh of relief escapes my lips.

Curses on those men, but I was close. I had the wizard in my hands! He would be dead if not for that bounty hunter. Silver weapons. How I despise such things! Next time, I will not spare the time to gloat. Their deaths will come as soon as I set eyes on them.

With my anger boiling, I stare at the guard lying at my feet. The foolish mortal should have known better than to wander these halls alone; but I will not complain. He has let me heal myself from blade and fire providing a short, but needed, respite. Now, I must return to finish my battle.

A silent shriek of pain echoes through my mind.

Toreg! What is wrong?

Master! Help me. He has a silver weapon and it hurts me.

I pause in the hallway, considering. If I rescue my slave he could come in handy with his spells. On the other hand, he lacks the experience that I have in these matters. He could very well bring about my ruin. He does not have that instinct for battle, like ...

Clarissa. I wish she were here by my side. She was a warrior, and a good one. It is most unfortunate that these men killed her. I will make them pay for that a thousand times over, and then again.

There is a flash of a window being opened in my head. Startled, I cry out with both mind and voice. "No, Toreg! Don't!" I am too late. Even without our link I can hear the explosion reverberate through the halls. The pain of my dying slave fills my thoughts. The sigil has broken his body and shattered his flesh. Given a week, perhaps, he might recover; but he does not have a week. Through my slave's anguished eyes, I see the brute named Borak step forward. In his hand is a sword, glittering silver in the pale light.

Snarling, I force the image from my head and start running down the hall. First Clarissa, now him. A thousand years is long enough for solitude. I will not allow this wizard's death.

I am coming, mighty warrior who would strike down a crippled slave. Hunter of the weak and helpless, come, let us see how you deal with me.

Borak watched grimly as the wizard squirmed on the end of the sword. A multitude of burns and wounds crisscrossed the vampire's body, and the blade in his chest must surely have pierced his heart. A thin trickle of blood streamed from his mouth, reddening his fangs and forming a small pool by his head.

Yet, somehow, he still moved.

Not much, just a quivering of thumb and a shuddering of the breast; but it was something. The vampire was still alive. Well, not dead yet, at least.

Borak turned to the guardsman who was struggling to stand. "Mathagarr, do you have a wooden stake? We must finish him."

The night watchman nodded slowly as he rubbed his spine, then began fumbling along the length of his belt. In a moment, he pulled forth a shaft of wood and a small mallet.

Borak took the items and motioned for the watchman to assist him.

Toreg hissed weakly as the two men approached. He tried to lift himself to his feet, but his undead strength was gone. He collapsed trembling to the floor. Vainly, the wizard tried to swipe at the men to drive them back, but in his current state even Mathagarr could hold him down.

Borak kneeled and placed the stake above the mage's heart. The man hissed, but Mathagarr still restrained him. The warrior lifted the hammer and prepared to strike.

A voice from the dark called out. "Borak. Drop the stake or face me in battle."

Borak lifted his eyes to the figure that emerged, then felt his fingers tremble.

Lucian glided forward. "Let him go, warrior, and I will consider sparing your life. Else, prepare to match your strength against mine."

"That's him, isn't it?" Mathagarr said, nodding toward the new arrival. There was no need to clarify who he meant by 'him.' Drasmyr's mouth was slightly open, and his teeth glinted evilly in the faint torchlight.

Borak nodded once to Mathagarr. Without speaking, he turned his eyes back to the dying vampire before him. Then he struck his blow.

"Stop!" Lucian's shout ripped into the warrior's mind as the hammer slammed downward. Every fiber of Borak's soul recoiled from the creature's mental touch and pain erupted throughout his mind. Every thought became agony, every image a nightmare. Even still, the hammer fell. It hit the end of the stake and drove the point downward.

Toreg screamed, and Borak joined him. Again, the hammer fell driving the stake deeper, and again Lucian's touch ripped inside the warrior's soul. Every blow to the creature's body was echoed by a blow to Borak's mind; fire raced inside the warrior's skull and searing points of light raged before his eyes.

"You will suffer for what you have done." Snarling, Lucian advanced.

The final blow sent the stake through to the stone floor beneath. As the last convulsive shudders ran up and down Toreg's body, Borak struggled to his feet. Beside the warrior, Mathagarr grabbed the silver sword. With a final cry for glory, the watchman hurled himself forward to engage the vampire. But Lucian was too fast.

With a sudden motion, he reached out and grabbed the guardsman's wrist. A quick twist brought an audible snap and sent the weapon flying down the corridor. Another motion brought his fist down like a hammer on the watchman's shoulder. There was a sound of cracking bone and snapping armor, then Mathagarr slumped unconscious to the stones.

Lucian let the guardsman fall, then continued his advance. Before him, Borak stood with his skull gripped in both his hands and tears streaming down his face. Sneering contemptuously, Lucian reached forward and grabbed the warrior by his throat. "Do you see how easy this is, mortal? Do you understand what it is I am?" With one hand, the enraged vampire lifted the gurgling man into the air and slowly began to squeeze. Choking, Borak couldn't even scream. "You and your pathetic mortal comrades have crossed swords with your better. With my very presence, I send you and your mighty wizards fleeing to escape my wrath. Death itself has knelt before me, and I have seen kings and nations ground to dust on the anvil of time. Who else but a god can lay claim to my legacy? And who but a fool would challenge my will?"

Lucian held the warrior there for a moment to watch him strangle, then slowly lowered him to the floor. He turned, still clutching the struggling man by the throat, then headed back the way he had come. "Oh, Coragan," he called out. "Oh, Galladrin. Your warrior friend's in trouble. Come quickly, he just might die."

Galladrin started forward and only stopped when the bounty hunter grabbed him. The rogue turned angry eyes on Coragan. "He's got Borak! We have to do something."

Coragan tightened his grip, then dropped his voice to a faint whisper. "Do you really think we can take him?'

The rogue relaxed a bit, ceasing his attempts to pull away. "But ..."

The bounty hunter reached up and patted the bandage on Galladrin's neck. "Clarissa was a week old and she nearly killed us both. Lucian's so old he's forgotten what death means. If we go after him, silver weapons or no, he'll rip us apart and the wizards will never get him into that chamber. At the moment, he's searching for us. Let's take advantage of that and lead him to where he's got to be."

"If Borak dies ..."

"If Borak dies, there is nothing we could have done except, perhaps, avenge him. And if it comes to that, I swear I'm with you. But in the mean time, let's just move."

Reluctantly, Galladrin turned and started toward the opposite end of the hall. Coragan followed, and Anduri closed in beside him gripping his sword. Every so often, the rogue looked back, concern and fear naked on his face.

I can smell them. They were here in this passage perhaps five minutes past. Someone else is with them, a mortal whose scent I cannot quite place. Who it is doesn't really matter, though, since they will all die just the same.

"Are you afraid, mighty warriors? Too frightened to face your destiny? I have your friend, and I will kill him if I must." They do not respond.

Either they do not hear, or they do not care.

My gaze shifts to my burden. He is still struggling and gasping for breath. His thick meaty fingers are scraping desperately at my grip, but to no avail. Even if he were not so weak from lack of air he could never unloose my hold. His face has an odd purplish hue to it. It is almost pretty.

Sighing, I let my grip loosen an imperceptible amount. As much as I would like to finish him, there is need not to kill him just yet; he is still my bait. The humans must be unable to hear my threats. That being the case, I shall raise my voice.

I continue down the hall, shouting louder. "Show yourselves, cowards. I have your warrior and I will slay him."

At last, there is a response from around the bend. "Cowards! You call us cowards? Only a coward would take a man hostage." It is Coragan's voice and he sounds angry.

Gleefully, I stroll forward with my burden in tow. At last, I shall avenge Clarissa's death and put an end to this pathetic rabble.

Pain lances into my shoulder as a bolt tipped with silver strikes. It buries itself in my flesh, heightening my rage. I grunt once, then lift my burden up for the bounty hunter to see. "Throw your weapons down, or I will crush his throat."

The three men stand in the hall ahead of me. They are arranged in a line before an ancient rune-covered door. Galladrin has his rapier, Coragan his crossbow, and the man I don't recognize has drawn a wooden stake in lieu of the sword resting at his side. They stand poised and ready, but I can sense their fear.

"Release him, Lucian, or are you that afraid of us?" Coragan lowers his weapon, but does not toss it to the side. "Must you hide behind a prisoner to keep you safe? Is your soul so empty that you lack even courage enough to fight your own battles?"

My laughter echoes down the hall. "Afraid? Of you? What is there to fear from mortal men like you? You have silver, yes; but I have strength, I have speed, intelligence, and abilities and powers of which you can barely dream. I have no more need to use this mortal as a shield than I've need of air to breathe." With a flick of my arm, the warrior's body is tossed to the side. He smashes face first into the wall and crumbles in a heap—he is not going anywhere and can be killed at my later convenience. Perhaps he might even make a good companion. I take three steps forward. "As you can see, I have no fear. Come, let us finish this. And let the warrior's soul be the prize."

The guardsman with the wooden stake begins to shake. His hand quivers, and his lips tremble. With another step, I break his courage. Terror fills his face, and he turns screaming to the door at the side. He pulls it open, then runs through. Galladrin's gaze flickers nervously from me to the door, then back again.

"I'm sorry, Coragan," Galladrin says, his voice cracking. "I don't think we'll win this." Shaking visibly, the rogue, too, slips through the door.

Coragan is alone now, fear written on every expression of his face. I motion to the door. "Who is the coward now, bounty hunter? I remain, yet your friends have fled."

The man nervously chews his lip, then slowly lifts his sword. With his opposite hand, he reaches into a hidden pocket to pull forth a small medallion which he then displays before me. I sense a power from it; a touch of the divine and holy. Unfortunately for him, he does not have the skill to wield it. One more step and Coragan of Esperia, the renowned bounty hunter of untold glories, breaks like a dried and brittle twig. He edges toward the exit, then rushes through. It closes with a loud thump and click.

Laughing, I approach. Do these mortals think they can truly flee from me? The night is young yet and my thirst barely sated. This shall be a glorious evening, a night to be remembered by all the ages. I, Lucian val Drasmyr, shall once again prove myself victorious. My enemies shall paint the stones with their blood, and I shall drink until I have consumed my fill.

The door before me is covered with strange markings, and a soft aura of magic. Reaching forward, I find it does not yield to my ethereal touch, and I cannot pass through. Is that their master plan? To escape behind a door through which I cannot pass, then lock it as they flee? The fools should have realized there is more than one way to open a door.

I raise both my hands above my head and clench them into fists. "Let the Night rule forever." With the strength of a god, I smash the door wide and advance into the room beyond.

### Chapter Forty

"Kinjitay." The iron-shod staff in Regecon's hand struck the stones amidst a shower of blue sparks.

The change that came over the room was more felt rather than seen. Rings of dust and ensorcelled sigils remained calm and still, but somehow there was a presence, a sense of power building.

From the center of the sixteen circles, Lucian let out a startled chuckle and stared about his feet in amazement. The vampire had walked straight into the room and had placed himself in the center of the circles before he realized the three men he followed were no longer alone. "A trap! How amusing." He glanced from Regecon, to Ambrisia, and then to the small group of wizards and the three men standing by the wall. He rolled back his head and laughed, then lurched forward snarling. "You think you can match your magics against the power _I_ possess?" The advancing vampire came to a stop against the innermost ring of powder. He froze, poised in the air, as if trying to push forward through an invisible, impenetrable wall. Blue sparks flared along the circle and the sigils burst forth with a fiery red glow.

Regecon lifted his arms and began to chant, holding the staff up like a pennant on a field of war. Across the room Ambrisia intoned her voice and joined him. "Sixteen circles burning bright, sixteen candles fed by light ..."

Howling with rage, Lucian slashed before himself with his clawed hands, pounding on an inviolable barrier only he could see or feel. Suddenly, it gave. With a loud crack and a scattering of flame and sparks, the innermost circle roared into a brilliant light, then flickered and went out.

Lucian stepped forward with a pained expression on his face. "Impressive wizards, but not enough." He drew a long, ragged breath. "I will break your spell a piece at a time and then I will fill these circles with your blood."

The vampire moved forward again, and the fifteenth circle flared up to thwart him.

Coragan watched Lucian's posturing and listened to the vampire's words with a thin smile gracing the corner of his lips. It quickly vanished, however, when the first circle fell.

Galladrin stepped up beside him. "Did you see that? He broke one of the circles!"

"I know," Coragan said pulling out his sword. "Get your weapons ready, we may have to finish this the old-fashioned way."

Nodding, the rogue stepped up to the edge of the ring of circles with rapier in hand.

From the darkened corner of the room, Korina felt her jaw grow slack in disbelief at what she had witnessed. The vampire hadn't been in the chamber a mere two minutes and he'd already broken the first circle. If he kept up that pace, he'd be out of the rings before they could complete the invocation of the jar.

Her eyes flickered to the glittering gem-encrusted pottery dish placed by the outermost ring. It was a small object, the containment jar, covered with emeralds and rubies and other gemstones, but it held their only hope of success; her only hope of success. She patted the second jar in the folds of her robes, then glanced back to the first. The fifth sigil along its rim, the sigil of etheric transference, faced squarely across the room at her. There were a total of seven such invocation sigils on the jar, and each had to be activated in turn in order to ensnare the vampire. Unfortunately, they would only be effective as long as he remained within the confines of the outermost circle. If he succeeded in passing beyond that, nothing they could do would force him into the jar.

Korina swore silently to herself, forcing from her heart all but the faintest traces of fear. _This has to work,_ she thought. _It has to!_

Regecon felt a shiver of fear as the first of his magic circles broke. He had known this creature was strong, but he had never imagined the truth. With the Ascerion Circles activated he could feel the immense power and strength they were trying to hold. He had the vague sensation of trying to stop a rolling boulder with a thin veil of cloth and shuddered at the disturbing image.

Nevertheless, his work would not stop. It could not! This creature had to be destroyed, utterly and completely. He would sacrifice himself and everyone in this chamber to achieve that end. Everything had a price, and he would pay this one, no matter how steep.

_You cannot resist me, sorcerer._ The vampire had not spoken, but his voice sounded loud and clear in the guild master's head. As was the way of such magics, the incantations were drawing their souls into close proximity. Lucian was using his power to bridge the gap.

Regecon blocked the thoughts from his mind and gestured with his hand to bring the first binding sigil on the containment jar to life. It opened. Now, all they needed was the time.

The fifteenth circle fell.

Regecon cursed beneath his breath, then continued his chant. In the background, he could hear Ambrisia's voice as it carried the delicate rhythm. When he closed his eyes he could feel her presence beside him, soft and comforting, like a summer's breeze. A moment's anguish reached inside his heart; nothing could be allowed to happen to her. Nothing! If Drasmyr so much as touched her ...

The fourteenth circle fell.

A hollow laughter echoed in the guild master's head _. Do you care for this woman, sorcerer? Shall I make an example of her to you? She is skilled, but not so much as you_ —the string of thoughts was interrupted by a grunt of pain as the second sigil on the containment jar sprung to light. Regecon almost smiled as he felt the vampire shudder. That one had cast an invisible net of energy to snare and entrap the vampire's physical body. It was cleverly devised, too. Much to his surprise, Korina had set it up to work in conjunction with the circles on the floor. The vampire would not be able to sever it before dealing with all sixteen circles. By then it should be too late.

The vampire's thoughts returned. _You're sorceress friend has left a hole in the structure of her shield._ There was a sensation of sneering. _Observe the effects._

Ambrisia cried out, and Regecon felt her presence waver. It steadied a moment, then seemed to vibrate from some internal struggle. Physically, he could hear the Mistress of the Earth gasping in pain, and desperately he longed to come to her aid, but deep inside he knew there was only one way he could help her. Another word, another sigil.

Suddenly, the presence in Regecon's mind crumbled and Ambrisia screamed. Regecon sensed something else, too; a darker presence pouring forward to fill the void where she had been. With a sickening twist of his stomach, the guild master realized Ambrisia had not stopped screaming. The vampire was not content with severing her from the spell; he was torturing her.

Everything has a price. No! The mental shout echoed in Regecon's head and with frantic desperation his fingers flickered through the gestures _. I will not allow that. You will release her! If not by choice, then by force._ Sigil four: the Destructor.

Traces of blue light flickered from the jar to the floor and danced along sigils throughout the room. With a blinding flash, four bolts of brilliant blue lightning erupted from opposite corners of the chamber. They struck the vampire full force in the chest and arms, lifting his body upward into the air. For a fleeting moment, he hung there bathed in the blue glow of electrical energies before suddenly rupturing into a cloud of smoke. The vampire's physical scream ripping from his throat was abruptly cut off by his forced reversion into mist; it was quickly taken up on another level inside Regecon's head. _You! How dare you! I will rip out your entrails and feed that woman to my ravens for this._

Not before I send you to Hell.

A silent chuckle passed the emptiness between them. _Your sorceress is fallen ... that leaves you and me._

The strength of the vampire crashed into Regecon like a tidal wave, swarming forward to pound on the shield that protected him. Drasmyr's scream echoed in his head, and Regecon had to strain to block it out.

The next part of the spell was the hardest. Without Ambrisia to aid him, it would be even more so. After the Destructor sigil, the next three symbols all dealt with trapping and containing the vampire's life force. As a result, the energies employed had to come in direct contact with the creature's soul. Drasmyr would be able to fight each sigil as it came into play; and there would be no sixteen circles to act as a buffer.

Regecon's thoughts grew grim. So be it. With another gesture he began the final invocations. Almost immediately, Lucian's presence reared up to block him. They locked together; iron will against iron will, sorcerer against immortal vampire. The screams of the vampire reverberated within Regecon's mind and he could feel his sorcerer's shield beginning to buckle and give. What little time he had was rapidly diminishing.

A flash of light flared as another of the circles splintered and broke. The whirling cloud of mist that was the vampire moved forward, drawing ever closer to Regecon.

Every word from Regecon's lips came with effort and strain. Twice he had to go back and restart the invocation for the fifth sigil, and each time he did so the vampire broke another ring. There were only ten rings left separating his body from the billowing white cloud. He had his own personal ring as well, but that was already buckling before the vampire's spiritual onslaught. If the vampire broke through all the remaining rings that contained him, his single protective circle would offer scant protection in a prolonged battle.

The fifth sigil flared to life and Regecon felt the sudden outpouring of energy. He sensed, rather than saw, the shackles that reached out to entangle the vampire's soul. With hope returning, he began the incantation for the sixth sigil. There were only two sigils left to invoke and ten rings still standing. By his count, he was well ahead in the game.

There was a loud crack and a rush of blackness. Pain erupted throughout Regecon's body and the vampire's voice rose to an exultant shriek. _Your shield is broken, sorcerer. Prepare to die!_ A thousand shards of piercing agony drove into Regecon's mind, driving the wizard stumbling to his knees.

Gripping his skull, the guild master tried desperately to block out the pain. He saw them; all those people the vampire had killed, all the people he had failed: Aristoceles, the harmless philosopher and old friend; Durek, the student who'd met such a gruesome demise; Jacindra, another long-time friend; Toreg; the guardsmen; and the gods only knew how many others. All of these people had died fighting this beast, and here he was on the brink of victory about to give in.

He could not give in. Not now. Not ever. Everything has a price.

Regecon struggled to his feet gritting his teeth from the pain. Grimly, he raised his arms and began the sixth incantation.

Almost as if on cue, the circles began collapsing again. Ten. Nine. There was a shimmering of resistance. Then eight. He was running out of time. Seven.

Quivering from the tension coursing through his body, Regecon completed the final gesture and the sixth sigil flared to life. Lucian screamed with fury as another tentacle reached out to wrap about his being. Coil upon coil embraced him, entangled him, binding his spirit with ethereal magic. For a time, the creature writhed in the grip of sorcery and the six remaining circles held firm. Regecon wearily began the incantation for the final sigil as if moving through stone. The pain mounted.

Everything has a price. It must come to an end.

It is not enough, wizard. You're moment has passed.

The sixth circle crumbled. Then, the next. A part of Regecon watched with a dispassionate eye the unfolding of events. His tortured body, literally vibrating from the pressures, went through motion after motion in agonizing slowness. As it did so, the last of the circles were falling. One by one. Four. Three. Two. A hiss escaped Regecon's lips and his chest heaved. He could feel the blood pounding in his skull, the energies he channeled searing his soul, the vampire's etheric touch stabbing into his mind ...

The final circle shattered. The final sigil flared.

Coragan staggered back as an explosion of energy ripped across the room. Raising his arm to shield his face, the bounty hunter watched as a whirlwind began to form. Flashing and crackling with brilliant blue energies, the vortex opened like a hungry maw. The vaporous cloud that had once been the vampire struggled within the remorseless grip; it hovered for a moment at the edge of the final broken ring, on the very brink of freedom; then it began to slip. Slowly, inexorably, the swirling cloud of mist was dragged backward across the room. As it went, somewhere inside him, Coragan had the vague sensation of someone screaming. Not in pain, or sadness, but in bitter frustration. In the center of the broken rings the cloud of mist found some reserve of strength and came to a sudden stop. For a long, agonizing moment, the cloud struggled to take shape. Glowing grey eyes sprang forth from a nebulous head, a thick vaporous arm reached out ... then the vortex flashed again and the cloud shattered and fell back. It started whirling as it moved, becoming more and more tenuous as it slipped toward the strange jewel-encrusted jar in the rear of the chamber. Perhaps it was just the roaring of the wind, or the crackling energies, but as the cloud slipped away Coragan thought he could discern a voice. It seemed to curse and swear in frustration and hate, but it was distant and vague, the words too faint to hear. Yes, they were definitely words, but they were coming from within the bounty hunter's head, not from without. With each broken ring the cloud passed, it seemed to pick up more speed. At last, in a dazzling display of brilliant blue lights, mist and vortex disappeared inside the jar. A tiny, almost inaudible, click sounded and Coragan had the dim sensation that something had been sealed. Silence descended.

With a groan, Regecon tumbled forward to his hands and knees, coughing. Coragan rushed to his side. "Guild Master, hold on. Try to keep your strength up." He tried to reach around the man to steady him.

Regecon opened his mouth to reply to the bounty hunter's words, but was suddenly seized by another round of hacking. Concern filled the bounty hunter as blood spilled from the fire wizard's mouth. He looked up once, fluttering his eyes. His brief words came in ragged gasps. "Everything ... has ... a ... price." He collapsed then, in Coragan's arms.

"No!" Ambrisia screamed as she half-ran, half staggered forward. The woman's hair was a tangled mass, her face streaked with tears. She reached forward and gingerly took the fire mage from Coragan's grip. With the softness of a caress, she gently wiped a lock of hair from across his face. "Regecon, you can't ... die." He groaned once, but his eyes did not open. Ambrisia's voice rose to a shout. "Someone find a priest!"

Korina stepped up beside the trio, holding the jeweled containment jar in her hand. "We have the vampire, Mistress. Shall I see him to the river?"

Ambrisia nodded slowly, as if in a daze. "Take Methoin with you. Make sure it is completely submerged before you open it."

"Methoin left to help the guards above, remember Mistress? The townspeople broke through the gate and were ravaging the upper levels. They needed someone to try and put out the fires."

Ambrisia looked up, startled. Suddenly, her eyes refocused. "Yes. That is right. Coragan, if you and Galladrin would be so kind, please see that Korina gets to the river and releases the vampire within its depths."

"As you wish, Councilwoman. Just let me check on Borak first. I need to make sure he is not too badly hurt."

Ambrisia looked sharply at the man, then acquiesced. "Agreed. But do not dally long. All these sacrifices mean nothing if the vampire does not receive his due."

### Epilogue

Regecon opened his eyes. He squinted in the brightness of daylight, then let out a long and weary sigh. Slowly, he tried to lift his head.

Every muscle ached and every joint stung. He remembered the struggle with the vampire and felt fortunate to be alive. Those final incantations had taken every ounce of reserve he could muster. It would probably be days before he returned to his feet again.

After several minutes of struggling, the guild master finally managed to sit up in his bed. For the first time, he looked around to take in his unfamiliar surroundings. He was in a small bedroom furnished only with a bed, two chairs, and a nightstand. Two windows marked the opposite wall, each opened to allow the early morning sun to enter and bathe the room with its light. Outside, the sounds of birds were slowly being drowned out by the noise of the awakening city.

A door on his left opened, and he turned to look.

A grey-robed man with the bearing and mark of a priest of Drellenor was motioning to several people outside the room. Within moments, Ambrisia, Coragan, and Galladrin filed inside. Regecon smiled.

"You are looking much better, Guild Master," Ambrisia said.

"Yeah, yesterday at this time I really didn't think you were going to make it," Coragan added.

Regecon raised both eyebrows. "Yesterday? How long have I been out?"

The priest stepped forward. "Roughly a day and a half, Guild Master."

"Yes, you've been out since the fire and that occurred the night before last." Ambrisia moved forward as she spoke, and gently brushed a stray lock of the fire wizard's hair from across his face.

"Fire?"

"Yes, Guild Master, there has been another fire at the guild," Ambrisia continued.

"Perhaps you should let him rest," Galladrin suggested.

"Nonsense," Regecon said, adjusting his position on the bed. He ignored the sudden jab of pain that shot across his chest. "Tell me of this fire. I remember the guard reporting the one started by the townspeople. Is that the fire to which you refer? How far did it progress?"

"Well, when the townspeople rushed the gate they overwhelmed the guards and the few wizards who had arrived to aid them. They then began setting torch to everything in sight." Ambrisia paused, then continued. "Methoin and the others of your discipline tried, but the fire quickly got beyond their control. Even with the aid of the water mages, nearly half of the guild house was destroyed."

Regecon's face grew somber, and his voice flat. "Destroyed?" He furrowed his brow as he considered the thought, then shook his head. "What of the townspeople? How were they dealt with?"

"Their leader, Duradan, died when the kitchen roof collapsed on him. After that, the majority of the people lost their will and the riot began breaking up. The town guard arrested a dozen or so other ring leaders, but that does little to compensate our loss."

Regecon adjusted his position in bed again, and this time he winced from the sharp jab of pain. He forestalled any comments with a question. "Were there many other injuries?"

Ambrisia paused to study the guild master in concern, then finally replied. "Not as many as there could have been, but enough. Three other men were killed in the blaze and two of our guards were beaten to death. The rest were minor injuries. For the most part, the people seemed more bent on destroying what we had rather than us ourselves."

Regecon nodded. There was one more question nagging him; the important one that he was avoiding. "What of the vampire?"

The priest in the room appeared startled and made a quick sign to Drellenor, but the others brightened.

"It has been destroyed," Coragan said. "Korina, Galladrin, myself, and several of the other mages saw it released within the waters of the river. Borak and Mathagarr—they are recovering in a room down the hall, if you are interested—anyway, the two of them are all upset that they missed Lucian's demise, but if you ask me, in a way, it was kind of disappointing. The mist simply spilled out of the container and faded in the water. After all we went through, I expected something, oh, I don't know, something a little more dramatic from the prince of darkness."

"As long as he was destroyed," Regecon said. "That is what's important. That compensates even the loss of the guild. By the way, have you begun any salvage operations yet, Ambrisia?"

"Yes, Korina and the others have begun work recovering whatever can be found amidst the wreckage. It is tedious, but it has kept them busy. Is there anything else you intend?"

Regecon suddenly yawned. This brief conversation was wearing on him. Again he wondered how long it would be before he would be back on his feet. "No. We shall discuss this when I am more recovered. We'll have to talk to the Baron's Council concerning reconstruction and possible relocation. We'll also have to look into reimbursement for the damages, but all that can wait. It seems I am still quite tired." The guild master yawned a second time to emphasize his point. The others nodded in understanding, then took their leave. Ambrisia was last, giving the guild master a warm, parting smile before finally closing the door.

Alone, Regecon suddenly realized he had forgotten to ask where he was. Sighing, he sank back beneath the covers. It didn't really matter, as long as the vampire was dead.

Ambrisia closed the door to Regecon's room and sighed. It was a relief to see the man awake and talking again. Yesterday, she had been at her wits end with worry that he might not make it. No matter how much one saw it, one could never get used to death; especially if the person dying was someone close to you.

The Mistress of the Earth turned to follow the others down the corridor and turned her thoughts to the latest mystery to present itself. The diviners had given their report to her yesterday regarding Marissa and her disappearance. Despite what she had told Regecon and Jacindra when they had first discussed the issue, she was expecting to find out the young woman had decided to flee, but what the diviners found was much more startling.

Absolutely nothing.

Not a trace, not a trail, not a whiff of anything. Given that there had been at least two vampires in the guild at differing times, one might reasonably expect some difficulties with all the ripples of black time generated; but the vampires were gone now. The last ripples of black time were fading and still there was no sign of Marissa. According to the diviners, the effective range of their magics was five hundred miles; and within that radius Marissa did not exist. It was like she had been wiped from reality: taken up and snatched from this very plane of being.

Ambrisia shook her head as she pondered the riddle. She reached up and began twirling one of her long tresses about her finger. She would wait a day, then have the diviners give it another try. If worse came to worst, she would have them scry for her during a time when she was known to be present at the guild, then follow her activities until the time she disappeared. Perhaps that might give her some clues.

In the meantime, she had other duties to attend to.

Emptiness surrounds me. It is dull and grey, a void without shape or end. There is no sound, no light, not even a sense of wind or earth. All there is is solitude, and the empty substance of eternal dream.

Without warning a stirring begins. I feel a power reaching forth to grab at me. A dark tunnel opens, and I am pulled within. Through an endless funnel I am drawn, helpless like a leaf in rushing torrents. At last a brilliant light appears ahead. It glows gold with radiance, and I feel a pang of fear. I struggle, but to no avail. The tunnel leads only to the light, and the pull that draws me has the strength of a god.

I explode through the light into the vast emptiness beyond. A dizzying array of details befuddles my mind, then slowly, I am forced to take my shape.

There's a woman in black robes standing across the room from me with her eyes leveled at my chest. I can smell the enchantment in the air, from her clothes, from the room; it is strong.

She has a pretty face; strong and in control. Unlike most mortals in my presence, fear does not touch her features, or if it does, she keeps it well-hidden. Her neck draws my eyes for a moment, so soft and inviting and filled with the young warm blood I so desire. Soon, however, I return my gaze to her face.

She has dark, black hair like the color of a raven's breast, and her eyes are a sparkling serpentine green. All things considered, I am hardly surprised when I recognize her. Twenty years younger and a thousand years later, the face of Zarina the Black stares back at me. I could not forget her even if time itself should end. She is younger, yes, I don't know how or why, but it is her. The features are narrower and sharper than before, but when she speaks her voice removes all doubt.

"Greetings, Lucian val Drasmyr."

"You are late," I say, then glance around the room. On my right is a large slab of obsidian rock, no doubt an altar to the woman's demon god. To my left, is a man. He stands meekly in his dark robes, and keeps his eyes downcast, obscured from view. As soon as I see him, I sense his utter lack of significance and continue my survey. Behind the man rests a stone table. It bears several objects; all reminiscent of a demon-lover's trade. There is a skull affixed with a candle, a black book of even blacker rituals, an altar cloth of red, a dagger, and a brazier. All irrelevant to me; quite meaningless.

Zarina looks confused. I seem to have startled her with my response. "What do you mean, I'm late?"

Snarling, I advance. "I have no time for games, woman. Your control over me was severed five centuries ago. Now, speak your final piece and prepare to die."

The woman laughs. She is not even protected by a sorcerer's circle and she laughs! I am nearly stunned. Could a thousand years of torment have robbed her of all her senses?

"Are you mad? Do you not remember what you did to me? Do you not know what I am, what I have become? Your arrogance—"

"You are the thirteenth genie, vampire." Her smile is all together wicked. "And I do not know where you think you know me from, but you can rest assured that I ..." she lifts a small jar encrusted with gems, " ... am in complete control."

Enough. Amnesia or no, Zarina shall die. Stepping forward, I reach toward her throat ...

Agony courses along my body. It is pain unlike anything I have felt before, like a thousand silver knives slowly shredding my tortured flesh. Gasping, I drop to my knees.

The woman who was once Zarina smiles, stroking the jar with a gentle touch. "Stay down there, slave, and pay homage to your Mistress. Prostrate yourself before me and beg for mercy."

Every breath is a struggle and I cannot even bring myself to stand. The woman watches my suffering with a smile. She motions to the man in robes. "Come, Jornon, watch how I bring my pet in line."

This woman must die! She must die!

Slowly, inexorably, I lift my arm and begin dragging myself toward her. I shall rip those pretty legs right off! More pain, more agony. She is forcing me into the ground like a whipped dog.

This cannot be! This cannot be! I will never submit. Never!

But the pain is immeasurable; the agony, profound.

I collapse in a heap, robbed of all my strength. Blood is seeping from the corner of my lip. Slowly, I raise my head and stare into the grinning face of my enemy—an enemy who should have died, or worse, a very long time ago.

_This is not over, woman._ I may be a slave in body, but I am no longer a slave in soul. A thousand years have taught me patience like no other creature of this world. If I cannot break these chains today, then time itself will set me free ... and may the heavens help you when my day of vengeance comes.

###

If you enjoyed this book, download a **free copy** of _The Children of Lubrochius_ (the sequel to _Drasmyr_ ) at: http://matthewdryan.com

And please return to the e-store from which you downloaded the book and leave a review (we, authors, live and die by reviews).

You can also visit the author's blog at matthewdryan.com to sign up for his mailing list and stay apprised of his work. This book is the prequel to a quadrilogy entitled _From the Ashes of Ruin_. The author is currently working on the third book of that series entitled _The Citadel._

### Glossary of Terms for Drasmyr

Welcome to the world of Athron, a place populated by a huge variety of strange creatures and races. Here you will find a brief description of some of the races mentioned in the book (although, some only in passing).

**Agnari** : Agnari are short stocky humanoids with very pale (usually white or even albino) skin and dark brown or black hair. They prefer to wear their hair long, braided in back. The length of the braid is a mark of status; the longer the braid, the more respect the particular Agnari has. They love to dig and shape stone, preferring to spend the bulk of their time in dark caves and the other deep places of the earth. They produce some of the finest masters of earthcraft in all the world. Although they mine a lot, they regard gems, jewelry, and coinage as simply a convenient means of bartering. Their true love is in the carving and shaping of the earth.

**Forest of Shrouding Mists** : The Forest of Shrouding Mists is the ancient name for the Kirshtar Forest. It fell out of use around 212 A.F. M. (After the Fall of Morgulan).

**Goblins** : Goblins are human-sized humanoids who have blood red skin and knobby, knotted skulls. They generally live a savage and nomadic existence and normally are only loosely organized at best. On their own, their technology is primitive, but they make up for this by constantly raiding and sacking human villages. They are inherently evil and often worship demons and other fell powers like Lubrochius, Gohloran, and others.

**Humans** : Humans are, well, humans. They populate the world of Athron and come in much the same varieties as they do here on Earth. Some are pale-skinned, some are dark-skinned, some tend to be tall, some short. Their respective cultures and appearances vary greatly.

**Kirshtar Forest** : The Kirshtar Forest is the modern name for the Forest of Shrouding Mist. It came into use around 220 A.F.M.

**Lithlyn** : Lithlyn are silver-skinned forest dwellers. They love the woods and are very gifted with magic. They tend to be slightly smaller than humans and are excellent shots with bows. They know the secret of working and growing silvyl wood and crafting it into bows and other weapons. They are known for their love of song and fine wine. They have black hair, with white wings at the temples. Theirs is a matriarchal society in which each lithlyn city has a High Huntress who is head of the Dedicated (the most skilled hunters of the city) and ruler of the city. For hunts and special occasions they have various paints that they use to cover their skin with. Males, when painted, wear only a loincloth, the rest of their body is painted. They are skilled singers.

**Ogres** : Ogres are large, powerfully built humanoids with dark brown to black skin that stand nine to ten feet tall. They are usually bald, though some grow orange or reddish hair. They are a nomadic people without a homeland. Although highly intelligent, they are not particularly religious—although there is the occasional exception. They are respected as conscientious traders. Ogres earn distinction by traveling to new lands and making discoveries. They have a tendency to collect curios and artifacts from every land they visit. They are not known for having much of a sense of humor. They take things very seriously. They do not forget enemies or friends.

**Shaladryn** : Shaladryn are short humanoids, usually standing no higher than four feet tall. They can be distinguished from human children by the excess hair on the backs of their hands and on the rest of their bodies. It hangs out in tufts, but is not thick enough to be called fur. They make excellent archers and slingers. They are fond of bird feathers and every shaladryn wears a feather fetish (from the sacred Krar bird) called an _Othwan_. _Othwans_ are decorated with colored beads to signify family lineage and personal history. Most shaladryn can speak with birds and other wild animals.

**Windar** : Windar are a race of winged humanoids. They tend to keep aloof from the affairs of men. Their wings are great eagles' wings. They keep and train large eagles as pets. They often wield spears. They collect the bones of their enemies and wear them as trophies of war.

### About the Author:

Matthew D. Ryan is a published writer with a background in philosophy, mathematics, and computer science. He lives in upstate New York on the shores of Lake Champlain. He believes he saw the Lake Champlain Monster (a.k.a. Champy) once, and he has a cat named Confucius. Please visit the following web sites for more information on Matthew D. Ryan, his writings, and the world of Athron:

Author's Smashwords Page: <http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/matthewdryan>  
Author's Book Page: <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/131156>  
Author's Web Site: http://matthewdryan.com  
Author's Twitter Handle: @MatthewDRyan1  
Author's Goodreads Page: <http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/579148.Matthew_D_Ryan>

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Fiction by Matthew D. Ryan

From the Ashes of Ruin

Drasmyr (The Prequel)

Book I: The Children of Lubrochius

Book II: The Sceptre of Morgulan

Book III: The Citadel*

Short Story Collections

Of Dragons, Love, and Poison

Novellas

Prism*

Non-fiction by Matthew D. Ryan

Delusions of Grandeur

*Coming soon.

Check out _Prism,_ a stand-alone novella by Matthew D. Ryan coming February 1st, 2017.

Look for _The Children of Lubrochius_ at your favorite ebook retailer.

Excerpt

Chapter One

(The Children of Lubrochius)

Korina marched down the lightless corridor, her pace quick, yet measured. A simple incantation she had learned long ago gave her the ability to see in the dark. With it, she saw everything—not as she would if there had been a light, but with equal clarity. The spell provided a special kind of vision of blues and greys and shadows that after years of use she had become quite adept with. She saw the tiles of the ceiling with their ancient mosaics covered by centuries of grime. She saw the long-bare sconces that lined the walls, their cold metal rusted from years of disuse. She saw the cobwebs that clung to everything, both the walls and the ceiling, hanging down in delicate, whispering strands. And she saw the dust that covered the floor; the trail of footprints she'd left the last time she had visited; and every other detail this place had to offer.

She came to a corner and looked back to make sure she was not being followed, more out of habit than real concern. Few, if any, people ever delved this deeply into the guild house dungeon when the guild house was extant, let alone now. The hall she walked in, probably had seen no one except herself and her lone servant for the past one hundred years. It had escaped the fire that had gutted the guild house simply because it was buried so deeply in the earth. It had been built some time in the distant past; if she gave ear to the rumors she often heard, these catacombs were all that was left of an ancient temple complex, one built before the coming of the wizards to Drisdak, before there ever was a guild in the city at all.

She turned the corner and continued forward several more yards. Ahead, the passage ended at an old, wooden door, swollen and rotted; like the ceiling before, webs covered it from top to bottom. From _appearances_ , it looked as if it had not been used in centuries, but she knew better. She drew to a stop before it, waved her hand, and uttered a word. A shimmering passed beneath her fingers, a pop echoed in the stillness, and the door creaked open.

Korina slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. With a gesture, she lit a torch in the sconce on her right and ended her vision spell; then, she made another perfunctory wave to seal the door, fastening the lock in place with a click.

Secure now, she took a moment to take in her surroundings. She stood in a dust-filled storeroom with heavy wooden crates stacked against the far wall, covered by an old, ragged linen. More cobwebs crowded around the corners of the chamber, and ancient, moldy stains marred the stone walls.

But, like the door, all that was just for show.

Korina planted her feet apart, made several rapid gestures in the air with her hands, and chanted a short rhyme in an ancient language. Now, the entire chamber seemed to shimmer. The linen-covered crates pressing against the far wall dissolved in a liquid cloud of running colors. The cobwebs thinned and vanished, the dust disappeared. Even the stains along the walls faded into nothingness as the true contents of the room emerged.

A flat obsidian altar covered with a black cloth appeared slightly offset from the center of the chamber. Two silver candleholders formed on either end of the altar, each one holding a long, white candle. Over on the right, near the center of the wall, a small stone table bearing a collection of magical accoutrements sprang into existence. In the southernmost corner, a bronze brazier appeared and immediately began to burn. Next, mystical runes spread across the floor. They first revealed themselves as flickering, flashes of orange light which then solidified as etched carvings in the stone. The runes ran in two circular patterns, one five feet across, the other nearly ten. The larger one completely encircled the altar.

Korina moved across the room to the table near the wall. More mystical runes encircled the top of the table carved into the stone with the flowing precision of calligraphy. The spells the runes contained helped preserve and protect what lay there: a small bulging leather pouch, two small pottery jars—one grey, one black—four pieces of white chalk, and a ceremonial obsidian knife stained with dried blood.

Korina retrieved the grey jar from the table, and unscrewed its lid. It contained a fine, white powder: ground diamond dust. Korina dipped her fingers in, letting the tiny granules adhere to her soft skin. She rubbed her fingers together to feel the grainy texture for a moment, then gently brushed the dusty powder back into the container and replaced the lid.

_I don't need to invoke the circles_ , she thought. _Not with this_. She reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew another small jar. This jar, about the size of two fists and shaped like the lower half of an hourglass crystal, bore gems of alternating colors—red, blue, green, white, yellow—running in parallel lines from top to bottom. Runes of power etched across its surface sealed it with a potent magic designed to contain and hold the creature within, a creature that had once terrorized the entire wizards guild and much of the city of Drisdak.

Lucian val Drasmyr.

The vampire.

Simply by holding the jar, Korina could feel the power emanating from it. It was no toy. The most powerful wizards of the guild had worked for days weaving magics and enchantments strong enough to ensnare the creature. Even with all their preparations, the vampire had nearly succeeded in breaking through sixteen binding circles before Guild Master Regecon, the chief sorcerer at the guild, finally completed the imprisonment spell and banished the vampire to the nether-spaces within this jar.

Korina lifted the item and studied the way the various gems on its surface refracted the light. The jar had been a desperate gambit in a time of turmoil. Due to her great talents and incredible gifts with sorcery, Guild Master Regecon had assigned Korina the task of constructing the object. It had been an honor and a privilege. And an opportunity. Unbeknownst to the other sorcerers of the guild, Korina, knowing the vampire was beyond her power to control for any extended period of time, beseeched her demon god, Lubrochius, to construct the jar on her behalf. She then fabricated a second container, identical in appearance to the first and imbued with a few minor enchantments. After the creature was captured, she switched both objects. The guild sent the second jar into the river in lieu of the first, where presumably the vampire would have met his end. And the real jar, vampire and all, she kept for herself. Now, some three weeks after the creature's capture, she was in the ongoing process of trying to break him down, so he would accept her as mistress and master. So far, she had been unsuccessful.

Korina ran her fingers along the jeweled surface, and gently fingered a small white diamond inset in the black porcelain. As long as she held the jar, she could channel energy into it to inflict pain upon the vampire, but the creature was proving remarkably resilient. It had taken her worst and still remained defiant. Her fleeting victories hardly offered solace. As attempt after attempt ended in failure, her confidence continued to slip. The vampire, ancient and strong, was just too powerful.

Still, she had questions in need of answers.

After several moments of soul searching, looking for every last scrap of courage she could muster, Korina began to chant.

" _By earth and water, fire and air._

By the powers of darkness, and despair.

I call upon one who once walked this land.

Servant of the Sceptre. Vampire, once man.

Drasmyr, I summon you.

Drasmyr, I call you.

Drasmyr, I command you.

_You, Servant of the Sceptre, Lucian val Drasmyr_."

Another pop sounded as the jewel studded lid twisted of its own accord and jumped off the jar; it tumbled through the air and landed with a clatter at Korina's feet. A thin tendril of grey smoke issued from the small opening revealed. The smoke grew thicker, turned to mist. It reached out across the room, stretching like the neck of a great serpent. It coiled down onto the cold, stone floor in the center of the room, and began to coalesce, assuming a shape not unlike that of a man.

Korina felt a twinge of uneasiness—perhaps she should have used the sorcerer's circles. Even with the jar. _Too late, now_ , she thought, as the misty form solidified in the center of the room. _He has been summoned_.

The vampire stood a little over six feet tall and had short black hair, a pale, clean-shaven face and cold, grey eyes, hard as steel. He wore a long black cloak which nearly dragged on the ground. For a shirt, he wore a rich red velvet doublet, laced with black and gold trimmings, while fine trousers of deepest black covered his legs. On his feet he wore the black boots of an elegant gentleman.

Korina nibbled her lower lip as she studied the vampire's face. Many a woman would have found the creature's looks attractive, and thus be led to her doom. Not Korina, of course. She stopped nibbling, and straightened. She was above such weakness.

"Well, Zarina," the vampire said, "you have summoned me, again. Why?"

Korina pursed her lips. The creature insisted on addressing her as Zarina. She had corrected him twice now, only to be ignored or graced with a contemptuous sneer each time. He, apparently, believed that she was the infamous witch Zarina the Black returned a thousand years after her death, and no amount of argument, no matter how vehemently put forward, had yet to change his mind. It was a matter of verifiable history that he had known Zarina in her day, not romantically, but at least intimately. In fact, Zarina was one of the progenitors of the sequence of events that had ultimately turned Lucian val Drasmyr, feared general and servant of Morgulan, into an immortal creature of the night—and that made the vampire's position all the more disturbing. Although the notion that she had capabilities unmatched by any other wizard alive pleased her, Korina could not help but feel lessened or perhaps overwritten by such a figure from the past. His contention threatened her very identity. Who was she, if not Korina Bolaris?

Annoyed, she exhaled slowly through her nose and managed a sneer of her own. Cupping the jeweled jar protectively in her hands, she said, "I don't need a reason to summon you, Lucian. I can do so on my whim. You are my _genie_ after all." She forced a certain measure of bravado into her voice; she did not wish for the creature to know how nervous he truly made her.

"So you say," Lucian said.

"You have been permanently bound to this jar," Korina said, lifting the object slightly as if to emphasize her point.

"That is only a temporary state of affairs," Lucian replied.

"Hah." She laughed. "That is foolish. Not even you can escape from a prison constructed by Lubrochius."

He looked at her doubtfully. "Are you now claiming to have the ear of Lubrochius?"

"And why not? You, yourself, keep telling me I am Zarina, his most devoted and trusted servant."

Lucian flexed the fingers in his pale hand, and studied the long fingernails. After a moment, he looked up. "You are Zarina. But be that as it may, you do not compare in glory to your former self. At least, not yet," he said. His voice was smooth and casual, yet infected with disdain. "Perhaps, someday you will grow in power and I might actually find killing you a challenge, but that day is very far away. I suspect I will have killed you... well, no... transformed you long before any such day arrives."

Korina cleared her throat. She felt a cold knot of fear clutching at her stomach, again; it was hard to ignore. She sought power, at any cost, at any price. And she knew the path to power was one with risks. Toying with this vampire was one of those risks. If it escaped... she swallowed hard, forcing the fears out of her mind. _Even Lucian val Drasmyr has limits_ , she thought.

She tried to appear nonchalant. "Well, you can dream about your own day of glory, if you like, but today is my day. I am the master. You are the slave."

The vampire yawned as if bored. He began studying the creases in his hand again. "Once again, I am forced to ask you, Zarina: Did you have a reason for summoning me, or are we to banter back and forth all day?"

Korina ran one hand through her hair pushing it back behind her ear. There were a number of issues she wished to discuss with Lucian on a variety of topics; he had walked the world for the past one thousand years; no doubt he had accumulated much knowledge and wisdom.

Well, best to start with the basics. _I need a better feel for him_ , she thought; then, she said, "Tell me, vampire, do you know much of magic?"

"I have never made a study of sorcery, if that is what you mean. My powers are sufficient as they are." He folded his arms at his chest and tilted his head to the side. "I hope you have something more meaningful and interesting than that to discuss."

"Then you know nothing of the subject?"

"I did not say _that_."

"What, then? Tell me," Korina said. This would be an excellent way to gauge his intellect and knowledge; anything she could use to evaluate him would be of inestimable worth.

Lucian sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "I know it's a derivative subject. It traces its origins back to the most ancient discourses in philosophy."

"Philosophy?" Korina said, incredulous. "Don't be absurd."

"True, the disciplines did part paths several millennia ago, but in the beginning they were closely connected."

"What do I care about philosophy?"

"It has been called the sex of the mind."

"I'm sure it has, but I still don't care."

"That's your choice, of course," Lucian said. "Perhaps a mind as limited as your own can only handle fairy tales with genies."

Korina flushed slightly at the pointed gibe. He was, of course, referring to her reading habits when not engrossed in study. She lifted the jar slightly, and felt a powerful urge to punish him, but refrained. "You dare mock me?" she said, sharply, threateningly. That would be enough.

"If you spend your time reading silly fairy tales then you open yourself up to such. Really, an evil sorceress who spends her time reading about genies and princesses? Who ever heard of such a thing?"

Korina scowled, but remained calm. "It was only one book, Lucian," she explained. "I read fanciful things upon occasion to relax my mind; I find it worthwhile as a diversion, nothing more. Besides, it gave me the idea to capture you, did it not? So I hardly call it worthless."

"Why not devote yourself to something more constructive," he said, gesturing with one hand. "Increase your learning. You told me once that philosophy, like mathematics, was a critical discipline that strengthens the mind, allowing it to see logical connections among disparate facts and derive grand truths from the most common observations."

"When did I say that?"

"A year or two before you turned me into a vampire." He cast a calculated, sidelong glance at her.

"You mean Zarina, then," she said, ignoring his look.

"Yes. When you were her."

"I've never found anything uttered in philosophy to be of any use. As a discipline, it is totally impractical," she said, bringing her hands together in front of herself while still holding the jar. "I believe it was the poet, Saladius, who said, 'There is no idea so profane, no novelty so obscure that some philosopher somewhere has not gilded it with the most exuberant praise and placed it on a pedestal to bedazzle even the most erudite among us.' I have nothing against profane ideas in themselves, but to me Saladius did not seem far from the truth. Philosophy has always seemed to me to be a potpourri of random thoughts. It promises everything, but delivers nothing."

"True, some philosophers have a way of wondering amongst the clouds, but there are others whose thoughts often offer profound insights on the mysteries of life." He turned back to her, the corner of his lip twisting upward.

"Name one," she said, her voice edged in challenge.

"Arisson of Grexia; I don't agree with many of his doctrines, but he had a remarkable amount of influence in centuries past. There are others, of course; the world is replete with ideas."

"Fine... what kernel of wisdom would Arisson of Grexia offer me?"

"'The Ideal must be first and foremost in your thoughts, but always give common concerns that which they are due.'"

"And what does that mean?" she asked, annoyed with this turn in the conversation. It seemed like such a waste of time. But the vampire appeared fully engaged.

"It's really quite simple," Lucian said with a smirk. "It is all about setting goals for yourself and achieving them."

"Please, explain," she said, curtly.

"Basically, he is saying you should not limit what you strive for out of fear that it is beyond you; no, strive for the grand things, but recognize that such requires a great many more mundane steps to accomplish. From little things, great things can be built."

"We have gone a bit off topic, I think," Korina said.

"You asked about magic," Lucian said with an arrogant sneer. "I told you what I know."

Korina frowned. He had not told her much. Barely a smattering. Instead, they had detoured into a lecture on philosophy. Perhaps she needed to ask him more particular questions. She sifted through what she knew of Lucian. Most of his thousand years of existence were a mystery, except the last few years of his mortal life when he served the dark lord Morgulan. Thought of the dark lord brought her back to the main reason she was here today. "Tell me about the Sceptre of Morgulan," she said. She knew much already: the sceptre was a weapon of tremendous power wielded by Morgulan during the course of many wars and battles fought over a thousand years ago. It had mysteriously disappeared immediately after Morgulan's demise.

Lucian sighed as if surrendering to the inevitable. "The Sceptre of Morgulan?" The vampire locked his gaze with her, and smiled. This time he showed his pointed teeth. They jutted down from the roof of his mouth like the fangs of a wolf. "The wizard Arcalian was also interested in the sceptre. That interest got him killed. As you may or may not know, I have a history with wizards. Generally speaking... I win."

The arrogant monster! He had lost to Regecon and the guild.

"I'm not interested in your boasts, vampire. I'm interested in the sceptre. Tell me what I wish to know." A part of her doubted if she was ready for the knowledge the vampire might give her. The sceptre, after all, was an artifact of legend. It had destroyed armies. She longed for its power, but she knew that she must match its power with her own else it would come to rule her. An untrained peasant with a sword was as much a danger to himself as he was to others.

Lucian folded his arms beneath his breast and looked askance at the wall. "Ask your questions, then," he said.

Good. He seemed willing to answer today. Where to begin? "You admit to killing Arcalian?"

"I have no reason to deny it, do I? Is someone coming to throw me in irons for it? Oh, they already have."

"You were the sceptre's guardian, correct." It really wasn't a question. She knew the truth of it without him answering.

He smiled. His grey eyes shone with a preternatural light. "What do you think?"

"I think you were protecting it, but I don't know why. Morgulan is a thousand years dead." If she could acquire the Sceptre of Morgulan, her path to power was assured. She would start with the guild, perhaps: _The Serpent and the Crow_ was long overdue for a competent leader. Or perhaps the city itself? She could overthrow the count and his petty Council of Barons, set herself up as ruler... The possibilities were certainly enticing.

The vampire smiled his insolent smile. "Dead, you say?" he said. "So was Zarina." He let the words hang ominously in the air while simply staring at her.

Her heart skipped a beat. She dared not ruminate about the implications of what he'd said, or rather, what he'd not said—the accusation that threatened her very sense of self. Not here. Not now. _My name is Korina_ , she thought. _Don't let him unbalance you_.

She pushed her doubts to the side. "So you've been protecting the sceptre for the past one thousand years. Do you truly expect Morgulan to return?"

"I did. Once," Lucian said. "But Morgulan's hiatus was only supposed to last five hundred years not one thousand. I waited. And he didn't show. Now, of course, you are—"

"His hiatus?" she asked, puzzled. "What do you mean? He _died_ , didn't he?"

"In a way, I suppose," Lucian said.

"Explain."

The vampire shrugged. "No."

She lifted the jar threateningly. "Explain."

Again, the vampire shrugged. "He made a deal with Lubrochius. I was never fully privy to the details; I merely played my part. And he, like you, betrayed me." His expression twisted into something malevolent and filled with warning, as if to intimate at the score he wished to settle.

She straightened, but did not overtly respond to the implied threat. She decided to return to her earlier query. "So, how does Arcalian fit into this? You and he had dealings before you killed him; that is obvious."

"I performed a service for him, and he—at least for a while—repaid me."

"What service?"

"I broke the former guild master's neck and threw him down the stairs."

"You killed Talamarius?"

"Yes."

Disturbing, if true. This creature certainly had a way with wizards. "Arcalian first encountered you while he was searching for the sceptre, yes?" she asked, pressing on.

He nodded.

_Excellent_ , she thought. "Save me the time of replicating his research, will you? Tell me where it is."

"You don't know?"

"Logically, it should be in your castle, Rahmin Muirdra. But where, precisely? And what traps protect it?"

The vampire gave her a paternal look, and snorted. "The sceptre is attuned to Morgulan. It will not function fully in anyone else's hands. Not even yours. Questing for it would be futile."

"I don't believe you. You are just protecting it still."

"Funny. Arcalian said the exact same thing," he said, languidly. "Your historians have been lax in their scholastic efforts; or they are just lazy and not well-informed. Not a one of them in Arcalian's search mentioned the _Dennzi-burron_ tentacles."

" _Dennzi-burron_ tentacles?" she asked, completely puzzled.

"I see you are equally ill-informed," Lucian said. "When Morgulan held the sceptre, two black tentacles grew from _The Heart of Skulls_ —the large emerald at the base—and fastened themselves to his flesh. The _Dennzi-burron_ tentacles enhance the powers of the sceptre in Morgulan's hands. No one else can summon them." The vampire lifted his hand to his mouth and yawned, deliberately. "Now," he said, "I grow weary. Can we not adjourn our conversation until a later date?"

Korina frowned. Could he be telling the truth? Was she wasting her time in this pursuit? He seemed to be giving very specific details as if he related facts. "You have not satisfied me with your answer concerning the sceptre," she said. "You say it is attuned to Morgulan. How was that done? How do the tentacles _work?_ "

"As I said earlier, I am not particularly skilled in the magical arts. All I know is that the sceptre was made for Morgulan by Lubrochius, the Eater of Souls. If you wish to learn the secrets of its making, perhaps you should take it up with him."

She lifted the jar slightly, and arched a single eyebrow. "Perhaps I shall. It is not so farfetched as you imply."

Lucian said nothing at first. His tongue slid forward, licked the front of his teeth, and then retreated to the recesses of his mouth. He looked around the room. For several long moments, he remained completely quiet as if to absorb all that he saw and heard. Finally, he looked down at the floor and gently shook his head. "If you have Lubrochius in your pocket, you have no need of me. Why don't you release me?"

"I think not," she said.

"You are a stubborn, foolish woman," he said, lifting his gaze to her. She met his stare with quiet strength, refusing to flinch or shrink away. A moment later, she realized her mistake.

His eyes, grey liquid pools, beckoned to her. She felt herself slipping into them, as if she were sliding down a steep, icy slope into a well of darkness and mysterious shadow. Grey light surrounded her, reached toward her with delicate, soothing fingers. She felt numbness spread along her body. It started at her shoulders and spread gradually down to her toes. Her head felt light, her thoughts, scattered.

She tried to shake herself and clear her mind, but her limbs, heavy and sluggish, moved as if stuck in tar. The jar in her hand burned and felt like a great lead weight. Her will drained from her, and her ability to manipulate magic faltered. She tried to look away, break her gaze from the vampire's, but she could not. Terror began to mount inside her chest, but it could not be expressed. She felt the fear, but her heart thudded to a slow and steady rhythm as if being lulled into a slumber.

Looking at her intently, Lucian spoke. "Korina." He breathed her name as if it were the lyric of a gentle song. Her true name. Not Zarina. Korina was too frightened and desperate to consider what that might mean. She could feel the vampire's power enveloping her and she felt helpless to stop it. "I offer you a world of unbridled pleasures. A world where you can do as you will. Give me the jar and I will make you a queen." His words soothed her, enticed her. Something deep inside her stirred at their touch, relishing their meaning.

The vampire reached out with his hand. To her horror, her own hand, still holding the jar, raised in the air as if to offer it to the vampire. He stepped forward and wrapped the fingers of one hand around her throat while reaching toward the jar with the other. She felt the pressure of his fingers on her windpipe and knew she was about to die.

But just as the vampire touched the jar, a small flash of light arced from the jar to his hand and a jolt of energy passed through him; he jerked back and hissed, taking his eyes from her if only momentarily. His hold on her faltered, and she immediately stepped away, channeling energy into the jar.

The vampire shrieked. Taken off guard, he staggered backward, giving her another few instants. She gathered her magic while the vampire, half-mad with pain, hurled himself toward her, flailing for her hand that held the jar. She pulled it back just in time and, with a flick of her wrist and a single word, put up a thick wall of burning flames between herself and the creature; then, she took two more steps back.

She felt his presence slam into the wall of fire trying to douse it. She could feel his will working to unravel her magic, and she pushed back, trying to drive him away from the spell. Their wills locked together, but his was hideously strong, far too great for her to subdue. His onslaught continued, unmaking her spell. As the flames began to fade, her back pressed against the chamber wall; she was out of room.

Rather than use another spell, she poured as much energy as she could into the jar. Howling now, the vampire staggered and fell to the floor in front of her. She maneuvered around to get some distance, and prepared to speak the chant to force the vampire back into his prison.

This dangerous parley was over; the creature must be chained again.

She opened her mouth, but his will moved to stop her. The muscles in her jaw froze. It took nearly all her concentration to loose her tongue. The vampire crawled towards her, eyes filled with murder.

Slowly, she began enunciating the Words of Banishing, sounding no louder than a whisper, at first, but growing in strength and conviction with every passing second.

" _By earth and water, fire and air._

By the powers of darkness, and despair.

I cast back into bondage, you who once walked this land.

Servant of the Sceptre. Vampire, once man.

Drasmyr, I chain you.

Drasmyr, I bind you.

Drasmyr, I command you.

_You, servant of the Sceptre, Lucian val Drasmyr_."

Panting from exertion, fury, and pain the vampire said, "Your will is strong, sorceress, but I _promise_ you: I _will_ escape my prison and you shall know my vengeance!" Then the magic took hold. The vampire's form dissolved into mist. The mist swirled around in the air and flowed toward the jar in Korina's hand, rarifying into a grey-white smoke before finally entering the small opening on top.

"That was close," Korina murmured to herself. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves and reassert control over herself. Drasmyr was too dangerous to question unrestrained. Next time, she _would_ invoke the circles. No more foolish mistakes like that! She lifted the jar to her face to make sure it had closed and sealed itself properly. The prudent thing to do would be to cast it into the river as originally intended by the guild and destroy Lucian val Drasmyr forever. But she was not in the mood to recognize the validity of prudence; a one thousand year old vampire offered too much promise. And besides it knew the location of the sceptre. She was not about to let _that_ slip from her grasp, attuned to Morgulan or not. She reached up and traced a single rune on the outside of the jar.

"Drasmyr," she said, "you are the serf, and I, the taskmaster. Soon... you will know your place."

***
