Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

Only when the last of Morewood’s men, a lightly armored company of fast-moving scouts, had passed did Brandon step back onto the road. His flush of elation had diminished as the enormity of the task before him hit home.

His mind whirled with questions. Was the emperor of Solamnia reliable enough to provide the ships that he had promised, ships that were utterly necessary if the Kayolin Army was to make its way to southern Ansalon? Would Tarn Bellowgranite be ready to seize the opportunity of alliance presented by the strong Kayolin force? Would the hill dwarves honor their pact with the mountain dwarves of Pax Tharkas? Would Gretchan be there, waiting for him in that lofty fortress? Did she miss him as he missed her? Was she all right?

It was the last question, more than anything else, that returned him to the mood of anticipatory excitement with which he first had greeted the day. Unconsciously, he brightened, picking up the length of his strides, moving faster even as he maintained the pace of the drummers.

For every step took him closer to her.

Willim the Black worked at the table in his laboratory, mixing a gruel consisting of finely ground dried bat wings leavened with a few drops of draconian blood. His hands and nimble fingers moved quickly, without conscious effort, grinding the wings to an even finer powder in his mortar, dripping the blood into the vessel with a hollowed quill, then using the tip to stir the ingredients into a viscous paste. When he was satisfied with the mixture, he scooped it out with his finger and smeared it onto a slab of marble, spreading it into a thin, even layer. Finally, he set it aside to dry; he would not be able to complete the next step of the process for several intervals, not until the paste was ready to crumble into dust. Only then would he add the rest of the components then heat it to create a precious dose of a potion of transformation-one of many hundreds of elixirs and lotions that he kept locked in his most cherished cabinet.

Nearby, two blue sparks shimmered and floated, aimlessly circling around within a clear bell jar. Once in a while the sparks would probe along the base of the jar, as if seeking escape. But the rim of the vessel rested securely upon a base of smooth rubber, and there was no way even a bubble of air, much less anything more concrete, could escape.

Willim turned his eyeless face toward the wall, listening, peering into the darkness with the keen sense of his spell of true-seeing. As always, he remained alert for any sign of fire or heat, any clue that might signal the stealthy, lethal approach of the vengeful fire dragon Gorathian.

His senses tingled but not because the serpent of Chaos was near. Instead, it was a prickling of magical awareness along the hairs at the back of his neck. Quickly he spun. Then he saw her, outlined even more clearly to his magical vision than she would have been to normal vision under brightest daylight.

“Facet! My pet!” he cried, a crooked smile creasing his scarred, bearded face. “I am so glad to have you back!” He reached for her, already anticipating her willing embrace, the warmth of her flesh, the softness of her skin …

But she hesitated and he felt a glimmer of alarm. He noticed that she was alone and he scowled. “The Mother Oracle?” he asked coldly.

Facet pressed a hand to her beautiful, blood-red lips, and shook her head. “She’s dead,” she said, her whisper almost a moan. “Killed by the priestess of Reorx.”

Her eyes widened as she stared at Willim, noting the expression of rage that contorted his features. Before she could react, he lashed out a hand, striking her hard on the cheek and sending her whimpering away from him.

“You failed me!” he hissed.

“Please, Master-have mercy! It was a trap; she knew we were coming!”

Willim stood still except for the trembling in his hands that he could not control. He turned his face away from Facet, but she understood that his attention was still riveted upon her. “Tell me what happened,” he barked.

Hesitantly, Facet began to speak. “We discovered her camp on the trail, just where your spell had told us she would be. The oracle and I approached from opposite directions. We would have had her, Master, except for that cursed hound! The animal sounded a warning, and the power of her god protected her.”

“I gather that you did not recover the artifact.” Willim’s voice was flat, level.

“I had no chance, Master! The power of Reorx was in her; I would have perished in an instant had I not spirited myself away!” Facet’s voice caught, and her large eyes moistened with tears.

She flinched but did not pull away when the wizard reached out a hand to touch her cheek. He caressed her soft skin, tracing the line of her jaw, reaching up to trace the curl of her ear, entwining his fingers in her long, dark hair … then he gripped that same lovely hair and pulled, hard. She dropped to her knees with a gasp of fear, staring up at him as he twisted, pulling her tresses taut, yanking tighter and tighter.

Nearby, the two blue sparks flittered around within the jar, bright and flickering, as though excited by the scene enacted before them.

“How dare you fail me?” spat the wizard, his voice low, each word stabbing like a dagger. “After all that I have given you, the training, the skills, the spells …” His voice softened, and he released his grip on her hair. “… the affection,” he whispered, almost sadly.

“Please, Master!” Facet fell to the floor at his feet. “Allow me to make it up to you! Punish me but let me serve you.”

She sobbed, her black robe heaving from the intensity of her anguish. Willim spent a long time looking down at her. He was still trembling with tension, with fury and desire, until finally he exhaled and relented.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall whip you, and then you shall be forgiven.”

“Oh, thank you, my lord!” Facet exclaimed, daring to raise her teary eyes toward his scarred, grisly visage. “It is more than I deserve!”

“Go to the rack,” he instructed. “Remove your robe!”

Facet did as ordered while Willim went to a shelf near his workbench. A number of torture implements were arrayed there, including a half-dozen whips featuring leather strands of varying lengths and thicknesses. He considered one, an especially wicked-looking tool, in which several strands of cord were intertwined with sharp bits of steel, tiny razors that could easily tear flesh and draw blood.

He was tempted, but he shook his head; her flesh was too precious, too soft and welcoming, for him to want to scar her body. Instead, he took a shorter whip, one with four cords of supple leather, and flexed it against his leg with a sharp snap of sound.

Facet, her bare back exposed to him, did not look at him but instead gripped the handles on the whipping rack with white-knuckled fingers. A shiver ran down her spine as he stepped closer, and he briefly wondered if it was a tremble brought about by fear or anticipation. Slowly, relishing the moment, he raised the whip in his hand and hoisted it over his shoulder.

In the bell jar, the two blue sparks spun and whirled in a frenzy.

In that instant Willim froze. His senses tingled and a sheen of perspiration broke, unbidden, onto his forehead. He trembled and listened and felt a stab of fear lance through his bowels.

It was growing very warm in his lair.

He dropped the whip and spun around with a gasp. An orange light emanated from the dark chasm in the floor, the crevasse that should have been lightless and cool. Instead, radiant warmth rose from that crack, and the vague light grew more intense, brighter, and hotter as it swelled upward to fill his laboratory.

“Gorathian!” he screamed, even as a draconic head reared into sight, jaws gaping, flaming skin outlining the hellish contour of the fire dragon’s skull.