Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

“You might die here; you very well could die here!” he growled, leaning menacingly close to the bars of her cage. His tone dropped again. “But you do not have to die here,” he teased.

Still she offered no reaction. The wizard frowned, paced away a few steps, and turned back. On the other side of the laboratory, his two female accomplices sat in chairs at a small table. Their backs were turned, but Gretchan sensed that they were listening carefully to every word their master spoke. The cleric spent a moment reflecting about those two, wondering how she might use them, if she might use them, as leverage against their master.

She had observed enough to know that the two females feared the wizard almost as much as Gretchan did. The elder one hated Willim as well for reasons that the priestess didn’t know but could easily imagine. The younger one-the beautiful one-simpered and flattered and generally seemed to worship the eyeless wizard. But in that devotion Gretchan sensed a falseness, and she spent some time wondering about the apprentice’s relationship with her master.

“There is a creature of Chaos in Thorbardin,” Willim continued. “My powers are great, but they fall within the sphere of arcane magic-the magic powered by the three moons, and most especially by Nuitari, the black moon.”

Tell me something I don’t know, Gretchan challenged him silently, still without changing her expression or posture.

“This Chaos creature is a fire dragon and, thus, is immune to the magic of my sphere. It knows only the void, and the void is now the province of the gods. Of Reorx, too, of course-he who is lord of all dwarves.”

She felt a swelling of contempt. To hear the name of her deity-a stern and powerful god to be sure, but also a god of fairness and hope-spoken by a creature such as the vile Black Robe practically turned her stomach. Still, she began to get an inkling of what the magic-user desired, and in that desire she found cause for hope-not just hope for survival, but also for freedom and, eventually, revenge.

Once again he took up her staff, holding it in his gloved hands, caressing the smooth wood in that insidious, sensual manner. Gretchan prayed to Reorx, begging her god to smite the cruel magic-user, even as she acknowledged to herself that that was not the way her deity usually worked. She knew that it was up to her to deal with her villainous foe.

For the first time, she allowed herself to display a visible reaction. She mouthed the words: I need to talk.

Willim the Black nodded and went over to the work-table, where he carefully laid the staff down amid a collection of potion bottles … scrolls … and other, not easily identified odds and ends. Turning back to the cage where she was imprisoned, he advanced and snapped his fingers. Gretchan cleared her throat and was astounded-and relieved-by how loudly the sound echoed in her ears.

“What makes you think I can defeat this monster?” she asked quickly.

He smirked, a truly grotesque smile twisting his eyeless face. “Because it will kill you if you don’t. And that is a chance I am willing to take.”

“But if I die, then you will die as well,” she challenged, though not with a great deal of confidence.

The wizard shook his head, dismissing the idea. “No, you don’t understand. I shall teleport myself away. You will face the monster when it comes for me. And it always comes for me. But there will be many others standing in its path as well.”

“You will have to let me have my staff,” Gretchan asserted.

“Yes, when the time is right,” Willim replied calmly. “Facet!” he barked without turning his face from the cleric’s. “Take the staff and hold it ready.”

The younger magic-user bowed and rose from her chair. Gretchan knew that the young female was an apprentice, and judging from her beauty and the obsequious way in which she seemed to worship the wizard, the priestess guessed that she served her master in many ways-not all of them having to do with her magical training. With another disgusted look at that scarred visage, she reflected on the thought of physical intimacy with such a dastardly creature. It was impossible for her to comprehend. She could even smell his fetid breath, like the stink of a pile of fertilizer, and he was six feet away from her.

The dwarf maid came over carrying Gretchan’s staff, and when Willim turned and held out his hands, she gave it to the wizard. He took the long shaft of wood absently, running his hands up and down the smooth surface while he continued to pace. Gretchan wanted to shout at him to drop the precious talisman, to get his corrupt and filthy hands off her treasure. But she suspected that such a tantrum would only please him, so she remained silent.

“I shall give it to you when the monster approaches but not before. If your god is with you, he may-I cannot say for sure, but he may -consent to match his own strength with that of the fire dragon. If Reorx is willing and mighty enough, the power of this staff may be enough to vanquish the creature. If he is not willing, you will perish and many others will perish, and I will teleport away to fight another day.”

The wizard scowled and shook his head, as if dismissing the thoughts of escape that had immediately popped into Gretchan’s head when she heard his plan. “And you should know that these bars are protected by many traps. Should you try to work your own magic upon them, they will burst into flames, and they will burn very hot and for a long time. You will not escape, but neither will you die quickly.”

“How can you claim to know what I would do?” she challenged angrily. She gestured at the two female magic-users. “And how do you know you can trust these two? How can you trust anyone? Don’t you think-?”

Abruptly he snapped his fingers again, and Gretchan’s voice was immediately muffled.

“I grow tired of your incessant prattle,” he said, almost as though bored. He chuckled, a harsh, cruel sound. “And I do not have to trust my apprentices. It is enough that they fear me, that they know the truth and the inevitability of my vengeance. No, my dear priestess, trust is vastly overrated among those of your cloth.”

He turned his back to her and resumed his aimless pacing, moving around the large cavern that was his laboratory. The apprentices watched him and stayed out of his way, and Gretchan was left alone within the cocoon of her thoughts.

The minutes ticked by, and she found her mind wandering, imagining Brandon’s distress and his terrible rage. He would push himself to the limits of his strength and beyond to find her, she knew. She uttered a silent prayer, beseeching her god to watch out for her beloved warrior, to keep him from bringing disaster upon himself with any mistakes.

Abruptly, she noticed that the wizard had stopped pacing; he stood stock still in front of her. His head was cocked to the side, like a dog listening for a distant sound, and his hands gripped the staff so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

Too, it was growing steadily warmer in the cavern. She noticed a glow emanating from a wide fissure in the floor, a chasm she had not even noticed before. The glow grew brighter, and the heat increased quickly.

“Now! It is time you will see the truth of my will! You will prevail, or you will die!”

Gretchan, still silenced by his spell, shook her head and rattled the bars.

“Feel that heat! Feel the power!” Willim declared. His face had paled almost to the color of snow, and his mouth was open, his breath coming in short pants. He snapped his fingers again, and the spell of silence was dispelled; the first proof was the sound of Gretchan’s distressed breathing. She turned to see what was happening behind her.