Dave Smeds - The Sorcery Within

She was worried by the sentience of the sorcery. This had been no random set of fears thrown at her, as in the first room. Gloroc was a very specific nightmare, and while being fried and swallowed by a dragon would terrify anyone, she was sure that the spell had concocted the image specifically for her. It knew what would scare her, as a unique individual. She wondered if Alemar would face the same trial; it would be logical.

She decided to gather her composure. Whatever the third room held, it was bound to be sinister.

When Alemar had recovered from the vision of Gloroc, he swallowed deeply and crossed into the third room.

No sudden darkness. No blazing menace.

The walls exuded the bluish glow once again. Though he had only seen the person who stood in the center of the room once in his memory, he recognized him immediately. It was his father.

"You have failed me," Keron said.

The hair on the nape of Alemar's neck rose. "How have I failed? How did you get here?" he asked plaintively.

"I am dead," Keron said. He walked in front of the remains of men who had perished in the room over the ages. The pile was smaller than that of the second room; not many men had penetrated so far within. Alemar could see their dehydrated formsthrough the image of his father. He was a ghost.

"You killed me," Keron continued. "Elandris has fallen to the Dragon. I and all of our relatives have been obliterated. They took me to the torture chamber, where I lingered for days. You are too late. Your quest was our last hope, and now it is for naught."

"No," Alemar moaned. Go away, go away! The specter couldn't be real, but nevertheless each word bit deeply. They had become more than words; they were weapons against which Alemar had no shield.

"It is true. You are the only one left."

"There is Elenya!" Alemar cried.

"Elenya is dead! She didn't survive the third room. It's your fault!"

"Go ahead and babble! I wish you had never been born, you incompetent fool! Elandris is ruined. All the effort of my father and his father and his before that, dragged into the mud by the procrastination and indulgence of my own son. Why did you dally in this wasteland? What has it brought you? Have you found what you came for?"

"Leave me alone!"

"No. I shall haunt you. The only joy left me is that I could come here and confront you with your own ineptitude, with your unforgivable irresponsibility. I shall not leave you until you are twisted from your own guilt – until you beg for death!"

Alemar licked the sudor off his upper lip, burned by its saltiness. Something was happening. Something was crumbling inside. Keron was right. Every word was true. The blood of a nation had stained his hands. He could have acted months sooner. He could have returned to Elandris or Cilendrodel and at least contributed to the fight, even if he never found the wizard's talismans. Better yet, he could have tried to find Setan when he'd first arrived in Zyraii. Had he died, at least it would have been an honorable passing.

"Your mother could never have me," Keron hissed. "She had to settle for you. She had to love you in all your wretchedness. Was it enough for her? Did it satisfy her? Did she die content?"

Alemar groaned.

"How can you ever atone? What do you have that is worth the suffering you have caused?"

Alemar didn't remember drawing it, but his saber was in his grip, its steel echoing the color of the walls. Take it. Slide it across my throat. End this shame. Make it up to my father. Free myself from this agony.

Gradually, his hand lifted, and set the edge of the sword against his gullet. Be quick. Cut deep.

He paused, feeling the solid contact with the loops of his necklaces. One was the talisman that he and Elenya shared, the other the memento of the grateful mother whose child he had saved only a few days before. They would interfere with a good slice. He began to remove them.

He stalled, the paltry bit of turquoise dangling in front of his eyes. Modest as it was, he was proud to have it. He deserved it.

He had had good reasons for delaying the quest. He had been able to protect a fatherless family, he had learned a beautiful and just art that would give his life meaning throughout his days, and he had saved a little girl scared of dragons. He had made his decision, and though in the end his duty to Elandris had called him back, he could be proud of the road he had followed in the meantime.

He sheathed his weapon. The phantom of Keron had already vanished. But it was not simply relief that Alemar felt; no, it was exultation. He had beaten a fear that had plagued him during his entire stay in Zyraii and found in its place a new sense of self-worth. The sorcery of the room had actually helped him. He was a more complete being now than when he had entered. He understood why the ken had conceived of the tests. Those who survived the rooms could rightly provide the spiritual leadership for a nation.

He noted the green flicker of the jewel on his chest. The ghost had lied about everything, even Elenya's death. Alemar refrained from attempting contact. His sister might be struggling for her life this very instant and need all her concentration.

Lies. Who could say whether or not his father was alive, or how the war was going? They might still have a chance; perhaps a good one. Furthermore, Alemar had not failed. He had thwarted the third room. Beyond, somewhere through the portal that now beckoned, the weapon left by Alemar Dragonslayer was waiting for one of the Blood to claim it. Excitement, not fear, drew him to the entrance of the fourth room.

He was waiting for her in the middle of the third room.

Elenya tensed, expecting the rush of menace or other psychological attack, but all she saw was the lone figure in the middle of a room identical to the previous two. The werelight was back, so she set her own torch in place of the charred remnant in a niche by the door, and moved forward.

He wore a gleaming set of leather armor, cut in the style of the Calinin Empire. The hide could turn or slow all but the best sword thrusts, yet it was light enough so as not to slow its wearer down appreciably. In one hand he bore an Aleoth longsword, as thin as her rapier but, she knew, far stronger, with an edge that allowed him to slash as well as parry and thrust. In his other hand he held a stiletto, an excellent balance to the longsword: he commanded both reach and infighting. The man himself was well over six feet tall, lithe and young. As she came nearer, she recognized the emblem on his chest. He was a member of the Shadow Corps of Xais, the elite assassins whose charter generations had played the vital role in winning the Old Kingdoms for the Calinin.

She began to worry.

"Draw your weapon," the shadow dancer said. "Or be cut down where you stand."

He had hardly spoken before he charged her. She drew her rapier and deflected his chop in one motion. Though she had almost stepped clear, avoiding most of the force, her arm almost went numb from the impact. She drew her dagger with her other hand and backed up.

He followed, the longsword prodding her like a stubborn oeikani, its length thwarting any counterattack she could think of. He denied her the luxury of time to gain her composure. It was all she could do to stay alive.

A trickle of blood ran down her dagger forearm. She hadn't even seen the jab that had nicked her. Casually, contemptuously, he pinked her on the underside of each breast.

Damn, he was good.

But she survived the first sixty seconds. Though bleeding from half a dozen small cuts, he had not wounded her critically yet. She had time to develop her defense.

She used classical strategies, to save her mind, to give her the time to originate better moves. First the Tiandra Block.