Dave Smeds: The Sorcery Within

Armed with a little bit of feckless confidence of a more naive point in life, she passed through the opening into a tunnel. She saw no markings or side openings. The passageway tilted slightly upward, and at the far end the light seemed brighter.

The distance was greater than could be expected of a man holding a single breath. Finally the tunnel ended and her head popped up into clear air.

Alemar found himself in still another barren chamber. But this one, unlike the others, contained a living man.

Alemar pulled the airmaker off his head and jumped out of the pool. He knelt down beside the stranger and gently lifted his head. The man opened rheumy eyes. He was middle-aged, emaciated, and ripe with the odor of diarrhea and vomit. He wore a tattered robe similar to that of a Po-no-pha, but so soiled and worn that it was difficult to tell if it had ever been white. Only his sword seemed to be in good condition.

"Who are you?" Alemar asked in Zyraii. "How did you get here?" He saw no other entrances.

"Eehhhhh," the man said. Just to exhale seemed to cause him strain.

Alemar took the man's hand and concentrated. What is wrong? Why do you suffer? How may I ease your pain?

The voices of the man's body were faint. Alemar felt like a beginning apprentice, his attempt feeble when the man's condition required sure and tested talent. He heard hollow echoes. It was nothing like any other living human he had ever scanned before. It was almost as if the man were… empty.

"Help me," the stranger rasped.

But Alemar didn't know what to do. He couldn't tell if the man's intestines were inflamed, if his lungs were rotted, if he had been poisoned, or even if his heart were beating normally. The Sight had left him.

He had only one choice. He opened the man's collar and placed both hands firmly on the latter's chest. He called on his energies and felt them begin to flow from his finger tips.

The man screamed.

Alemar broke contact, smoke rising from the spot he had touched. Livid imprints of his hands still remained, seared into the man's skin. The man emitted a rasp and his eyes glazed over.

"No!" Alemar cried. He looked at his betraying palms.

The smoke increased. Hissing and popping, the man's hair, skin, and clothing began dissolving away. Alemar stepped back, horrified. Greasy pools formed beneath the body, themselves bubbling and evaporating away. The rib cage appeared, at first covered with red, brown, and grey coatings of tissue, until these in turn fumed away, leaving only gleaming white bone. The eyes exploded. Foul gases burbled out of body cavities. Finally, every last bit of soft tissue had vanished. The floor contained only a skeleton, an ancient one at that.

All except the sword. Its belt and scabbard had melted along with everything else, but the blade sparkled in the artificial light.

The skeleton reached out and grasped the sword hilt.

Alemar retreated halfway to the pool. The skeleton clambered to its feet, joints rattling and creaking, united as if tendons, muscles, and cartilage were still present. It advanced toward Alemar.

It's not real, Alemar told himself. It is another spell. Another test of the mind. Though filled with a preternatural dread, he planted his feet and waited for the creature to come.

It didn't hesitate a moment. When it came within range, it swung the sword like an axe at Alemar's neck.

Just in time, Alemar fell back. The sword tip nicked his throat, leaving a superficial but profusely flowing cut.

The skeleton laughed.

The blood convinced Alemar. The wound was real. This spell wasn't like the others. It had found a fear he could not conquer. He would always hold inside the worry that one day his healing talent would fail him. The skeleton wouldn't go away. It could, and would, kill him. As the knowledge settled into his mind, the room shifted. The dust of the centuries appeared. Lying in molding piles were the remains of three previous visitors who had penetrated this far. To his shock, the freshest corpse wore the insignia of the Claw, Gloroc's prized cadre of assassins.

The skeleton waited patiently. It knew it had no need to rush. It had waited centuries for its few victims. It might wait many more before another breached the chamber. In the meantime, it would enjoy the diversion. Alemar felt the trickle from his neck pass his belt and start down his leg.

Tentatively he drew his weapon.

The hilt felt alien. He had not wielded it in actual conflict since the pass of Hattyre. But his childhood training had been exhaustive, and his general physical condition was as good or better than it had ever been, though impacted by the ordeal of the past few hours. Perhaps he had a chance.

The skeleton, as if reading his thoughts, cackled again and began with a thrust.

Alemar avoided it, returning a riposte. The skeleton ignored it. The tip of the saber slipped between two ribs, inflicting no damage. The skeleton casually lapsed into the Ezenean Offense. Alemar parried and retreated. The classic move was not a potent one, but it was difficult to counter or redirect – a safe, time-consuming way for a superior player to wear out an unskilled challenger.

Alemar swore. This was a situation for armor and a battle axe. The only threat he could pose to his enemy were in hacking blows designed to break the bones. His saber wasn't meant for that.

Nevertheless, he had to try. The skeleton taunted him, left him openings, so he took one. He slashed toward the thing's ribs again. The edge of the weapon clattered against the target, creating sparks and leaving a numbing tingle in Alemar's wrist.

More sorcery. The skeleton was not only animate, it was invulnerable. At any point, whenever it tired of the fray, it could simply step in and butcher him.

Alemar fenced for his life. He was far better than the thing. Its movements were mechanical; it was slow as well. Even out of practice, Alemar would have won in seconds if the contest had been against a mortal being. But each time he successfully jabbed or slashed, the only reward was a bell-like clang and more sparks. Once, he knocked a few grains out of the skeleton's collarbone, but the blow left Alemar's arm so nerveless that he had to transfer his weapon to the other hand.

Alemar had always been an ambidextrous swordplayer, and he continued now to fight with nearly equal skill, but it was increasingly hard to motivate himself. He adopted a strictly defensive strategy. But he was tired and could only get more tired, while the thing never wore out.

Finally, the skeleton thrust more strongly. Alemar parried. Another thrust, another parry. Five more, and Alemar met each one. Then the thing nicked him on a bicep. A few blows later, another scratch on the thigh. Within another two minutes, he was wounded superficially in several places, and droplets of blood splattered the floor. The time had come. The creature was through with its games.

Alemar wept. All these years and miles, just to be cut down like so much wheat. He clenched his teeth in rage.

The skeleton battered at him again. This time, he returned a savage cut to its neck.

The saber burst in two. Alemar jumped back, narrowly avoiding a stab at his chest. His feet landed on something slick, and he tumbled down.

He landed on his back, the shock to his kidneys knocking the wind out of him. He had slipped in a pool of his own blood. With one arm numb from the slash that had destroyed the saber, he could do no more than lift the remaining arm to ward off the killing cut.

The skeleton raised its weapon and stepped forward to finish its victim. Its foot stepped in the pool of blood.

And it paused.

It looked down at its foot. The bones smoked. Within a few seconds, it had dissolved up to the tarsals. The creature let out a plaintive whimper.