Филип Этанс - The Death Ray

Maelani sighed and said, “You know why I’m here. No one must suspect…”

She stopped, surprised at herself for being embarrassed to tell Vrilanda exactly what she needed, why she needed it, who she needed it for, and why no one must ever know of it.

“You need a…potion?” the elf witch prompted.

Maelani nodded, then met Vrilanda’s gaze.

The duke’s daughter took a deep breath and, blushing, said, “A love potion.”

It was as much the vibration as the sound that shook Regdar from a deep sleep. The low rumble was followed by a clatter of wood that might have been a windblown shutter.

He opened his eyes but saw only the vague outlines of the big, canopied bed, the black shadows of the room’s heavy, antique furniture, and the faint bluish glow that crept in under the thick curtains. The whisper of Naull’s soft skin on the satin sheets was enough to erase the memory of the sleep-disturbing rumble.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness enough for him to see that Naull was turned toward him. The bedclothes were pulled up just enough to expose the soft glow of her bare shoulder. They had fought, though Regdar still wasn’t sure why, and they had made up, and again he wasn’t sure why.

Regdar slid the covers up to his own chest, ignoring the chill in the air. Under the covers, he could feel the warmth of Naull’s body next to his, then the soft caress of her breath on his cheek.

“Regdar?” she whispered.

He reached out and pressed his big palm gently against the side of her face. She responded by moving closer to him, letting his huge arm drape itself around her slim shoulders.

“It’s all right,” Regdar whispered. “It’s just a storm.”

Already asleep, Naull whispered, “Storm…” and melted into him.

Regdar closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her body wash over him, feeling what remained of the tension of the uncomfortable evening dissipate into the warm, perfect darkness under the covers with the woman he loved.

In a room just down the hall, at about the same time, Serge d’Allion was startled awake. He knew instantly what had roused him. He’d cast a spell before retiring, one that would silently alert him if anyone entered the room.

Though both the security and the discretion of the Thrush and the Jay were near legendary in New Koratia, Serge was a careful sort. His dalliances were of no concern to his parents. He was twenty years old, certainly of an age where he could bed whom he pleased. Still, certain things were expected of the heir to the d’Allion fortunes, and his parents were nothing if not traditional. If he was found out, he would be disowned. He could lose everything.

Serge sat up, letting the cool satin sheets fall from his bare chest. The door was ajar, and in the dimness he could make out the form of Zhellian, the young elf he’d come to the Thrush and the Jay to spend a secret night with.

“Where are you going?” he asked, keeping his voice low so as to draw no attention in the quiet inn.

The heavy curtains blew around the open window, letting in enough light for Serge to see his lover’s sheepish face.

“Nature calls,” the elf said with a shrug, still standing in the open door.

Serge sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I have a spell on the door,” he said.

“A spell?” Zhellian asked.

“When you come back,” Serge told him, “whisper the word ‘starlight,’ and you can get back in without waking me up.”

“Starlight,” the young elf repeated.

Serge smiled and said, “Good lad.”

As the door closed behind the young elf, Serge rolled over and dug himself into the thick bedclothes. His arms and legs felt heavy, and his head ached from the bottle of fine neogi rum he’d shared earlier in the evening with Zhellian. He took a deep breath and emptied his mind. Within a minute, he could feel himself drifting to sleep – and the alarm spell roused him again. The nettling feeling of the triggered spell made his head hurt all the more, and he sighed in frustration.

“Zhellian,” he said as he rolled over and sat up in bed, “I told you to say—”

But it wasn’t Zhellian.

Standing at the foot of the bed was a huge, looming shadow of deepest black. The thing was vaguely the shape of a man, but its head nearly touched the ceiling—almost eleven feet tall.

Without thinking, Serge reached out for the ring that sat on the polished wood of the nightstand next to him. He didn’t so much pick up the ring as let it slide onto his finger in a fluid motion. Keeping one eye on the ring and the other on the looming shadow, Serge saw the thing move. It was leveling something at him—a crossbow? But there was no bow.

Serge did not wait to find out the hard way what was being pointed in his direction in the dead of night. He jumped up out of the bed, his tired legs all but creaking under the strain. Endless hours of physical training held him in good stead for a second—Zhellian might say third—time that night, and he was on the ceiling.

Just as his fingers touched the plaster, a blinding light filled the room. Even through his closed eyelids, Serge could make out the blazing line of a beam of light—magical light if Serge knew anything of sorcery. There was a sort of thump, like something heavy but soft hitting the floor after a long fall.

Though the last thing Serge wanted was to leap, naked, from the window of the Thrush and the Jay in the middle of the night, he made up his mind in the space of half a heartbeat that it was the only course of action open to him. He didn’t know what it was he faced, but he was smart enough to know he didn’t want to face it anymore.

The magic of the spider climb ring had saved him from the first attack but it would be his own legs that saved him from the second. Scrabbling on the ceiling, Serge faced the window, coiled his legs under him, and launched himself into the air. The arc would take him through the open window. He was sure he was home free when the light flashed again.

It was as if a great, invisible hand reached up from the ground, stopped him in midair, and pulled him to the floor.

The young man opened his mouth to draw in a breath but nothing came in. His body tensed, his muscles all contracted at the same time. He felt one of his ribs snap like a twig under the force of his own abdominal muscles squeezing him. He couldn’t see; his vision was a mass of whirling purple and blood-red. He felt his heart stop beating all at once, and pain the likes of which he’d never imagined blazed through his chest, along his arms, into his groin, and down his legs. His bones cracked and snapped, twisted apart by his own muscles.

Serge wanted to scream, or cry, or do anything, but he couldn’t. All he could do was wait in silent agony for the few moments that his reeling mind needed to realize that the rest of his body was already dead.

Vargussel smoothed the brilliant white gippon over his waist and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror. The padded undergarment stretched tightly across his chest. Vargussel was pleased with the way his body had held up over his fifty long, often difficult years.

He was further pleased to be back in his home. Most of the sprawling house had been closed off for years but Vargussel’s suite of rooms was more than large enough to accommodate him, his wardrobe, and his library. Though the abandoned slaughterhouse served as his laboratory and shrine, he seldom stayed there for more than a few hours at a time. Accustomed as he was to the stench, even Vargussel had his limits.

Dragging his fingers through his thick, gray hair, Vargussel smiled at the thought of the previous night’s success. The name of yet another of his competitors for the hand of fair Maelani had been crossed off the list, and the shield guardian had returned undetected.