Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 3 - The Amber Enchantress by Troy Denning Page A
Authors: Troy Denning
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sorceress along with them. Screaming, Sadira tried to kick free, but her struggles only set the barbs more deeply. She clutched at a soot-covered rock and managed to hold herself motionless. The vines continued to retract, ripping long gouges in her flesh, and finally she let go.
Black fume hissed from the crater, carrying the sorceress's name on its breath: “Sadira.”
“Nok?” she screeched.
The sorceress reached back and grabbed her satchel, barely managing to catch it before passing out of reach. Pinning the cloth sack beneath her swollen arm, she reached inside and fumbled around until she found a gummy yellow ball. She tossed the bag aside and turned her palm toward the ground.
It took precious moments to collect the energy she needed, for all the plants within her normal range were dead. She had to reach out beyond the blackened area, to the cacti that had barely felt her touch earlier. Even when the sorceress found what she needed, the life-force did not flow smoothly through the corrupted ground. She had to concentrate hard to keep it from dissipating into the starved soil.
By the time Sadira had collected the power she needed, the vines had pulled her to within a few yards of the hole-In the hissing black breath that came from the crater, she smelled the musty decay of the forest. Sadira threw the yellow ball into the hole and spoke the words of her spell, hoping she would survive what happened next.
For a moment, the sorceress continued to slide toward the crater, scratching and clawing at the filthy rocks in a vain attempt to stop the movement. Then a tremendous roar sounded from the hole and a cone of fire shot into the sky. Tongues of flame arced over Sadira's head, lapping at the ground near her satchel and casting an orange glare over the rocks at her side. Searing heat scorched her back and the smell of singed hair filled her nostrils. The sorceress did not complain, for the grip of the vines relaxed, and she no longer felt herself being pulled toward the crater.
A rousing cheer drifted from the far side of the chasm, as though she had put on the show for the enjoyment of the elves. Sadira looked across the canyon and saw them waving their lances in the air. “Filthy thieves,” the sorceress whispered. She turned around and faced the crater. The smoke of her fireball still rose from the hole in black wisps, carrying with it a few charred oak leaves. Most of the vines had been reduced to lines of ash, although a twisted mass of blackened fibers were still draped over Sadira's legs.
Hissing in pain, the sorceress began pulling the thorns of these vines from her flesh. When she was at last free, Sadira struggled to her feet and grabbed her satchel. She turned and staggered away as fast as she could.
“Hey, woman!
Where are you going?” called the elf. “Isn't this your kank over here?”
Sadira ignored him and continued onward. The last time she had listened to an elf had been before Tyr's liberation, when a slick-tongued rogue named Radurak had offered to help her escape a pair of the king's guards. In the end, he had stolen her spellbook and sold her into slavery. She did not see any reason to think this occasion would be any different.
“Stop!” the elf cried, his voice echoing down the length of the canyon. “We just want to help.” He did not sound like he wanted to help. To Sadira, he sounded angry.
When Sadira did not obey, the elf made his final plea. “It won't cost anything!”
The sorceress paid him no attention, for although they often claimed otherwise, elves never helped anyone for free. She continued up the road a few more steps, then stumbled and fell to her knees.
“Woman!” the elf yelled, no longer trying to conceal his irritation. “We can see what happened. Halfling tracks all over, a carrier drone with a spear in her thorax, your legs torn to shreds, your arm the color of a hatchling queen. You need help
—
and soon.”
Sadira looked toward the elf and
Black fume hissed from the crater, carrying the sorceress's name on its breath: “Sadira.”
“Nok?” she screeched.
The sorceress reached back and grabbed her satchel, barely managing to catch it before passing out of reach. Pinning the cloth sack beneath her swollen arm, she reached inside and fumbled around until she found a gummy yellow ball. She tossed the bag aside and turned her palm toward the ground.
It took precious moments to collect the energy she needed, for all the plants within her normal range were dead. She had to reach out beyond the blackened area, to the cacti that had barely felt her touch earlier. Even when the sorceress found what she needed, the life-force did not flow smoothly through the corrupted ground. She had to concentrate hard to keep it from dissipating into the starved soil.
By the time Sadira had collected the power she needed, the vines had pulled her to within a few yards of the hole-In the hissing black breath that came from the crater, she smelled the musty decay of the forest. Sadira threw the yellow ball into the hole and spoke the words of her spell, hoping she would survive what happened next.
For a moment, the sorceress continued to slide toward the crater, scratching and clawing at the filthy rocks in a vain attempt to stop the movement. Then a tremendous roar sounded from the hole and a cone of fire shot into the sky. Tongues of flame arced over Sadira's head, lapping at the ground near her satchel and casting an orange glare over the rocks at her side. Searing heat scorched her back and the smell of singed hair filled her nostrils. The sorceress did not complain, for the grip of the vines relaxed, and she no longer felt herself being pulled toward the crater.
A rousing cheer drifted from the far side of the chasm, as though she had put on the show for the enjoyment of the elves. Sadira looked across the canyon and saw them waving their lances in the air. “Filthy thieves,” the sorceress whispered. She turned around and faced the crater. The smoke of her fireball still rose from the hole in black wisps, carrying with it a few charred oak leaves. Most of the vines had been reduced to lines of ash, although a twisted mass of blackened fibers were still draped over Sadira's legs.
Hissing in pain, the sorceress began pulling the thorns of these vines from her flesh. When she was at last free, Sadira struggled to her feet and grabbed her satchel. She turned and staggered away as fast as she could.
“Hey, woman!
Where are you going?” called the elf. “Isn't this your kank over here?”
Sadira ignored him and continued onward. The last time she had listened to an elf had been before Tyr's liberation, when a slick-tongued rogue named Radurak had offered to help her escape a pair of the king's guards. In the end, he had stolen her spellbook and sold her into slavery. She did not see any reason to think this occasion would be any different.
“Stop!” the elf cried, his voice echoing down the length of the canyon. “We just want to help.” He did not sound like he wanted to help. To Sadira, he sounded angry.
When Sadira did not obey, the elf made his final plea. “It won't cost anything!”
The sorceress paid him no attention, for although they often claimed otherwise, elves never helped anyone for free. She continued up the road a few more steps, then stumbled and fell to her knees.
“Woman!” the elf yelled, no longer trying to conceal his irritation. “We can see what happened. Halfling tracks all over, a carrier drone with a spear in her thorax, your legs torn to shreds, your arm the color of a hatchling queen. You need help
—
and soon.”
Sadira looked toward the elf and
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