face and frowned.
This isn’t what he expected—minor spells of
wind and movement easily defeated or deflected by counter sorcery
mastered by a third-year Conclave student. Silhara had prepared to
engage in full-on warfare. So far, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.
He stayed on his guard. Demons were known to play with their
food.
He braced himself for a third confrontation
when the same black whirlwind gathered itself once more. Instead of
aiming for him in a straight line, it zigzagged over the terrain,
pausing at odd intervals to stir up dust in various spots. He
pivoted slowly, tracking its movements, curious. He rolled his eyes
once he realized what the vortex was doing.
Barrier circles made for handy self
protection. Silhara had used them on various occasions when he
worked dangerous magic. They made terrible cages for a mage with
any reasonable skill and power. He left the barrier alone for the
moment, puzzled as to why his adversary chose to construct it,
especially when its power barely registered to his senses. No more
than a fly’s buzz and even less annoying.
The whirlwind spun tighter and faster,
shrinking until it was no more than a thin black line that suddenly
blossomed into voluminous robes made of the same shadowy, agonized
faces and twisted limbs. The being who wore it possessed the visage
of a man, but a man who had lost his humanity to the darkest forces
and walked soulless among the living.
Silhara inclined his head in mock salute.
“Megiddo Anastas.”
“ Who are you?”
The question surprised Silhara. He had
expected more guttural utterances, demonic gibberish and possibly a
lot of spitting. Instead, the Wraith King spoke a dialect of
Glimming and watched him with strange eyes—steely and reflective
like his sword’s blade, with the same blue lightning crackling in
their depths. His voice didn’t echo in this muffled world, but
Silhara sensed a vast abyss in the words, akin to Corruption’s
lifeless seas.
“ It doesn’t matter who I am,” he
replied in the same tongue. “You’ve taken something of mine. I want
it back.”
Megiddo cocked his head, his steel-plate eyes
narrowed. “You have something of mine as well. You used it to open
the gate.”
Hardly, but the demon king didn’t need to know
that. Silhara smirked. “Shall we bargain?”
Diplomacy had never been his strongest virtue
but he was a decent negotiator. He never imagined the skills he
employed to sell his produce at Easter Prime’s markets would serve
him here, where he’d bargain with a Wraith King for his wife’s safe
return.
“ Give me the sword and open the
gate. I’ll give you the kashaptu.” Megiddo’s grotesque robes
writhed around his body, their fluid faces snapping fanged teeth at
Silhara. The sword at Silhara’s hip tugged on his belt, straining
toward its master. Yearning.
Silhara snorted. He avoided using Martise’s
name and suspected the demon didn’t know it—yet. “Give me the
woman, and I’ll return the sword.”
As much as his gut clenched at the thought of
the sacrifice involved, there was no possible way he’d reopen the
portal into his world and let this loathsome thing through to wreak
havoc.
Megiddo’s features drew into even gaunter
lines. “Open it or I kill the woman,” he almost snarled.
Silhara snapped his fingers outward in a wide
palm stretch. Sparks sizzled off his fingertips. A dull clap of
thunder followed, and the barrier circle around him flashed twice
before crumbling. The sigils drawn in the dust by the whirlwind
scattered. “I’m no cull to fear threats from the rejected refuse of
a respectable midden. Kill her, and I’ll destroy the blade.” He
slapped the squirming blade at his hip, as much to subdue it as to
make his point.
Megiddo’s glance darted to where the sword
hung, hidden by Silhara’s cloak. “Unlike the kashaptu, I
won’t die.”
“ But you will wither and spend
eternity here the shade of a shade.”
The words struck home.
This isn’t what he expected—minor spells of
wind and movement easily defeated or deflected by counter sorcery
mastered by a third-year Conclave student. Silhara had prepared to
engage in full-on warfare. So far, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.
He stayed on his guard. Demons were known to play with their
food.
He braced himself for a third confrontation
when the same black whirlwind gathered itself once more. Instead of
aiming for him in a straight line, it zigzagged over the terrain,
pausing at odd intervals to stir up dust in various spots. He
pivoted slowly, tracking its movements, curious. He rolled his eyes
once he realized what the vortex was doing.
Barrier circles made for handy self
protection. Silhara had used them on various occasions when he
worked dangerous magic. They made terrible cages for a mage with
any reasonable skill and power. He left the barrier alone for the
moment, puzzled as to why his adversary chose to construct it,
especially when its power barely registered to his senses. No more
than a fly’s buzz and even less annoying.
The whirlwind spun tighter and faster,
shrinking until it was no more than a thin black line that suddenly
blossomed into voluminous robes made of the same shadowy, agonized
faces and twisted limbs. The being who wore it possessed the visage
of a man, but a man who had lost his humanity to the darkest forces
and walked soulless among the living.
Silhara inclined his head in mock salute.
“Megiddo Anastas.”
“ Who are you?”
The question surprised Silhara. He had
expected more guttural utterances, demonic gibberish and possibly a
lot of spitting. Instead, the Wraith King spoke a dialect of
Glimming and watched him with strange eyes—steely and reflective
like his sword’s blade, with the same blue lightning crackling in
their depths. His voice didn’t echo in this muffled world, but
Silhara sensed a vast abyss in the words, akin to Corruption’s
lifeless seas.
“ It doesn’t matter who I am,” he
replied in the same tongue. “You’ve taken something of mine. I want
it back.”
Megiddo cocked his head, his steel-plate eyes
narrowed. “You have something of mine as well. You used it to open
the gate.”
Hardly, but the demon king didn’t need to know
that. Silhara smirked. “Shall we bargain?”
Diplomacy had never been his strongest virtue
but he was a decent negotiator. He never imagined the skills he
employed to sell his produce at Easter Prime’s markets would serve
him here, where he’d bargain with a Wraith King for his wife’s safe
return.
“ Give me the sword and open the
gate. I’ll give you the kashaptu.” Megiddo’s grotesque robes
writhed around his body, their fluid faces snapping fanged teeth at
Silhara. The sword at Silhara’s hip tugged on his belt, straining
toward its master. Yearning.
Silhara snorted. He avoided using Martise’s
name and suspected the demon didn’t know it—yet. “Give me the
woman, and I’ll return the sword.”
As much as his gut clenched at the thought of
the sacrifice involved, there was no possible way he’d reopen the
portal into his world and let this loathsome thing through to wreak
havoc.
Megiddo’s features drew into even gaunter
lines. “Open it or I kill the woman,” he almost snarled.
Silhara snapped his fingers outward in a wide
palm stretch. Sparks sizzled off his fingertips. A dull clap of
thunder followed, and the barrier circle around him flashed twice
before crumbling. The sigils drawn in the dust by the whirlwind
scattered. “I’m no cull to fear threats from the rejected refuse of
a respectable midden. Kill her, and I’ll destroy the blade.” He
slapped the squirming blade at his hip, as much to subdue it as to
make his point.
Megiddo’s glance darted to where the sword
hung, hidden by Silhara’s cloak. “Unlike the kashaptu, I
won’t die.”
“ But you will wither and spend
eternity here the shade of a shade.”
The words struck home.
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