Megiddo’s eyes
lightened from polished steel to white-hot metal, blazing in his
equally pale face. Silhara watched, waited and pounced at the
demon’s first twitch of his shoulder.
“ Hold!” he commanded, his hand
wrapped around the scabbard. Fire coursed through his arm, the
cold, unclean fire of both necromantic and goetic
sorcery.
Megiddo froze, wrenched to a shocked
standstill. His wide eyes lost their blaze, and the robes writhed
back on themselves, twisting and convulsing until they cocooned the
king in a tightly wrapped shroud. His body flickered and wavered,
like the illusionary waves on a near horizon that tricked a thirsty
traveler on a hot day. The demon opened his mouth to
speak.
Silhara slammed another spell into the
sheathed sword, smiling grimly as it screeched a thin protest. “Be
still, dog,” he commanded the bound Megiddo. “Be silent.” He’d
swear to any who asked that he heard the demon’s back teeth snap
together in an unwilling clench.
He strolled to where the Wraith King rocked
unsteadily on his feet. The robes squirmed, reaching for him.
Silhara’s lip curled. “Thought you’d nip off for a little murder to
force my hand, did you?” The mute demon’s wrathful gaze promised
retribution far more unpleasant than mere murder.
Silhara kicked the side of Megiddo’s knee,
sending him toppling into the dirt with a muffled thump. “Stay,” he
ordered.
He walked away from the prone king and turned
in a slow circle, allowing his senses to expand in the flat, muted
plane. The power he’d bled off from the spells protecting Neith’s
environs surged through him to swell his throat and fill his
mouth.
“ Apprentice,” he said in a low
voice, and the gray world vibrated beneath his feet with the word’s
resonance. It swelled, spilling across the featureless plain in
invisible waves, carried to the distant fanged mountain peaks on a
sorcerous tide.
He listened, breath held in hopeful
anticipation, and closed his eyes on a sigh when a thin cry carried
back to him on the soundless wind. “Master.”
The spell he used to cast his voice captured
hers, spinning a delicate thread that bound her to him. He grasped
the line, recited another spell and left the Wraith King recumbent
in the dirt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The spell known as Half-Death had earned its
name in more ways than one. Conclave considered it an outlawed
incantation, its use punishable by imprisonment as well as various
painful incentives designed to convince the offending mage not to
try it again.
A spell which could transport its user from
one place to another in an instant exacted its own heavy toll.
Silhara nearly killed himself employing it as a way for him and
Martise to escape a lich. Three rapid-fire transports of two people
together and he’d been reduced to a senseless bloodied
heap.
This time he suffered no damage from the
spell. The gray plane in which he traveled didn’t resist his
manipulations as hard or drain his power as much as the living
world did. The most he suffered was a popping in his ears and the
welcome impact of his wife’s body as she threw herself at him with
a glad cry.
“ Sil...Master!”
Martise’s arms wrapped around his neck, nearly
strangling him in her enthusiasm. He lifted her off her feet,
trying to not shake with relief at having her in his arms once
more, safe and sound. He pressed his face into the spot where her
shoulder curved into her neck and breathed. The putrid reek
permeated everything in this gods forsaken place, but Silhara
fancied he still smelled the hint of orange flower on her skin and
the soap she and Gurn used to launder the blankets.
He wanted to hold her like this for hours, an
indulgence that would have to wait until after they escaped.
Martise must have thought the same thing because she ended their
embrace and stepped back to stare at him with a critical
eye.
“ Blood all over you. You faced
Megiddo.”
“ I did, but this is from spellwork
getting
lightened from polished steel to white-hot metal, blazing in his
equally pale face. Silhara watched, waited and pounced at the
demon’s first twitch of his shoulder.
“ Hold!” he commanded, his hand
wrapped around the scabbard. Fire coursed through his arm, the
cold, unclean fire of both necromantic and goetic
sorcery.
Megiddo froze, wrenched to a shocked
standstill. His wide eyes lost their blaze, and the robes writhed
back on themselves, twisting and convulsing until they cocooned the
king in a tightly wrapped shroud. His body flickered and wavered,
like the illusionary waves on a near horizon that tricked a thirsty
traveler on a hot day. The demon opened his mouth to
speak.
Silhara slammed another spell into the
sheathed sword, smiling grimly as it screeched a thin protest. “Be
still, dog,” he commanded the bound Megiddo. “Be silent.” He’d
swear to any who asked that he heard the demon’s back teeth snap
together in an unwilling clench.
He strolled to where the Wraith King rocked
unsteadily on his feet. The robes squirmed, reaching for him.
Silhara’s lip curled. “Thought you’d nip off for a little murder to
force my hand, did you?” The mute demon’s wrathful gaze promised
retribution far more unpleasant than mere murder.
Silhara kicked the side of Megiddo’s knee,
sending him toppling into the dirt with a muffled thump. “Stay,” he
ordered.
He walked away from the prone king and turned
in a slow circle, allowing his senses to expand in the flat, muted
plane. The power he’d bled off from the spells protecting Neith’s
environs surged through him to swell his throat and fill his
mouth.
“ Apprentice,” he said in a low
voice, and the gray world vibrated beneath his feet with the word’s
resonance. It swelled, spilling across the featureless plain in
invisible waves, carried to the distant fanged mountain peaks on a
sorcerous tide.
He listened, breath held in hopeful
anticipation, and closed his eyes on a sigh when a thin cry carried
back to him on the soundless wind. “Master.”
The spell he used to cast his voice captured
hers, spinning a delicate thread that bound her to him. He grasped
the line, recited another spell and left the Wraith King recumbent
in the dirt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The spell known as Half-Death had earned its
name in more ways than one. Conclave considered it an outlawed
incantation, its use punishable by imprisonment as well as various
painful incentives designed to convince the offending mage not to
try it again.
A spell which could transport its user from
one place to another in an instant exacted its own heavy toll.
Silhara nearly killed himself employing it as a way for him and
Martise to escape a lich. Three rapid-fire transports of two people
together and he’d been reduced to a senseless bloodied
heap.
This time he suffered no damage from the
spell. The gray plane in which he traveled didn’t resist his
manipulations as hard or drain his power as much as the living
world did. The most he suffered was a popping in his ears and the
welcome impact of his wife’s body as she threw herself at him with
a glad cry.
“ Sil...Master!”
Martise’s arms wrapped around his neck, nearly
strangling him in her enthusiasm. He lifted her off her feet,
trying to not shake with relief at having her in his arms once
more, safe and sound. He pressed his face into the spot where her
shoulder curved into her neck and breathed. The putrid reek
permeated everything in this gods forsaken place, but Silhara
fancied he still smelled the hint of orange flower on her skin and
the soap she and Gurn used to launder the blankets.
He wanted to hold her like this for hours, an
indulgence that would have to wait until after they escaped.
Martise must have thought the same thing because she ended their
embrace and stepped back to stare at him with a critical
eye.
“ Blood all over you. You faced
Megiddo.”
“ I did, but this is from spellwork
getting
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