you!” he proclaimed. “And by the power of Deneir…”
He stopped suddenly and nearly swooned. He glanced around to his back to see the dog-faced imp staring at him, waving its barbed, poison-tipped tail-the same tail that had dropped the other priest, and that Druzil had just poked into Rumpol’s kidney.
Rumpol staggered for the stairway, stumbled to his knees as Druzil struck him a second time. Then he was up again, but the world was slipping away into blackness. The last image he saw was that of Kierkan Rufo, of Kierkan Rufo’s fangs rushing for his throat.
When he was finished, the vampire found Thobicus standing by the fifth rack. There lay the priest Thobicus had sent after Banner, his chest torn apart, his heart on the floor beside him. Banner, though, surprisingly, was sitting against the rack, his head down, but very much alive.
“He heeded my call,” Rufo casually explained to the confused dean. “And so I thought to keep him, for he is weak.” Rufo presented a perfectly awful bloody smile to the dean. “Like you.”
Dean Thobicus had not the strength to argue. He looked to the torn priest, and to living Banner, and he pitied Banner the most.
A few hours later, Druzil hopped and skipped into short flights about the library’s hot attic, clapping his hands happily at every turn. The air was warm, he was at work in desecrating a holy place, and beneath him, Rufo, with the help of Dean Thobicus, continued dividing the priests into small groups and was summarily destroying them.
Life was suddenly very good for the malicious imp. Druzil flapped his wings and lifted himself up to one of the short peaks in the roof, so that he could survey his latest design. The imp knew all the runes of desecration and had just completed his favorite in the area directly over the library’s main chapel (though that chapel was two floors down). Thobicus had provided a virtually unlimited supply of ink-reds, blues, blacks, and even a vial of a strange greenish-yellow (which Druzil favored) -and the imp knew that every stroke he ran across the floorboards put the foolish priests in the rooms below a bit farther from their respective gods.
At one point, Druzil paused, then moved away from the spot with an angry hiss. Someone was singing in a room below him-that wretched Chaunticleer, Druzil realized. Chaunticleer was singing to Deneir and to Oghma, lifting his voice against the encroaching blackness in notes pure and sweet.
It wounded Druzil’s ears. He moved away from the spot, and the vibrations of Chaunticleer’s voice were no more. With all that was happening in his favor, Druzil quickly forgot about the singing priest.
Happy again, Druzil clapped his hands rapidly, his toothy smile nearly swallowing his ears. When Rufo had come for him in the mausoleum the previous night, he hadn’t known what to expect, had even considered using all of his magical abilities and knowledge to try to open a gate, that he might retreat to the lower planes, abandoning Rufo and Tuanta Quiro Miancay altogether.
Now, just half a day later, Druzil was thrilled that he had not chosen that course. Barjin had failed, but Rufo would not, the imp knew.
The Edificant Library would fall.
His tentative steps down into the wine cellar revealed Thobicus’s continued fear of Kierkan Rufo, and his continued uneasiness with his own decisions. He still could not believe that he had killed Bron Turman, long a friend and ally. He still could not believe that he had flown so far from the teachings of Deneir, that he had thrown away the work of his entire life.
There was only one antidote to the guilt that threatened to destroy Dean Thobicus. Anger. And the focus of that anger was a young priest who would likely soon return to the library.
Cadderly had done this, Thobicus decided. Through his lust for undeserved power, Cadderly had brought all of this about.
Thobicus carried no lantern or torch as he stepped off the bottom step of the dark
He stopped suddenly and nearly swooned. He glanced around to his back to see the dog-faced imp staring at him, waving its barbed, poison-tipped tail-the same tail that had dropped the other priest, and that Druzil had just poked into Rumpol’s kidney.
Rumpol staggered for the stairway, stumbled to his knees as Druzil struck him a second time. Then he was up again, but the world was slipping away into blackness. The last image he saw was that of Kierkan Rufo, of Kierkan Rufo’s fangs rushing for his throat.
When he was finished, the vampire found Thobicus standing by the fifth rack. There lay the priest Thobicus had sent after Banner, his chest torn apart, his heart on the floor beside him. Banner, though, surprisingly, was sitting against the rack, his head down, but very much alive.
“He heeded my call,” Rufo casually explained to the confused dean. “And so I thought to keep him, for he is weak.” Rufo presented a perfectly awful bloody smile to the dean. “Like you.”
Dean Thobicus had not the strength to argue. He looked to the torn priest, and to living Banner, and he pitied Banner the most.
A few hours later, Druzil hopped and skipped into short flights about the library’s hot attic, clapping his hands happily at every turn. The air was warm, he was at work in desecrating a holy place, and beneath him, Rufo, with the help of Dean Thobicus, continued dividing the priests into small groups and was summarily destroying them.
Life was suddenly very good for the malicious imp. Druzil flapped his wings and lifted himself up to one of the short peaks in the roof, so that he could survey his latest design. The imp knew all the runes of desecration and had just completed his favorite in the area directly over the library’s main chapel (though that chapel was two floors down). Thobicus had provided a virtually unlimited supply of ink-reds, blues, blacks, and even a vial of a strange greenish-yellow (which Druzil favored) -and the imp knew that every stroke he ran across the floorboards put the foolish priests in the rooms below a bit farther from their respective gods.
At one point, Druzil paused, then moved away from the spot with an angry hiss. Someone was singing in a room below him-that wretched Chaunticleer, Druzil realized. Chaunticleer was singing to Deneir and to Oghma, lifting his voice against the encroaching blackness in notes pure and sweet.
It wounded Druzil’s ears. He moved away from the spot, and the vibrations of Chaunticleer’s voice were no more. With all that was happening in his favor, Druzil quickly forgot about the singing priest.
Happy again, Druzil clapped his hands rapidly, his toothy smile nearly swallowing his ears. When Rufo had come for him in the mausoleum the previous night, he hadn’t known what to expect, had even considered using all of his magical abilities and knowledge to try to open a gate, that he might retreat to the lower planes, abandoning Rufo and Tuanta Quiro Miancay altogether.
Now, just half a day later, Druzil was thrilled that he had not chosen that course. Barjin had failed, but Rufo would not, the imp knew.
The Edificant Library would fall.
His tentative steps down into the wine cellar revealed Thobicus’s continued fear of Kierkan Rufo, and his continued uneasiness with his own decisions. He still could not believe that he had killed Bron Turman, long a friend and ally. He still could not believe that he had flown so far from the teachings of Deneir, that he had thrown away the work of his entire life.
There was only one antidote to the guilt that threatened to destroy Dean Thobicus. Anger. And the focus of that anger was a young priest who would likely soon return to the library.
Cadderly had done this, Thobicus decided. Through his lust for undeserved power, Cadderly had brought all of this about.
Thobicus carried no lantern or torch as he stepped off the bottom step of the dark
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