The stranger appeared on the edge of town just after sunset.  Mud from the last of the snowmelt clung to his worn boots as he left the skeletal trees that hewed close to the track outside of the small settlement.  A dog of indeterminate breed stayed close to him, nose in the dirt or high in the air, sampling every scent to be found.  Occasionally the animal stopped, ears pricked and eyes roving, before catching up the man once more.  On those occasions the man’s steps would slow, as if waiting for confirmation from the dog that it was safe to proceed.  They moved carefully, although whether it was from the possibly treacherous mud or another reason wasn’t clear. Read the rest of this entry →

A lifelong study of contagion and disease had germinated the idea.  If the ravenous unsleeping guardians could somehow spread their condition to their victims, then Troius would have the unstoppable army he needed to bend the world to his will.  An army that didn’t need supply wagons or camp followers, that found their provender when they met their enemies, that grew with every enemy that fell – this was the tide that would sweep the empires and petty kingdoms of the world under his control.  The mighty would grovel on their knees before him for protection against the Army of Troius.  He finally achieved success, shortly after earning the trust of El Sof’s king and the hand of his daughter, keeping his work from the prying eyes of the king’s pet sorcerers.  At least, until the experiment required its first test subjects. Read the rest of this entry →

The massive chamber stretched ahead of him, dark as the Void until the wizard illuminated it with a wave of his hand.  The three-score figures scattered around the chamber in various postures – some standing, others sitting or sprawled completely onto the floor – began to stir shortly after.  A deep sepulchral moan began to echo in the chamber as the first of the figures saw the massive robed figure in the doorway.  In moments the entire chamber writhed with the semblance of life as the noisome things that lived there moved eagerly to the door as if to greet their benefactor. Read the rest of this entry →

The flickering candlelight barely illuminated the massive tome on the table as the pen scratched its way across the pages.  The massive stone walls of the room helped ensure that the sounds of the pen’s movements and the occasional creak of the overburdened chair were louder than the screams elsewhere in the tower.  The various glass jars and bottles that sat among the bizarre implements lining the various tables and benches in the room reflected a dim but steady blue glow that lit the room better than the pair of feeble candles next to the tome.  The pen moved at a steady pace across the page despite the dark, guided by the obese man taxing the wooden limits of the chair he occupied. Read the rest of this entry →

The soft rustle of fabric behind him brought Merrus back to the present.  Turning quickly, he saw the tall slender form of Maedwyn approaching him slowly, her white dress and fair skin softly glowing in the magical illumination.  The only Eldehil member of the Dreaming Tower, it was fitting that she should be the last visitor to the Elder Patrician; the pair of them represented the oldest of all of the mages who called the Tower home.  She had been the first to give homage to him half a century ago when he was chosen as Elder, and now she was the last of them to say goodbye to him.

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Merrus stood in the vast Chamber of the Circle, occupying the place where Troius had faced his accusers three years ago.  The seats that surrounded him were as empty as the shadowed void that existed beyond the reach of the chamber’s steady glow of magical lighting.  The Elder Patrician rubbed his grainy eyes with a slightly trembling hand, shoulders slumping.  The right arm of his embroidered tunic was stained by his morning’s tea.  A simple spell could have removed it, but even such a small display of power felt utterly beyond him.  His mind felt stretched, pulled apart by events beyond his control but ultimately his responsibility.

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The moment felt right.  Everyone’s eyes were on the stonelayer’s wife and the dead apprentice.  At moments like these, the right words, the perfect combination of sentiment and reason (false or otherwise), could turn a spark into an ember, the ember to an inferno.  Words were to Orus as tools to a craftsman.  With a better gift for singing, he would have been a court bard of renown; instead, he was itinerant, lucky to obtain grudging patronage from lesser nobility, occasionally and humiliatingly used as little more than a herald.  His nimble and crafty mind was used for little else besides finagling a free mug from a reluctant innkeeper.

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The tavern was still as she entered.  The faces of the men who a scant hour ago had been contorted in fury and aggression were now sullen and downcast.  Most of them were studying their boots or frowning into half-drunk mugs.  No one spared more than a glance at the far end of the room, where a row of six blanket-covered bodies lay in neglectful honor.  Her own gaze fixed on the largest of the six, and she moved stiffly towards them, as if the muscles of her legs were wooden.  She knelt gracelessly beside the body of her husband.  One of the men at the bar hurried over, placing a hand on her shoulder.  In low words he begged the woman not to pull back the blanket, that it would be for the best.  Her head slowly turned to look at the man and he shrank back, flinching at the cold grey of her eyes and the unmoving mask of her face.

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The gout of flame that shot from Loccan’s upraised hand obscured the entire top half of the bear-man.  The flame-shrouded figure bellowed as he staggered backwards in a stunning reversal of the prior minute.  The searing fire lasted just a handful of seconds before vanishing.  The big man’s screams lasted longer.  Flames flickered and died on the scant remains of his shirt, exposing the blackened flesh that was already splitting with crimson fissures as the man’s arms moved to cover his face.  Derud was assaulted by the combined smells of rank burnt hair and cloth with the sweet smell of cooked fat and flesh.

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The shouts and clanging mugs around him could not penetrate the grinding mind of Brusen.  The men around him, neighbors and workmates, were pleased by their actions and celebrating as if they’d won a victory.  Ale flowed as deeds were recounted, particularly choice blows re-enacted, and the students’ ignominious retreat rehashed.  Spirits high all around him, the stonelayer kept his fists at his side as his brow furrowed.  In his mind he could feel the blow crunching into the green-eyed wizardling, his rage and grief pouring onto the head of the one who had cursed him.  Brusen couldn’t understand how the man had gotten up and managed to avoid him thereafter, when the blow should have scrambled his brain and left him unconscious or dead.  In the confusion after the table was flipped, his quarry had already fled by the time he pushed past the men in his way.  After that, calls for drinks and cheers had stopped the momentum that had carried the group to the tavern in the first place.

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