Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin)

by Matthew D. Ryan

  The guardsman’s blood is warm and sweet as it flows down my throat. My pursuers have been cast off, and I have time to recuperate. As the fallen warrior’s body sags to the floor, the injury in my neck and the burns along my chest and arms grow warm. There is a tingling sensation as my flesh begins to mend, and a hissing sigh of relief escapes my lips.

  Curses on those men, but I was close. I had the wizard in my hands! He would be dead if not for that bounty hunter. Silver weapons. How I despise such things! Next time, I will not spare the time to gloat. Their deaths will come as soon as I set eyes on them.

  With my anger boiling, I stare at the guard lying at my feet. The foolish mortal should have known better than to wander these halls alone; but I will not complain. He has let me heal myself from blade and fire providing a short, but needed, respite. Now, I must return to finish my battle.

  A silent shriek of pain echoes through my mind.

  Toreg! What is wrong?

  Master! Help me. He has a silver weapon and it hurts me.

  I pause in the hallway, considering. If I rescue my slave he could come in handy with his spells. On the other hand, he lacks the experience that I have in these matters. He could very well bring about my ruin. He does not have that instinct for battle, like ...

  Clarissa. I wish she were here by my side. She was a warrior, and a good one. It is most unfortunate that these men killed her. I will make them pay for that a thousand times over, and then again.

  There is a flash of a window being opened in my head. Startled, I cry out with both mind and voice. “No, Toreg! Don’t!” I am too late. Even without our link I can hear the explosion reverberate through the halls. The pain of my dying slave fills my thoughts. The sigil has broken his body and shattered his flesh. Given a week, perhaps, he might recover; but he does not have a week. Through my slave’s anguished eyes, I see the brute named Borak step forward. In his hand is a sword, glittering silver in the pale light.

  Snarling, I force the image from my head and start running down the hall. First Clarissa, now him. A thousand years is long enough for solitude. I will not allow this wizard’s death.

  I am coming, mighty warrior who would strike down a crippled slave. Hunter of the weak and helpless, come, let us see how you deal with me.