The footsteps of a score of
mage apprentices, busily cleaning the volumes of literature in the great
library, echoed through the dim corridors of the Mage's Sanctum. Walking quickly
down the hall, a hooded form stopped before a wooden door, the symbol of the
mage he sought magically emblazoned above it. The form lowered his hood as he
reached for the handle and slowly pushed the door open, the slight creak of
rusty hinges announcing his presence. Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath,
he peered around for any sign of pursuit in the dimness of the hallway.
Satisfied that he had not been followed, he shuffled into the room and closed
the oaken door behind him.
Great shelves reaching nearly
to the ceiling stretched almost the entire length of the room. A large desk and
three comfortable looking chairs sat in the center surrounded by four
sputtering candles. At the desk sat a man, hunched over a very large volume
that appeared to be bound in blue velvet. The man was dressed in fine black
robes with gold-inlaid runes sewn into the sleeves. His hood had been thrown
back to reveal long black hair framing a lean face. He did not look up as the
hooded form walked into the room to stand before the table. After several tense
minutes, the man removed his cloak to reveal a cassock of dull red, the
preferred dress of a dark cleric of Vaal’Bek, god of death. The right hand of
the man was covered in a blood soaked bandage that was badly in need of a
change. His face could be described as handsome, but the striking features were
marred. A scar went from just behind his ear to the base of his neck, the
result of a near fatal sword strike that should, in realization, have killed
him. The dark cleric hung his robe on a hook near the door and turned his
attention back to the seated figure.
“The men are in place, master.”
the cleric stated flatly. “Our spies in Metier are preparing an ambush as we
speak. Our enemies will soon be dead. Nothing can stop us from recovering the
item now.”
The man behind the desk lifted his head slowly. He shot
the cleric a look that cut like daggers through his flesh. Although his face
had a gentle quality to it, his eyes burned a hellish red in the candlelight.
“Always remember,” the man
stated in a calm tone. “They are my men, not our men. You have a bad habit of
forgetting your place, Zolaar.”
Zolaar swallowed hard, balling
his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “I meant nothing by it, master.
I just think-”
“Think!” the man said through
clenched teeth. “You are not in my employ to think. You do only as I instruct
you. I have a low tolerance for stupidity, Zolaar. Just do as I say and all
that you ever wanted will be yours for the taking.”
The stranger leaned back and
sighed heavily, as if trying to calm himself. When he glanced back up at the
dark cleric, his eyes no longer glowed.
“What of that Greenfield
soldier in the mountains? Was any helpful information extracted from him?”
Zolaar cleared his throat and
stumbled on his words. “The...uhh...soldier was...uhh...killed. He refused to
allow us to take him...alive..., my master.”
With this news, the stranger
seemed to stiffen. Swallowing hard, Zolaar could feel the prickling touch of
sweat beading on his forehead. He knew if he so much as showed his fear, he
would be a corpse, struck down by the powerful magic of his master. His only
chance now was to try and soften his anger somehow.
“If you would permit me,
master.” Zolaar began, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. “From my
studies, I have learned that one of those that follow us, a half-elven
Talisman, knows the exact location of the gem. The problem is that he doesn't
realize that he knows.”
Zolaar flashed an evil grin,
his stained teeth glowing in the dim candlelight.
“With my magic, he doesn’t even
need to be alive for me to take the information from him, my master.”
The man glared at the cleric.
Zolaar could tell that he had a plan in store for the half-elf.
“The idea intrigues me,
Zolaar.” he hissed. “I dislike failure, cleric. This idea will not erase your
bumbling attempts to please me, but for now I won't punish you.”
“I thank you, master.” Zolaar
whispered. “It was never my intention-”
“I did not give you permission
to speak!” the man screamed as he stood from his chair. “The death of that
Greenfield soldier has cost me dearly. My plans, for now, will have to be put
on hold until I get the information I need. From now on, you will follow my
instructions exactly or next time I will burn you from the inside out.”
The dark man composed himself,
relaxing his shoulders as he sat and leaned back into the plush comfort of the
large wingback chair. He steeped his hands in front of his mouth in deep
thought. From behind his fingers he smiled wickedly.
“Inform the men in Metier that
I want that half-bastard mage brought to me, alive. I don't care what the men
do to the others.” the mage balled his delicate hands into fists. “I want to
watch him squirm as I peel his skin from his bones an inch at a time.”
The man stood and shuffled
around behind his chair. “Alive, Zolaar. Do not fail me again. You may leave.”
Bowing deeply, Zolaar quickly
left the room, remembering at the last moment to grab his robe and drape it
back over his cassock. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he leaned heavily
against the cool, stone wall. After a considerable amount of time calming
himself back down, he donned the cloak’s hood and plodded back towards the
entrance.
