The Children of Lubrochius (Bk. I: From the Ashes of Ruin)

By Matthew D. Ryan

In Drasmyr, Coragan and his companions faced down a powerful, ancient vampire. But that was only the beginning of their struggles. Now, they are up against something worse, far worse – a cult of demon worshippers and the vile denizens of Hell they summon. Not an easy task, by any stretch of the imagination. Are they prepared? Can they handle it?
Find out in this engrossing tale of derring-do where might and magic must meld together to quell an archdevil's unholy choir. Where mystery and mayhem march to a mad magician's ghastly tune. The Children of Lubrochius has consistently earned ratings in the 4 – 5 star range. But be warned! – This is not a tale for the faint of heart! It's dark; it's mysterious; and it's enchanting as Hell. Don't miss out. These pages resound with the clarion call of adventure and the mist-shrouded lure of yesteryear.
Return to a world of magic ... where evil and good clash and the fate of the world is on the line.
Buy the Children of Lubrochius now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew D. Ryan
• Release date: Mar 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311501172

Matthew D. Ryan

Looking for a vampire that actually kills people? So was I. So, I created one: Lucian val Drasmyr. He's not a teen heart throb. He's a killer. My first novel, Drasmyr, features him as the chief antagonist and a formidable force for darkness. Just in case I was unclear: he is pure evil. Unholy. Diabolical. A true scourge from Hell.I'm Matthew D. Ryan and I'm a fantasy author. My topics of choice include the aforementioned vampires, as well as dragons, wizards, magic ... that sort of thing. I get my inspiration from multiple sources, not least of which is my almost complete immersion in the fantasy genre over many, many years. I've read more fantasy novels than I can remember; I've been playing RPG games like D&D as both Dungeonmaster/Gamemaster and player for nearly forty years; and I've watched innumerable movies and television programs steeped in the fantastic and miraculous. All of that gives me a fertile imagination and a rich background of experience to draw upon. Writing about vampires or dragons is almost second nature for me now.My first novel, Drasmyr, started out as a short story. Then it grew into a stand-alone novel. Then it shifted into the prequel to my dark fantasy series, From the Ashes of Ruin. I've also written several small collections of short stories, a couple novellas, and even a non-fiction book about my struggles with mental illness -- I've unpublished that last for personal reasons. Additionally, I've run a number of web-sites and blogs here and there; and I've also done a couple speaking engagements on both worldbuilding and the writing process.So, if you like vampires or dragons, or are just into the fantasy genre in general, I'm your guy. Download one of my books now. I heartily recommend Drasmyr.Oh, by the way, if you go to my site: The Wizard's Inkwell (link below), I've started writing 5th Edition D & D Adventures (Under the SRD License). If you play D & D, you can download an adventure or two and make a go at it. They're great fun!

Book preview

Morgulan, Morgulan, curse of the night,

Beware the living darkness and the servant’s might.

Morgulan, Morgulan, priest of our fear,

Beware the singing blood of a thousand years.

When sceptre is changed for demon sword,

When sorrows past return twelve fold,

When the blood of devils feeds the dead,

Then, shall the Man of Wounds from the pit of darkness tread.

Whisper prayers as Hell’s Dread blooms,

Immortal forever, the coming Man of Wounds.

Ignore the whip and fear the rod,

Spitting out poison for the Love of God.

Chapter One

Korina marched down the lightless corridor, her pace quick, yet measured. A simple incantation she had learned long ago gave her the ability to see in the dark. With it, she saw everything—not as she would if there had been a light, but with equal clarity. The spell provided a special kind of vision of blues and greys and shadows that after years of use she had become quite adept with. She saw the tiles of the ceiling with their ancient mosaics covered by centuries of grime. She saw the long-bare sconces that lined the walls, their cold metal rusted from years of disuse. She saw the cobwebs that clung to everything, both the walls and the ceiling, hanging down in delicate, whispering strands. And she saw the dust that covered the floor; the trail of footprints she’d left the last time she had visited; and every other detail this place had to offer.

She came to a corner and looked back to make sure she was not being followed, more out of habit than real concern. Few, if any, people ever delved this deeply into the guild house dungeon when the guild house was extant, let alone now. The hall she walked in, probably had seen no one except herself and her lone servant for the past one hundred years. It had escaped the fire that had gutted the guild house simply because it was buried so deeply in the earth. It had been built some time in the distant past; if she gave ear to the rumors she often heard, these catacombs were all that was left of an ancient temple complex, one built before the coming of the wizards to Drisdak, before there ever was a guild in the city at all.

She turned the corner and continued forward several more yards. Ahead, the passage ended at an old, wooden door, swollen and rotted; like the ceiling before, webs covered it from top to bottom. From appearances, it looked as if it had not been used in centuries, but she knew better. She drew to a stop before it, waved her hand, and uttered a word. A shimmering passed beneath her fingers, a pop echoed in the stillness, and the door creaked open.

Korina slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. With a gesture, she lit a torch in the sconce on her right and ended her vision spell; then, she made another perfunctory wave to seal the door, fastening the lock in place with a click.

Secure now, she took a moment to take in her surroundings. She stood in a dust-filled storeroom with heavy wooden crates stacked against the far wall, covered by an old, ragged linen. More cobwebs crowded around the corners of the chamber, and ancient, moldy stains marred the stone walls.

But, like the door, all that was just for show.

Korina planted her feet apart, made several rapid gestures in the air with her hands, and chanted a short rhyme in an ancient language. Now, the entire chamber seemed to shimmer. The linen-covered crates pressing against the far wall dissolved in a liquid cloud of running colors. The cobwebs thinned and vanished, the dust disappeared. Even the stains along the walls faded into nothingness as the true contents of the room emerged.

A flat obsidian altar covered with a black cloth appeared slightly offset from the center of the chamber. Two silver candleholders formed on either end of the altar, each one holding a long, white candle. Over on the right, near the center of the wall, a small stone table bearing a collection of magical accoutrements sprang into existence. In the southernmost corner, a bronze brazier appeared and immediately began to burn. Next, mystical runes spread across the floor. They first revealed themselves as flickering, flashes of orange light which then solidified as etched carvings in the stone. The runes ran in two circular patterns, one five feet across, the other nearly ten. The larger one completely encircled the altar.

Korina moved across the room to the table near the wall. More mystical runes encircled the top of the table carved into the stone with the flowing precision of calligraphy. The spells the runes contained helped preserve and protect what lay there: a small bulging leather pouch, two small pottery jars—one grey, one black—four pieces of white chalk, and a ceremonial obsidian knife stained with dried blood.

Korina retrieved the grey jar from the table, and unscrewed its lid. It contained a fine, white powder: ground diamond dust. Korina dipped her fingers in, letting the tiny granules adhere to her soft skin. She rubbed her fingers together to feel the grainy texture for a moment, then gently brushed the dusty powder back into the container and replaced the lid.

I don’t need to invoke the circles, she thought. Not with this. She reached into the folds of her robe and withdrew another small jar. This jar, about the size of two fists and shaped like the lower half of an hourglass crystal, bore gems of alternating colors—red, blue, green, white, yellow—running in parallel lines from top to bottom. Runes of power etched across its surface sealed it with a potent magic designed to contain and hold the creature within, a creature that had once terrorized the entire wizards guild and much of the city of Drisdak.

Lucian val Drasmyr.

The vampire.

Simply by holding the jar, Korina could feel the power emanating from it. It was no toy. The most powerful wizards of the guild had worked for days weaving magics and enchantments strong enough to ensnare the creature. Even with all their preparations, the vampire had nearly succeeded in breaking through sixteen binding circles before Guild Master Regecon, the chief sorcerer at the guild, finally completed the imprisonment spell and banished the vampire to the nether-spaces within this jar.

Korina lifted the item and studied the way the various gems on its surface refracted the light. The jar had been a desperate gambit in a time of turmoil. Due to her great talents and incredible gifts with sorcery, Guild Master Regecon had assigned Korina the task of constructing the object. It had been an honor and a privilege. And an opportunity. Unbeknownst to the other sorcerers of the guild, Korina, knowing the vampire was beyond her power to control for any extended period of time, beseeched her demon god, Lubrochius, to construct the jar on her behalf. She then fabricated a second container, identical in appearance to the first and imbued with a few minor enchantments. After the creature was captured, she switched both objects. The guild sent the second jar into the river in lieu of the first, where presumably the vampire would have met his end. And the real jar, vampire and all, she kept for herself. Now, some three weeks after the creature’s capture, she was in the ongoing process of trying to break him down, so he would accept her as mistress and master. So far, she had been unsuccessful.

Korina ran her fingers along the jeweled surface, and gently fingered a small white diamond inset in the black porcelain. As long as she held the jar, she could channel energy into it to inflict pain upon the vampire, but the creature was proving remarkably resilient. It had taken her worst and still remained defiant. Her fleeting victories hardly offered solace. As attempt after attempt ended in failure, her confidence continued to slip. The vampire, ancient and strong, was just too powerful.

Still, she had questions in need of answers.

After several moments of soul searching, looking for every last scrap of courage she could muster, Korina began to chant.

"By earth and water, fire and air.

By the powers of darkness, and despair.

I call upon one who once walked this land.

Servant of the Sceptre. Vampire, once man.

Drasmyr, I summon you.

Drasmyr, I call you.

Drasmyr, I command you.

You, Servant of the Sceptre, Lucian val Drasmyr."

Another pop sounded as the jewel studded lid twisted of its own accord and jumped off the jar; it tumbled through the air and landed with a clatter at Korina’s feet. A thin tendril of grey smoke issued from the small opening revealed. The smoke grew thicker, turned to mist. It reached out across the room, stretching like the neck of a great serpent. It coiled down onto the cold, stone floor in the center of the room, and began to coalesce, assuming a shape not unlike that of a man.

Korina felt a twinge of uneasiness—perhaps she should have used the sorcerer’s circles. Even with the jar. Too late, now, she thought, as the misty form solidified in the center of the room. He has been summoned.

The vampire stood a little over six feet tall and had short black hair, a pale, clean-shaven face and cold, grey eyes, hard as steel. He wore a long black cloak which nearly dragged on the ground. For a shirt, he wore a rich red velvet doublet, laced with black and gold trimmings, while fine trousers of deepest black covered his legs. On his feet he wore the black boots of an elegant gentleman.

Korina nibbled her lower lip as she studied the vampire’s face. Many a woman would have found the creature’s looks attractive, and thus be led to her doom. Not Korina, of course. She stopped nibbling, and straightened. She was above such weakness.

Well, Zarina, the vampire said, you have summoned me, again. Why?

Korina pursed her lips. The creature insisted on addressing her as Zarina. She had corrected him twice now, only to be ignored or graced with a contemptuous sneer each time. He, apparently, believed that she was the infamous witch Zarina the Black returned a thousand years after her death, and no amount of argument, no matter how vehemently put forward, had yet to change his mind. It was a matter of verifiable history that he had known Zarina in her day, not romantically, but at least intimately. In fact, Zarina was one of the progenitors of the sequence of events that had ultimately turned Lucian val Drasmyr, feared general and servant of Morgulan, into an immortal creature of the night—and that made the vampire’s position all the more disturbing. Although the notion that she had capabilities unmatched by any other wizard alive pleased her, Korina could not help but feel lessened or perhaps overwritten by such a figure from the past. His contention threatened her very identity. Who was she, if not Korina Bolaris?

Annoyed, she exhaled slowly through her nose and managed a sneer of her own. Cupping the jeweled jar protectively in her hands, she said, "I don’t need a reason to summon you, Lucian. I can do so on my whim. You are my genie after all." She forced a certain measure of bravado into her voice; she did not wish for the creature to know how nervous he truly made her.

So you say, Lucian said.

You have been permanently bound to this jar, Korina said, lifting the object slightly as if to emphasize her point.

That is only a temporary state of affairs, Lucian replied.

Hah. She laughed. That is foolish. Not even you can escape from a prison constructed by Lubrochius.

He looked at her doubtfully. Are you now claiming to have the ear of Lubrochius?

And why not? You, yourself, keep telling me I am Zarina, his most devoted and trusted servant.

Lucian flexed the fingers in his pale hand, and studied the long fingernails. After a moment, he looked up. You are Zarina. But be that as it may, you do not compare in glory to your former self. At least, not yet, he said. His voice was smooth and casual, yet infected with disdain. Perhaps, someday you will grow in power and I might actually find killing you a challenge, but that day is very far away. I suspect I will have killed you … well, no … transformed you long before any such day arrives.

Korina cleared her throat. She felt a cold knot of fear clutching at her stomach, again; it was hard to ignore. She sought power, at any cost, at any price. And she knew the path to power was one with risks. Toying with this vampire was one of those risks. If it escaped … she swallowed hard, forcing the fears out of her mind. Even Lucian val Drasmyr has limits, she thought.

She tried to appear nonchalant. Well, you can dream about your own day of glory, if you like, but today is my day. I am the master. You are the slave.

The vampire yawned as if bored. He began studying the creases in his hand again. Once again, I am forced to ask you, Zarina: Did you have a reason for summoning me, or are we to banter back and forth all day?

Korina ran one hand through her hair pushing it back behind her ear. There were a number of issues she wished to discuss with Lucian on a variety of topics; he had walked the world for the past one thousand years; no doubt he had accumulated much knowledge and wisdom.

Well, best to start with the basics. I need a better feel for him, she thought; then, she said, Tell me, vampire, do you know much of magic?

I have never made a study of sorcery, if that is what you mean. My powers are sufficient as they are. He folded his arms at his chest and tilted his head to the side. I hope you have something more meaningful and interesting than that to discuss.

Then you know nothing of the subject?

"I did not say that."

What, then? Tell me, Korina said. This would be an excellent way to gauge his intellect and knowledge; anything she could use to evaluate him would be of inestimable worth.

Lucian sighed, shrugging his shoulders. I know it’s a derivative subject. It traces its origins back to the most ancient discourses in philosophy.

Philosophy? Korina said, incredulous. Don’t be absurd.

True, the disciplines did part paths several millennia ago, but in the beginning they were closely connected.

What do I care about philosophy?

It has been called the sex of the mind.

I’m sure it has, but I still don’t care.

That’s your choice, of course, Lucian said. Perhaps a mind as limited as your own can only handle fairy tales with genies.

Korina flushed slightly at the pointed gibe. He was, of course, referring to her reading habits when not engrossed in study. She lifted the jar slightly, and felt a powerful urge to punish him, but refrained. You dare mock me? she said, sharply, threateningly. That would be enough.

If you spend your time reading silly fairy tales then you open yourself up to such. Really, an evil sorceress who spends her time reading about genies and princesses? Who ever heard of such a thing?

Korina scowled, but remained calm. It was only one book, Lucian, she explained. I read fanciful things upon occasion to relax my mind; I find it worthwhile as a diversion, nothing more. Besides, it gave me the idea to capture you, did it not? So I hardly call it worthless.

Why not devote yourself to something more constructive, he said, gesturing with one hand. Increase your learning. You told me once that philosophy, like mathematics, was a critical discipline that strengthens the mind, allowing it to see logical connections among disparate facts and derive grand truths from the most common observations.

When did I say that?

A year or two before you turned me into a vampire. He cast a calculated, sidelong glance at her.

You mean Zarina, then, she said, ignoring his look.

Yes. When you were her.

I’ve never found anything uttered in philosophy to be of any use. As a discipline, it is totally impractical, she said, bringing her hands together in front of herself while still holding the jar. I believe it was the poet, Saladius, who said, ‘There is no idea so profane, no novelty so obscure that some philosopher somewhere has not gilded it with the most exuberant praise and placed it on a pedestal to bedazzle even the most erudite among us.’ I have nothing against profane ideas in themselves, but to me Saladius did not seem far from the truth. Philosophy has always seemed to me to be a potpourri of random thoughts. It promises everything, but delivers nothing.

True, some philosophers have a way of wondering amongst the clouds, but there are others whose thoughts often offer profound insights on the mysteries of life. He turned back to her, the corner of his lip twisting upward.

Name one, she said, her voice edged in challenge.

Arisson of Grexia; I don’t agree with many of his doctrines, but he had a remarkable amount of influence in centuries past. There are others, of course; the world is replete with ideas.

Fine … what kernel of wisdom would Arisson of Grexia offer me?

‘The Ideal must be first and foremost in your thoughts, but always give common concerns that which they are due.’

And what does that mean? she asked, annoyed with this turn in the conversation. It seemed like such a waste of time. But the vampire appeared fully engaged.

It’s really quite simple, Lucian said with a smirk. It is all about setting goals for yourself and achieving them.

Please, explain, she said, curtly.

Basically, he is saying you should not limit what you strive for out of fear that it is beyond you; no, strive for the grand things, but recognize that such requires a great many more mundane steps to accomplish. From little things, great things can be built.

We have gone a bit off topic, I think, Korina said.

You asked about magic, Lucian said with an arrogant sneer. I told you what I know.

Korina frowned. He had not told her much. Barely a smattering. Instead, they had detoured into a lecture on philosophy. Perhaps she needed to ask him more particular questions. She sifted through what she knew of Lucian. Most of his thousand years of existence were a mystery, except the last few years of his mortal life when he served the dark lord Morgulan. Thought of the dark lord brought her back to the main reason she was here today. Tell me about the Sceptre of Morgulan, she said. She knew much already: the sceptre was a weapon of tremendous power wielded by Morgulan during the course of many wars and battles fought over a thousand years ago. It had mysteriously disappeared immediately after Morgulan’s demise.

Lucian sighed as if surrendering to the inevitable. The Sceptre of Morgulan? The vampire locked his gaze with her, and smiled. This time he showed his pointed teeth. They jutted down from the roof of his mouth like the fangs of a wolf. The wizard Arcalian was also interested in the sceptre. That interest got him killed. As you may or may not know, I have a history with wizards. Generally speaking … I win.

The arrogant monster! He had lost to Regecon and the guild.

I’m not interested in your boasts, vampire. I’m interested in the sceptre. Tell me what I wish to know. A part of her doubted if she was ready for the knowledge the vampire might give her. The sceptre, after all, was an artifact of legend. It had destroyed armies. She longed for its power, but she knew that she must match its power with her own else it would come to rule her. An untrained peasant with a sword was as much a danger to himself as he was to others.

Lucian folded his arms beneath his breast and looked askance at the wall. Ask your questions, then, he said.

Good. He seemed willing to answer today. Where to begin? You admit to killing Arcalian?

I have no reason to deny it, do I? Is someone coming to throw me in irons for it? Oh, they already have.

You were the sceptre’s guardian, correct. It really wasn’t a question. She knew the truth of it without him answering.

He smiled. His grey eyes shone with a preternatural light. What do you think?

I think you were protecting it, but I don’t know why. Morgulan is a thousand years dead. If she could acquire the Sceptre of Morgulan, her path to power was assured. She would start with the guild, perhaps: The Serpent and the Crow was long overdue for a competent leader. Or perhaps the city itself? She could overthrow the count and his petty Council of Barons, set herself up as ruler … The possibilities were certainly enticing.

The vampire smiled his insolent smile. Dead, you say? he said. So was Zarina. He let the words hang ominously in the air while simply staring at her.

Her heart skipped a beat. She dared not ruminate about the implications of what he’d said, or rather, what he’d not said—the accusation that threatened her very sense of self. Not here. Not now. My name is Korina, she thought. Don’t let him unbalance you.

She pushed her doubts to the side. So you’ve been protecting the sceptre for the past one thousand years. Do you truly expect Morgulan to return?

I did. Once, Lucian said. But Morgulan’s hiatus was only supposed to last five hundred years not one thousand. I waited. And he didn’t show. Now, of course, you are—

His hiatus? she asked, puzzled. "What do you mean? He died, didn’t he?"

In a way, I suppose, Lucian said.

Explain.

The vampire shrugged. No.

She lifted the jar threateningly. Explain.

Again, the vampire shrugged. He made a deal with Lubrochius. I was never fully privy to the details; I merely played my part. And he, like you, betrayed me. His expression twisted into something malevolent and filled with warning, as if to intimate at the score he wished to settle.

She straightened, but did not overtly respond to the implied threat. She decided to return to her earlier query. So, how does Arcalian fit into this? You and he had dealings before you killed him; that is obvious.

I performed a service for him, and he—at least for a while—repaid me.

What service?

I broke the former guild master’s neck and threw him down the stairs.

You killed Talamarius?

Yes.

Disturbing, if true. This creature certainly had a way with wizards. Arcalian first encountered you while he was searching for the sceptre, yes? she asked, pressing on.

He nodded.

Excellent, she thought. Save me the time of replicating his research, will you? Tell me where it is.

You don’t know?

Logically, it should be in your castle, Rahmin Muirdra. But where, precisely? And what traps protect it?

The vampire gave her a paternal look, and snorted. The sceptre is attuned to Morgulan. It will not function fully in anyone else’s hands. Not even yours. Questing for it would be futile.

I don’t believe you. You are just protecting it still.

Funny. Arcalian said the exact same thing, he said, languidly. "Your historians have been lax in their scholastic efforts; or they are just lazy and not well-informed. Not a one of them in Arcalian’s search mentioned the Dennzi-burron tentacles."

"Dennzi-burron tentacles?" she asked, completely puzzled.

I see you are equally ill-informed, Lucian said. "When Morgulan held the sceptre, two black tentacles grew from The Heart of Skulls—the large emerald at the base—and fastened themselves to his flesh. The Dennzi-burron tentacles enhance the powers of the sceptre in Morgulan’s hands. No one else can summon them. The vampire lifted his hand to his mouth and yawned, deliberately. Now, he said, I grow weary. Can we not adjourn our conversation until a later date?"

Korina frowned. Could he be telling the truth? Was she wasting her time in this pursuit? He seemed to be giving very specific details as if he related facts. You have not satisfied me with your answer concerning the sceptre, she said. "You say it is attuned to Morgulan. How was that done? How do the tentacles work?"

As I said earlier, I am not particularly skilled in the magical arts. All I know is that the sceptre was made for Morgulan by Lubrochius, the Eater of Souls. If you wish to learn the secrets of its making, perhaps you should take it up with him.

She lifted the jar slightly, and arched a single eyebrow. Perhaps I shall. It is not so farfetched as you imply.

Lucian said nothing at first. His tongue slid forward, licked the front of his teeth, and then retreated to the recesses of his mouth. He looked around the room. For several long moments, he remained completely quiet as if to absorb all that he saw and heard. Finally, he looked down at the floor and gently shook his head. If you have Lubrochius in your pocket, you have no need of me. Why don’t you release me?

I think not, she said.

You are a stubborn, foolish woman, he said, lifting his gaze to her. She met his stare with quiet strength, refusing to flinch or shrink away. A moment later, she realized her mistake.

His eyes, grey liquid pools, beckoned to her. She felt herself slipping into them, as if she were sliding down a steep, icy slope into a well of darkness and mysterious shadow. Grey light surrounded her, reached toward her with delicate, soothing fingers. She felt numbness spread along her body. It started at her shoulders and spread gradually down to her toes. Her head felt light, her thoughts, scattered.

She tried to shake herself and clear her mind, but her limbs, heavy and sluggish, moved as if stuck in tar. The jar in her hand burned and felt like a great lead weight. Her will drained from her, and her ability to manipulate magic faltered. She tried to look away, break her gaze from the vampire’s, but she could not. Terror began to mount inside her chest, but it could not be expressed. She felt the fear, but her heart thudded to a slow and steady rhythm as if being lulled into a slumber.

Looking at her intently, Lucian spoke. Korina. He breathed her name as if it were the lyric of a gentle song. Her true name. Not Zarina. Korina was too frightened and desperate to consider what that might mean. She could feel the vampire’s power enveloping her and she felt helpless to stop it. I offer you a world of unbridled pleasures. A world where you can do as you will. Give me the jar and I will make you a queen. His words soothed her, enticed her. Something deep inside her stirred at their touch, relishing their meaning.

The vampire reached out with his hand. To her horror, her own hand, still holding the jar, raised in the air as if to offer it to the vampire. He stepped forward and wrapped the fingers of one hand around her throat while reaching toward the jar with the other. She felt the pressure of his fingers on her windpipe and knew she was about to die.

But just as the vampire touched the jar, a small flash of light arced from the jar to his hand and a jolt of energy passed through him; he jerked back and hissed, taking his eyes from her if only momentarily. His hold on her faltered, and she immediately stepped away, channeling energy into the jar.

The vampire shrieked. Taken off guard, he staggered backward, giving her another few instants. She gathered her magic while the vampire, half-mad with pain, hurled himself toward her, flailing for her hand that held the jar. She pulled it back just in time and, with a flick of her wrist and a single word, put up a thick wall of burning flames between herself and the creature; then, she took two more steps back.

She felt his presence slam into the wall of fire trying to douse it. She could feel his will working to unravel her magic, and she pushed back, trying to drive him away from the spell. Their wills locked together, but his was hideously strong, far too great for her to subdue. His onslaught continued, unmaking her spell. As the flames began to fade, her back pressed against the chamber wall; she was out of room.

Rather than use another spell, she poured as much energy as she could into the jar. Howling now, the vampire staggered and fell to the floor in front of her. She maneuvered around to get some distance, and prepared to speak the chant to force the vampire back into his prison.

This dangerous parley was over; the creature must be chained again.

She opened her mouth, but his will moved to stop her. The muscles in her jaw froze. It took nearly all her concentration to loose her tongue. The vampire crawled towards her, eyes filled with murder.

Slowly, she began enunciating the Words of Banishing, sounding no louder than a whisper, at first, but growing in strength and conviction with every passing second.

"By earth and water, fire and air.

By the powers of darkness, and despair.

I cast back into bondage, you who once walked this land.

Servant of the Sceptre. Vampire, once man.

Drasmyr, I chain you.

Drasmyr, I bind you.

Drasmyr, I command you.

You, servant of the Sceptre, Lucian val Drasmyr."

Panting from exertion, fury, and pain the vampire said, "Your will is strong, sorceress, but I promise you: I will escape my prison and you shall know my vengeance!" Then the magic took hold. The vampire’s form dissolved into mist. The mist swirled around in the air and flowed toward the jar in Korina’s hand, rarifying into a grey-white smoke before finally entering the small opening on top.

That was close, Korina murmured to herself. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves and reassert control over herself. Drasmyr was too dangerous to question unrestrained. Next time, she would invoke the circles. No more foolish mistakes like that! She lifted the jar to her face to make sure it had closed and sealed itself properly. The prudent thing to do would be to cast it into the river as originally intended by the guild and destroy Lucian val Drasmyr forever. But she was not in the mood to recognize the validity of prudence; a one thousand year old vampire offered too much promise. And besides it knew the location of the sceptre. She was not about to let that slip from her grasp, attuned to Morgulan or not. She reached up and traced a single rune on the outside of the jar.

Drasmyr, she said, you are the serf, and I, the taskmaster. Soon … you will know your place.

Chapter Two

It’s been over three weeks, gentlemen, Ambrisia said. You better have something for me. She stood, arms folded beneath her chest, brown hair cascading around her head like a mane, in the Southern Laboratory of the Drisdak Sages College. Since the destruction of the wizards’ guild house, the college had opened its doors and offered the use of its facilities to the sorcerers of Drisdak until a new guild house could be built.

Although not practitioners of magic in their own right, the sages of the college pursued knowledge in all its forms; as such, they enjoyed a fruitful relationship with the guild providing much in the way of scholarly research and acumen of a theoretical, if not practical, level, and profiting from services rendered in return. This amicable relationship gave the guild some resources to fall back on during their current period of duress. Despite the absence of a guild house, they now had access to several laboratories and libraries—both prerequisites for their work.

Porthion and Tenovah, the chief diviners now that their former head diviner, Morcallenon, was dead—slain in a terrible tragedy by one of their own—had been commissioned by Ambrisia to determine what had happened to Marissa Malavay, a student of hers who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Porthion and Tenovah sat together at the largest of several tables in the lab, a modest-sized chamber in the basement of the building which held an assortment of antiquated objects and arcane accoutrements: beakers, pipettes, and graduated vials; sextants, and astrolabes; scrolls, quills, and inkpots. The accumulated paraphernalia lounged about in a disorderly mess leaving only a small area in which to work.

Porthion, a wrinkled old man in dusty, pale, silver robes, sat hunched over a smoking brazier while using a short poker to fiddle with the coals. His clean-shaven face, bald head, and narrow white eyebrows gave him a curious look today, as if he pondered the deepest mysteries of the cosmos while he worked. Tenovah, an older man as well, possessed a slightly more muscular build than his partner. Like Porthion, he wore silver robes, though his nearly sparkled in comparison, reflecting his meticulous personality. Unlike Porthion, a gray beard ringed the lower half of his face and did much to hide a small, thin mouth that rarely showed much emotion, even when he smiled. The two wizards sat on opposite sides of the table, one with his brazier, the other rhythmically stirring his finger through a small bowl of clear liquid. Both men looked weary; the creases in their faces showed their age.

Ambrisia stepped up to them.

We’re sorry, Mistress, Porthion said, nervously. We have tried a number of different approaches, but have been unable to find her.

And we don’t understand why, Tenovah added, quietly. Marissa is just … gone.

Ambrisia found it hard to believe that the two most talented diviners remaining in the guild could offer her no information at all. They had had the needed resources at their disposal to work their art; they had been given more than enough time; they should know; they should have results. If her student had run away, that would be fine. A little disappointing, but Ambrisia could deal with that. What she was unwilling to accept, however, was lack of progress. There was no excuse for it. What have you tried? she asked with more patience than she felt.

Everything, Tenovah said, wearily. He lowered his arms onto the table on either side of the bowl.

We began with a general name scry, Porthion said. We couldn’t find her. We tried a sympathetic talisman scry using a hair brush of hers. Again … nothing. Then we used several hairs taken from the brush. Nothing.

Did you take into account the black time? Ambrisia asked. Black time was a phenomenon that rendered divination difficult, sometimes even impossible. It was produced by, among other things, powerful creatures as a sort-of defense mechanism against scrying. In this case, the creature in question was a vampire who had been in and around the old guild house and city, perforating the divination area with numerous trails of black time.

Of course we did, Porthion said. It would have dissipated by now, unless …

Unless what? Ambrisia asked.

Unless she were generating it herself.

Are you saying she’s become a vampire? Ambrisia asked, more than a little irritated. I told you she disappeared during the day.

But, Mistress, there is no other explanation … unless the gods themselves swooped down and snatched her away.

Ambrisia placed her hand on the table and drummed her fingers on its surface several times in sequence. You tried everything? Every variant? Flame scries and pool scries, mirrors and wind?

Yes, Porthion said. Everything. Multiple times.

I … Tenovah said.

Porthion gave him a warning look and Tenovah hesitated. This, of course, served merely to annoy Ambrisia all the more.

What? she asked.

It is not very definite, Mistress, Porthion said, apologetically.

I have neither the time nor the patience for reticence, Ambrisia said. Spit it out. Did they have something to report or not? Sometimes getting information from these men was like getting wealth from a peasant. One measly copper raven at a time.

I got a strange result with a dreamwalk, that’s all, Tenovah said.

Strange?

A vague feeling of oppressiveness and darkness. Very disturbing. I woke with a nauseated stomach.

That tells us nothing, Ambrisia said, again annoyed.

I know, Tenovah agreed.

Three weeks. She had given them three weeks to find her student, leaving them to their own devices. After all, they were the diviners, the practitioners of seercraft; they knew the ins and outs of the art; she did not. How could she be expected to offer advice or guidance beyond simply assigning them the task? She had been patient. She had merely waited. She had had ideas, but had not shared them, deferring, instead, to their experience. But had that been a mistake? They had learned nothing. Nothing at all. Were the men simply inept? Morcallenon had trusted them before he died. And they had identified Arcalian’s jar of vampiric exorcism during the midst of that horrific week when the vampire was attacking the guild. So it seemed unlikely that their skills were at fault here. Something had happened to Marissa. Something she didn’t understand.

But she would.

It was time to take a more direct hand in the investigation. All right, she said. Here’s what you are going to do. She was in my chamber about two hours before midmorning on Novenya 19th. Find her. And follow her.

Both men exchanged looks. But that’s impossible, Mistress, Porthion said, his voice squeaking.

Why?

We would be scrying in the past, Mistress, Porthion said, where the vampire’s aura is fully effective. He gesticulated with one hand as if that explained everything.

First of all, Porthion, she said, you are on the council now; you can call me by name. Secondly, the vampire’s aura of black time was not big enough to cover the entire guild—I know that much. Deal with it. Find her, and follow her.

But there will be eddies and ripples, Tenovah said. He, too, looked put out by her request. Disruptions in the weave of time. Drasmyr was a thousand years old!

I don’t care, Ambrisia replied. You’ll just have to deal with the disruptions as best you can. I have confidence in you. She tried to smile reassuringly, though a part of her wanted to smack the man over the head or shake some sense into him. Must she brow beat him in order to get him to work?

You do understand how long this will take, Mis … Ambrisia, Porthion said. We can’t cast just one spell and be done with it. It will require multiple castings of multiple spells, each one requiring time and energy. We will have to reconstruct the events that befell her piecemeal.

I understand, Ambrisia said.

It might take literally hundreds of successive castings to follow the young woman to her fate, Porthion said. You understand that?

Yes.

It may take— Porthion began.

Weeks, Tenovah completed, glumly. Months even.

Both Guild Master Regecon and I agree, she said. We have a duty to our students. They may not be ranked as full mages, but they have value nonetheless. The days of flippantly disregarding their well-being are over. If this is what it takes to find out what happened to Marissa, then this is what we shall do. Now, I understand what I am asking of you: And, I hope, you understand the necessity and urgency of my request.

Yes, Mistress, Porthion said, bowing his head slightly. We do.

Good, she said. Now, get to work.

Coragan sat backwards in his chair, leaning forward slightly, his hand of six cards held in front of him. His comrade, Galladrin the rogue, sat across from him holding his own set of six cards, eyeing them carefully and periodically shifting their positions. Between the two men lay two flat chestnut footlockers arranged to accommodate their game. They were playing Kings and Jack, a popular game of indeterminate origin. All the Grand Hierarchy Cards of the deck lay face up on one of the footlockers, while a small collection of silver and gold sat piled on the other. In addition to the cards in his hand, each player also had a small number of cards splayed out in front of him on the latter, makeshift table. These were his Followers. The goal of the game was to develop a Following—or Court, in human circles—then to ascend to the throne through a series of brutal duels. The victor was named king, the loser was made his second—the jack. Coragan found the game an amusing way to pass a late Threnday morning.

They were alone in their room at The Black Dagger, a small respectable inn in the District of Merchants in the city of Drisdak. Their comrade, Borak, had left a short while ago to get lunch in the tavern area downstairs, leaving them to their epic struggle in cards. So far, it was a good game. Galladrin was in the lead, but not by much. A few, well-played rounds could easily shift the luck in Coragan’s favor.

Outside, a cold rain had started to fall, drumming the roof above their heads with a steady rhythm. It added an ambience of ease and contemplative relaxation. Today would be a good day to do nothing.

It’s your play, already, Galladrin said.

Patience, Coragan said, "Kings and Jack is a game of exacting detail."

Is not, Galladrin replied. It was invented by goblins.

That’s just a rumor, Coragan said. Although a believable one, he thought. The game involved crude tactics which favored brute force. Something a goblin would take to quite easily.

Coragan thumbed through his cards one more time before making his play. He placed in order, a five of daggers, a six of swords, and a seven of shields. Ascending Steel, he said. I’ll take the Jack of Shields. He reached over and pulled the appropriate card from the Grand Hierarchy and placed it next to the rest of his followers. Then he drew three more cards back into his hand, returning his total to six.

I see, Galladrin said. He lifted a quizzical eyebrow as he studied the arrangement on the make-shift table; then, he rearranged the cards in his hand one more time. I’ll play—

The door to their room swung open. Both men looked to see their other companion, Borak, dressed in rough animal skins and rippling with muscle, standing in the doorway. His short brown hair was in a slight disarray. He had a dagger at his side and a massive battle axe strapped across his back, while in his hand he held what looked to be a small missive. Note, he said, and tossed the rolled up piece of parchment toward Coragan.

Coragan caught it in midair.

Galladrin lay his cards face down on the footlocker. Who’s it from? he asked.

Borak shrugged. Messenger. Downstairs.

Coragan examined the tube of yellowed parchment. I think it’s from Regecon, he said. It’s got the seal of the guild. The red wax that kept the paper from unrolling held an impression of a single staff, two serpents coiled about the staff, and a pair of ravens. He thumbed the seal until it ruptured and the scroll unrolled in his hand. He grabbed the top and bottom and opened it. He read it once to himself, and then again, out loud.

"Master Coragan,

You served us well in the recent past. We require your services yet again. A young woman’s life may be at stake. Please meet me tomorrow evening an hour before sunset at my current residence: 8 Skalwell Lane. As before, your companions are welcome.

Sincerely,

Guild Master Regecon"

What do you think? Galladrin asked.

We don’t need the money, Coragan said, laying the parchment down on the nearest footlocker. He felt more than a little ambivalent. He and his comrades had made a small fortune helping the wizards in their struggle with the vampire, Lucian val Drasmyr, a little less than a month ago. And though money could buy comforts and necessities in great abundance, it could not purchase absolution for a single man’s soul. He had seen enough evil—even done enough evil—in money’s name to be forever wary of its gleaming allure. And though the wizards paid well, they had an air about them that he did not relish. Many came from noble families and, as a result of the natural corruption that comes with power and money, had a tendency to look down on peasants and the lower class. As the son of simple farmers, Coragan found such an attitude distasteful. To be fair, there were exceptions, and, in his experience, Guild Master Regecon seemed to be one of them, but on the whole he found wizards arrogant and disagreeable, and that did not help foster a very pleasant business relationship.

"You still got your ban on wizards?" Galladrin asked.

Ban may be too strong of a term, Coragan said. I’d just prefer to avoid them.

Who, then, will the great Coragan of Esperia work for? Galladrin asked. Peasants don’t have much use for a bounty hunter. Except maybe to hunt down an oversized rat.

I’m sure many of them would have a more fitting use, Coragan said. They just lack the resources.

Something wizards have in abundance, Galladrin said.

You got it.

That’s it? Galladrin asked. You hate them because they’re wealthy?

And you don’t? You accept the disparity?

I don’t look at wealth as the measure of a man’s soul, Galladrin said. Take Regecon, for example. On your account, as he is head of the wizards guild with vast amounts of wealth and power at his disposal, he should be regarded as the most despicable of men. But I kind of like the fellow.

He does seem sort of low key for a wizard, Coragan admitted.

I would almost count him as a friend, Galladrin said. He had a patient expression on his face. "He also vanquished a one thousand year old vampire in a struggle that nearly cost him his life. I think he deserves some accolades."

Yeah, but the others, Coragan said. Ambrisia and her cronies. He looked at the note again and read it through for the third time. A woman’s life was at stake, it said. Could he walk away from that? Or, more precisely, could he put up with the wizards’ airs of superiority for the sake of a decent cause? There were worse people to work for, he knew. Although wizards tended to be arrogant, even more arrogant than most nobles, he’d found that they did have some limited sense of justice. They might look down their nose at you, but few of them actually sought to throw you in prison for trivial infractions or grind you up in the merciless jaws of the legal code. Not so most actual nobles. Before coming to Drisdak, Coragan had worked for a nobleman who brought new meaning to the terms self-serving and corrupt: Count Trasskis Vedler of Torine. It still infuriated him what the man had done; what he’d asked Coragan to do. And to think that men like him made the Law. It was disgusting.

He felt no regret for walking away from that last job with Count Vedler. Even if the rumors were true that the man had put a bounty on Coragan’s head in a petty fit of retribution. A man’s honor was everything. Take that away, or let it be sullied, and he was no better than an animal. Honestly, Coragan muttered. Nobles. Wizards. I could do without the whole lot of them.

I don’t know about any nobles, Galladrin replied, but Ambrisia and the other wizards had a hand in Drasmyr’s demise as well.

I suppose that’s true, Coragan said; then, he frowned.

What are you thinking? Galladrin asked.

He said it’s a matter of life and death, Coragan replied.

Yes, he did, Galladrin agreed.

Coragan sighed. The problem with having money to live off of was that, at times, there seemed little to do. Galladrin and he had played a dozen games of Kings and Jack in the last three days alone. Although it was nice to be able to rest and relax sometimes, he found boredom to be a frequent and unwelcome companion. Now, here he was: bored, playing card games, while a woman he did not know might lose her life. There was an injustice there; an injustice bred from inactivity and apathy. And that was something he did not want on his conscience.

We’ll go, he said.

The rain came down, strong and steady; it collected in the cobblestone streets of the city and ran in runnels toward the sea. It was a determined rain, as resilient in purpose as a thousand surly sling stones drumming the earth with the fury of heaven.

Gaelan wrapped his dark green cloak about himself and stared sullenly across the market square while a thin stream of water from his sodden hair ran down the side of his nose and over his lip to drip from his chin. He shivered. Rain in Decendra, he thought. Not good.