Black wizards - Douglas Niles [84]
And so they waited. They would fight the undead army with earthmagic. When that was expended they would use sturdy clubs, sharp sickles, and even their bare hands. All of the druids were compelled by a single thought.
They must keep the desecrators from the Moonwell.
* * * * *
In the end, it was the boy who told the tale.
The old cleric had proved too stubborn, even for one of Razfallow's skill. Finally, the man had died, but even as he did so his lips only opened to croak a prayer to his goddess.
The lad, however, proved much more susceptible to the assassin's persuasive blade – particularly since he had watched his master die a death of unspeakable agony minutes earlier. A few quick nicks of the knife against the lad's cheek, and he was eager to talk.
"And where did they go from here?" asked Kryphon.
"The forest!" gasped the lad, pointing to the north. "He gave them a map of Dernall Forest. They fled there!"
"Again!" Doric said breathlessly. She stood beside Kryphon, her eyes bright with excitement. "Again with the knife!" she urged.
Razfallow looked to Kryphon, a question in his eyes. The wizard shook his head slightly, regretting the need to disappoint Doric. Still, they needed their information.
"You have suffered enough, child. Tell us the truth, and you may go."
"I am telling the truth," he sobbed. "My master helped them – one of them was hurt. Then he gave them a map and sent them on the road to the forest."
"How long ago?"
"They were here not three nights previously. If you hurry, you can catch them!" The boy was still terrified, but a glimmer of hope crept into his voice.
"What paths did they take?"
"I don't know!" wailed the youth, terrified. His eyes widened as Razfallow inched the bloody blade closer to his skin. "My master didn't tell me!"
"Very well," said Kryphon, turning to look around the chapel.
"Now?" said Doric. The mage nodded and walked away, deep in thought. He did not hear the pitiful, weakening cries of the lad as Razfallow slowly killed him. Doric, he knew, would be highly excited by the spectacle, and that was reward enough for him.
By the time the youth was dead, Kryphon had determined a course of action. First, he would use a charm spell to keep Razfallow out of the way. Then – Doric ran to him, tearing him from his thoughts. She clutched his arm tightly, her eyes still sparkling. Together they walked from the cleric's abode and place of worship. The pressure of the woman's body against him was maddening. The sight of blood had inflamed her in a way that Kryphon found delightful.
"Stand guard," he ordered the assassin, pulling Doric into the darkness. She willingly followed, throwing herself to the ground as soon as they were out of the assassin's sight. Their passion was brief but explosive. They used each other like animals in heat. Her fingernails raked his back, and his response was violent, swift, and satisfying, like an explosion of powerful magic.
"Now we must be on our way," he said brusquely, arranging his robe.
"Wait," said Doric, lazily rising to stretch. "Can I use my spell?" Her tone was supplicating, but with an undercurrent of tension that warned him against refusal.
"Very well," he agreed. "But quickly."
With a little squeal of delight, Doric turned and raised her finger, pointing at a chapel. Razfallow stood some distance away, never questioning the mage's delay. Good, thought Kryphon, my charm spell has beguiled him completely.
"Pyrax surrass Histar!" cried Doric, chanting the words to her most potent spell.
A small, bright ball floated lazily from the end of her finger and drifted slowly toward the building. Doric's eyes were wide and staring, and her lips were pulled back from her teeth in a ghastly grin. The pebble-size ball meandered through the chapel's open door.
"Byrassyll!" Doric's voice rose to a shriek.
The blackness of the night was overwhelmed by an orange glow