Curse of the Shadowmage - Mark Anthony [20]
And he never will, Morhion thought fiercely.
The mage drew a small knife from the sheath at his hip. Slowly, carefully, he used the sharp tip to trace a thin red line into the flesh of his arm. Crimson blood oozed forth.
"The pact is binding," Morhion whispered hoarsely.
With menacing speed, Serafi knelt and caught Morhion's arm in a freezing grip. "Ah, the sweet substance of life!" the spirit cried exultantly in his sepulchral voice. "How I long to taste it again…"
A low moan of fear escaped Morhion's lips as the spectral knight bent over the mage's bleeding arm and began to drink.
Four
The autumn moon rose full and bright in the dark sky, casting its golden light over the little village of Corm Orp. Tam Acorn threw open the blue wooden door of his burrow and hurried outside. Tonight was the annual Harvest Festival, and he didn't want to be late for the dancing, the merrymaking, and-most important-the sugarberry pies. Hastily, he locked the door to his tidy underground home with a brass key and scurried down the winding path that led toward the center of the village.
Tam arrived red cheeked and breathless at the village commons just in time to see Pel Baker pull his first batch of bubbling sugarberry pies out of a brick oven. Moments later, Tam was two silver coins poorer and two steaming pies richer. Slipping one pie into a pocket, he began happily munching the other. He burned his tongue, and dark syrup ran down his chin, dribbling onto his green jacket and yellow waistcoat. Tam did not care. Sugarberry pies were his favorite part of the Harvest Festival.
Villagers were streaming into the open greensward now. While most of Corm Orp's residents were halflings like Tam, there were a few big folk as well. They lived in the stone houses that surrounded the village commons, while the diminutive halflings preferred to dwell in snug underground burrows. A bonfire flared to life in the center of the commons, chasing away the night. Laughter rang out, along with the clinking of cider-filled mugs. Tiny halfling children scurried about in an ongoing game of hide-and-seek. The rich scents of hot sausages, honey bread, and baked apples filled the air.
A call went up for the dancing to begin. "Somebody fetch old Quince Piper!" called out a plump, middle-aged halfling named Rin Miller.
Shouts of happy agreement rang out, but one voice rose above the others.
"I'm afraid my grandfather is ill," Ali Bramble said sadly to the faces turned toward her. "He won't be able to play for you tonight."
A collective groan of despair came from the throng. Tam sighed in disappointment. True, sugarberry pies were the best part of the Harvest Festival, but things wouldn't be complete without dancing to the music of Quince Piper's flute.
Rin Miller frowned gloomily. "I don't suppose there's anyone else who can play music as well as old Quince?" he asked without much hope.
"I can," a voice replied.
The crowd gasped with surprise, and the crowd hastily parted.
The stranger was a striking fellow. He was dressed all in black, except for his cloak of midnight blue, and he rode a horse as pale as a ghost. Dismounting, the stranger approached the bonfire. Tam thought there was something odd about the man. He seemed pale and haggard, though perhaps it was simply a trick of the flickering shadows. The man drew something from a pouch at his belt. It was a set of polished bone pipes.
"Well, now, I don't know," Rin said suspiciously. "This is all highly irregular, and-"
Rin stopped short as the stranger lifted the pipes to his lips and began to play. The most beautiful music Tam had ever heard drifted on the air. The villagers listened in rapt silence as the stranger's