• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 725 0

'The deathmirror beetle should only link us in pain!“ She shrank back from the divine aura, step by step, but the blue glow steadily followed her. Finally she backed up against the ledge of the chamber's arched window. The tendril of holy light coiled about her like a shroud. ”It's burning me!“ she screamed. ”Help me! Someone please help me!“ ”I will help you, mistress,“ a wet, bubbling voice croaked. Toz pulled himself slowly to his feet, the knife still lodged in his chest. He grinned, his jagged teeth stained dark with blood. ”I am your servant, after all.“ With a cry that might have been sorrow as easily as rage, the kobold lunged at the sorceress, grasping at her with gnarled hands. Entangled in a fatal embrace, the two tumbled backward over the window's ledge. Kelshara shrieked. ”But I am going to live forev…" Her cry ended abruptly. The necromancer's life had ended. But her magic had not. The tendril of azure light still linked her to Tyveris, reaching him from outside the chamber's window. Even as he watched, a darkness seemed to climb up the shimmering rope like a sinewy viper as black as midnight. It was the final culmination of her spell. Death had taken Kelshara. Now it was coming for him.

The darkness snaked toward him along the tendril, closer, no more than an arm's length away. One touch, and Tyveris knew that he would die. But how could he fight death itself? It will protect you in the dark days to come. There was no time to think about it. Gripping the quill tightly, Tyveris thrust his fist toward the thread of darkness. “In the name of Oghma, be gone!” His voice boomed through the chamber. Blue light flashed, and thunder shook the tower to its very foundation. The magic was shattered. Shards of azure and onyx flew in all directions. Then came silence. Tyveris blinked. Both the dark and light tendrils were gone. The ancient quill lay in his hand, looking dull and quite mundane. Tyveris shook his head in wonderment. His body ached terribly, but he was alive. Carefully he tucked the relic back into his belt. He turned and walked slowly from the chamber, leaving his bloodstained sword where it lay on the floor. The weapon had failed him. His faith had not. He made his way down the stairs and into the night. The storm had ended, and the moon was out, casting its silvery light over the new layer of snow that cloaked the ground, making everything seem somehow fresh and pure. He found Kelshara and Toz among the rocks in the desolate courtyard, their twisted bodies covered in a burial shroud of windblown snow. The Tear of Everard lay in the necromancer's outstretched palm, unblemished and perfect. Tyveris bent down and picked up the shining jewel from Kelshara's cold grip. Neither the sorceress's dark magic nor the fall from the tower had damaged the Tear. Just more proof of Oghma's divine presence in the world, Tyveris decided, and he headed off into the night. * * * * * When Tyveris finally reached the abbey on a bright winter's afternoon, he found the gates open wide. It looked as if all the loremasters had gathered in the courtyard to greet him. He swung down from the pretty black palfrey, grinning foolishly at them all. The news of his battle with Kelshara-and his recovery of the Tear-had obviously proceeded him. “Welcome home, Loremaster Tyveris,” Mother Melisende said, her eyes sparkling brightly. “Welcome home.” The Family Business James Lowder “There's a rider coming,” the Shadowhawk hissed, his breath turning to steam in the chill midnight air. “You remember what I told you? You get 'alf of what we pinch from the bloke, right?” “Yes,” the young boy replied meekly. He picked at the loaf of stale bread jutting out of the small pack at his feet, then looked up at his father. With wide brown eyes, he pleaded to be released from the frightening task that loomed before him. In reply, the Shadowhawk frowned and pushed his son through the

tangled hedgerow separating them from the road. Artus Cimber tumbled through the thorny branches, recently laid bare by the first blustery days of winter. As he stood and brushed