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In a perfect world, she would have acquired far stronger spells before attempting to escape from vorgs into a haunted ruin. Alas, she had yet to make perfection’s acquaintance.
“He is a warrior, lost in the black,” Rafel said. “The tapping is his guide through a dark and dangerous place, a land where only the bravest among us have the will to survive.”
Horrible noises echoing through dark ruins have a unique ability to lend speed to the feet of the weary,
Slaken was his one magical possession, its very existence as ironic as his own. The dull black blade, darker than a starless night, absorbed light rays, leaching them into the handle. There they warped and twisted, dancing along the strange runes carved into its surface. The effect was fluid, as if light flowed along the narrow channels the script cut into the weapon’s landscape.
The blade was so magical that it had no magic. It was magic twisted in upon itself so that one spell blocked another until none worked. In fact, no spell had any effect upon the knife, nor upon the person who had made the blood-bond with the weapon, and only Arn could hold the blade.
The wielder raised his staff, his voice rising in singsong spell chant. Arn’s black blade opened a new mouth below the sorcerer’s chin as the last syllable turned into a gargle.
Everywhere he looked, strange colors danced back and forth, always changing, never repeating a previous pattern, the uncanny beauty of chaos.
As he feared, the vibrations from the landslide had dislodged other rocks higher on the canyon walls, sending them plunging down toward him. Wandering preachers gathering their congregations, they charged into the canyon.
The worst thing about existing solely on beans was that they did not allow you to forget them between meals.
Wind did not whine through the cracks in doors and shutters. It howled, a wounded animal spewing out all its pain and anger at the world.
It scurried along the hallways, picking up the dust from the floors in little eddying whorls, as if trying to grow baby storms into replicas of their mother outside.
But this was instead the echo of undying discord, the howl of a spirit whose torture knew no end.
