Drawing a shuddering breath, Andrak opened his eyes, glaring into the dismal gloom about him, and cold oaths fell into the darkness: “Cursed be Dalavar, and cursed be his Silver Wolves!”
Every day for a month or so, Andrak came unto the dark chamber and sat in the blood-red throne before the Rage Hammer, inner eye perceiving the Kammerling’s aura. And every day his ethereal self sought out the two who would presume to take this token of power unto themselves. Yet they remained within the Wolfwood, of that he was certain, for the slow, steady pulsations of the hammer’s invisible luminance changed not.
But at last there came a day when he detected a faint increase in the cadence of the unseen nimbus. They move!
Again his ethereal self rushed above the obverted land, yet his mind was ’wildered, for in no direction could he sense his prey, and nought but randomness guided him. Cursing, he sped unto the warded Wolfwood, but nothing, no one, did he find outside its boundaries, and he could not seek within. Has Death claimed them? Do they abandon their quest?
Again his dark spirit fled back unto his fortress. And once more Andrak tested the hammer’s pulse. Aye, faster. Still they come. The Mage paced across the room and stopped before a tall window slit, now covered, to block the sunlight, for it was day. Andrak staring but not seeing southward, where lay grey-walled mountains; shouldering up among them was one of black. But his mind did not dwell upon the mountains of Xian; instead he pondered the problem at hand. In some way the two are warded. Meddler Dalavar! Not until I can physically see them, with inner or outer eye, will I be able to break his charm. The day will come when he shall pay for this tampering. I will see to it!
He abandoned his ethereal search for the two, instead watching the Kammerling, as slowly the tempo of the aura’s beat increased, and Andrak knew that the pair were drawing nearer. Are these the twain spoken of in the prophecy? He did not know. Yet every day his certainty grew, and with it grew his fear.
Closer and closer the duo came, on that point he was clear, for day by day the beat quickened. And so too did Andrak’s heart.
Cruelty was a thread that ran throughout each of his days, yet of late it grew as a malignancy wild, for this time it was two who came seeking, and augury foretold that two would succeed where others failed. And so, driven by terror, his tyranny increased, for are not cruelty and tyranny but outward manifestations of inner fear?
Day upon day, agonizing moment upon agonizing moment, trudging step after trudging step, they came onward, creeping across the land. Exactly where they were, he could not say, though how far away was another matter, for, based upon the hammer’s pulse, he could gauge their range. And inch by inch they drew closer, as sand would trickle grain by grain through the binding stricture of a vast hourglass.
Back and forth he paced and raged, as would a caged beast, and those that served him gave wide berth to escape his eye, his wrath. And he drew forth his maps and plotted lines and routes between Wolfwood and his holt. And using his arts he set creatures searching along these routes, across these paths, yet none succeeded. Either the twain was not along this way or that, or they had not yet come, or had already passed, or the ward they bore protected them from these creatures, these sendings of Andrak, as well.
And still the pulsations of the hammer’s unseen aura edged upward as the pair plodded across the land, slowly, steadily, day-by-day drawing nearer. And slowly, steadily, matching their pace, grew Andrak’s rage.
But there came a night when the chamber rang with laughter, for Andrak had conceived a plan that would rid him of these pests; yet it was a plan that he alone could not achieve, for he had not the power to do so. . but there was one who did. I will seek out the Master, gain his aid. It will amuse him to do so.
Far below the ice and deep within the rock, Andrak’s form stood before a great darkness from which malevolence oozed. The Mage’s image bowed down before the throne, and sibilant laughter hissed forth and washed over him. All about, massive ebon stone sucked up the light, casting no reflection, and black velvet tapestries clothed the walls. Twisted servants scuttled among chairs at a great table, setting a banquet in place, a banquet for many, though no one ever came. Hundreds of feet above this deep dwelling, a harsh barren wilderness lay clutched in perpetual ice, and a howling wind thundered upon the frozen waste, hammering upon pinnacle and cravasse alike, its whelming force reshaping the very ’scape. But none of this raw elemental power was felt down within the depths, down within the black fortress, for there, other energies were present.
“Andrak,” whispered the dark one’s voice.
“My Lord Modru,” answered the Mage, falling silent again.
Long moments passed, and still they faced one another. Master and Apprentice, for it was Modru who had seduced Andrak into the ways of darkness, capturing first his mind, and then his spirit. How Modru had done so was simplicity in itself, for ages past, in the night, in disguise, had come the whispering one, posing to the then youthful Mage a seemingly innocent question: “Who lives in the mirror when there is no light?”
Young Andrak became obsessed with finding the answer. And his studies took him deeper along the forbidden paths. Years he spent constructing virgin silver specula-mirrors cast in total darkness, mirrors untouched by light, surfaces as yet unsullied by reflection-some within the interior of large enclosed spheres in which he lived in blackness, where by feel alone he mirrored the concave surface so that if there had been light there would have been reflection all about him. Yet no light did he show as he slavered silver and glass upon the inside of the great sphere: working rapidly lest the air give out; risking death, for he was driven to know who dwelt within the dark speculum.
And now and again Modru would come in the night and say that which would draw Andrak even further within the embrace of foul teachings.
Obsessed, the Mage went at last to dwell with the whisperer, in Gron, in Modru’s stronghold, in the Iron Tower. And there Andrak delved into arcane scrolls and forgotten dusty tomes, tomes warded and locked with runes of power.
And there came a night when the tower was filled with shrieks of terror, horrified agonized howlings rent from a throat beyond enduring. And Modru smiled unto himself, for he knew that Andrak had succeeded, had seen.
And when at last he succeeded in answering the question, when Andrak knew beyond all doubt who. . what. . did live in the mirror when there was no light, then was his spirit trapped inextricably within the inescapable clutch of Evil, within the iron grip of Modru.
And so they faced one another, Apprentice and Master, evil and greater evil; and endless moments perished, slain in the corridors of time. At last a long sibilant whisper came from the darkness upon the throne. “And what brings you to my retreat, sweet Andrak?”
“Master”-Andrak’s voice was obsequious-“the prophecy of the Kammerling is perhaps in danger of being fulfilled.”
“Which prophecy of the Kammerling?” The room seemed to writhe with Modru’s hissing whisper.
“That two shall succeed where others have failed. For two are on the way, and they have escaped every trap of mine.” Andrak’s servile tone gave way to anger. “They are aided by Dalavar.”
“Dalavar the Wolf lover?” The gloating edge left Modru’s tone. “A thorn, that one.”