“From your mouth to Reorx’s ears,” was all Brandon could think of to say.
SEVENTEEN
Gretchan watched warily as the wizard paced back and forth in front of her small cage. She didn’t know how long she’d been imprisoned, though she guessed that it was more than one day and less than two. Working to battle despair, she had found anger to be powerful medicine, so she focused on her fury.
There were many things to hate about the vile magic-user, beginning with the very philosophy of his order. Wizards of the black robes were those who practiced the darkest forms of magic. Anything was fair business to them in the quest for power. Killing, theft, corruption, controclass="underline" they were mere tools in the arsenal of any black wizard. Their god, Nuitari, was such a dark presence that his moon was invisible to all mortals, except those who dedicated themselves to the magic of that conscienceless deity.
And, too, she had seen enough of Willim’s works to further fuel her contempt and her rage. She knew that he had planned to kill the hapless but innocent Aghar Gus Fishbiter, disposing of him merely as a means to study the effectiveness of some lethal concoction. It was only pure dumb luck that had allowed the gully dwarf to escape.
Furthermore, Gretchan recognized the beautiful, raven-haired apprentice as the dark wizard who had accosted her in the forest with the intention of killing her. It had only been her dog’s alertness that had saved Gretchan from that assassination attempt. And the apprentice had made it clear that she was operating then under her master’s instructions.
All of those facts fueled her anger and allowed her to resist the powerful urge to fall into despair. So she did not despair, but she was thirsty and hungry-ailments strange to her since her clerical powers allowed her to conjure food and drink more or less whenever she required them.
That conjuring, however, required her to speak a prayer to her god, to ask his favor and blessing. Thus far during her confinement, she had been utterly silenced by the wizard’s spell, unable to vocalize so much as a whisper or even a whimper, which, in her deepest soul, was all she felt like mustering.
Still, she would not give the hideous magic-user the satisfaction of noting her distress. She watched impassively as he came closer, studying her. She sensed that there was something that he wanted to say, so she waited, keeping her guard up and her wits about her.
“You probably expect that you will die in my cage, do you not?” the Theiwar finally said, his voice a sibilant whisper. If he were going for charming, she reflected, he missed the mark by a good deal. She waited for him to continue without reacting to his question.
“You might die here; you very well could die here!” he growled, leaning menacingly close to the bars of her cage. His tone dropped again. “But you do not have to die here,” he teased.
Still she offered no reaction. The wizard frowned, paced away a few steps, and turned back. On the other side of the laboratory, his two female accomplices sat in chairs at a small table. Their backs were turned, but Gretchan sensed that they were listening carefully to every word their master spoke. The cleric spent a moment reflecting about those two, wondering how she might use them, if she might use them, as leverage against their master.
She had observed enough to know that the two females feared the wizard almost as much as Gretchan did. The elder one hated Willim as well for reasons that the priestess didn’t know but could easily imagine. The younger one-the beautiful one-simpered and flattered and generally seemed to worship the eyeless wizard. But in that devotion Gretchan sensed a falseness, and she spent some time wondering about the apprentice’s relationship with her master.
“There is a creature of Chaos in Thorbardin,” Willim continued. “My powers are great, but they fall within the sphere of arcane magic-the magic powered by the three moons, and most especially by Nuitari, the black moon.”
Tell me something I don’t know, Gretchan challenged him silently, still without changing her expression or posture.
“This Chaos creature is a fire dragon and, thus, is immune to the magic of my sphere. It knows only the void, and the void is now the province of the gods. Of Reorx, too, of course-he who is lord of all dwarves.”
She felt a swelling of contempt. To hear the name of her deity-a stern and powerful god to be sure, but also a god of fairness and hope-spoken by a creature such as the vile Black Robe practically turned her stomach. Still, she began to get an inkling of what the magic-user desired, and in that desire she found cause for hope-not just hope for survival, but also for freedom and, eventually, revenge.
Once again he took up her staff, holding it in his gloved hands, caressing the smooth wood in that insidious, sensual manner. Gretchan prayed to Reorx, begging her god to smite the cruel magic-user, even as she acknowledged to herself that that was not the way her deity usually worked. She knew that it was up to her to deal with her villainous foe.
For the first time, she allowed herself to display a visible reaction. She mouthed the words: I need to talk.
Willim the Black nodded and went over to the work-table, where he carefully laid the staff down amid a collection of potion bottles … scrolls … and other, not easily identified odds and ends. Turning back to the cage where she was imprisoned, he advanced and snapped his fingers. Gretchan cleared her throat and was astounded-and relieved-by how loudly the sound echoed in her ears.
“What makes you think I can defeat this monster?” she asked quickly.
He smirked, a truly grotesque smile twisting his eyeless face. “Because it will kill you if you don’t. And that is a chance I am willing to take.”
“But if I die, then you will die as well,” she challenged, though not with a great deal of confidence.
The wizard shook his head, dismissing the idea. “No, you don’t understand. I shall teleport myself away. You will face the monster when it comes for me. And it always comes for me. But there will be many others standing in its path as well.”
“You will have to let me have my staff,” Gretchan asserted.
“Yes, when the time is right,” Willim replied calmly. “Facet!” he barked without turning his face from the cleric’s. “Take the staff and hold it ready.”
The younger magic-user bowed and rose from her chair. Gretchan knew that the young female was an apprentice, and judging from her beauty and the obsequious way in which she seemed to worship the wizard, the priestess guessed that she served her master in many ways-not all of them having to do with her magical training. With another disgusted look at that scarred visage, she reflected on the thought of physical intimacy with such a dastardly creature. It was impossible for her to comprehend. She could even smell his fetid breath, like the stink of a pile of fertilizer, and he was six feet away from her.
The dwarf maid came over carrying Gretchan’s staff, and when Willim turned and held out his hands, she gave it to the wizard. He took the long shaft of wood absently, running his hands up and down the smooth surface while he continued to pace. Gretchan wanted to shout at him to drop the precious talisman, to get his corrupt and filthy hands off her treasure. But she suspected that such a tantrum would only please him, so she remained silent.
“I shall give it to you when the monster approaches but not before. If your god is with you, he may-I cannot say for sure, but he may-consent to match his own strength with that of the fire dragon. If Reorx is willing and mighty enough, the power of this staff may be enough to vanquish the creature. If he is not willing, you will perish and many others will perish, and I will teleport away to fight another day.”