Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin)

  “She’s up ahead of us!” Galladrin cried. “We’re cut off!” He was truly alarmed now. Borak did not look at all well and Coragan still seemed half in a daze, as if his mind were fogged. Up ahead he could see the stairs leading to the lower floor and freedom. Unfortunately, between the small party and the staircase the woman stood. She had arrived moments before, bursting forth from a side passage, and now glided towards them on ethereal feet.

  Galladrin fumbled for another rose. He had only three left, but the need was dire. He knelt and started to place the flower on the floor.

  Borak shook his head, then gasped in pain. “No,” the huge warrior said. “Not here. It has to be a boundary, a crossing-over of some kind, like a doorway, or a coffin cover.”

  “Huh?” Galladrin asked, looking up.

  “It won’t work, we’re doomed.”

  Borak looked weary and ... beaten, something Galladrin had never dreamed he’d ever see. Beside the warrior, Coragan stood hunched over massaging his temples—he did not look ready for another confrontation either. Turning, Galladrin could see the woman steadily advancing forward, only thirty paces from them. Twenty paces ... fifteen ... Suddenly, Galladrin had an idea.

  “Come,” he said. “This way. We just passed what we need.”

  He ushered the other men back the way they had just come. One door. Two doors. Yes, there it was. The third door stood open just a crack. He could see the muddled array of footprints in the dust around it. He shoved Coragan through, and the light of the torch roared back, amplified a hundred times. Borak’s eyes lit up in hope, and he stumbled forward into the room.

  Galladrin turned to sight the woman, then stumbled back to avoid her grasp. His back slammed against the door frame and she lunged toward him. Cold fingers, hard as steel wrapped about his throat and others entwined themselves in his cloak. Blue eyes stared into his and a warm, inviting smile rolled across the woman’s features. He felt a tingle in his face, a gentle warmth within his breast. The woman’s lips peeled back and she leaned forward fangs extended.

  Galladrin twisted in her grasp. He stumbled through the doorway and landed heavily on the floor. He tried to crawl, hands and knees scraping along the stone, but something held him back. Turning, he looked. The woman stood in the archway with one hand wrapped about the end of his blue cloak. She stepped forward, pulling him toward her by the length of cloth.

  Suddenly, he went limp, whether from fear or compulsion he did not know. Strong, yet gentle hands supported him. He flailed weakly, but to no avail. The woman’s hand traced a line across his cheek. Her touch felt cold, yet soft ... and inviting. She cupped his chin and turned his head, staring into his eyes with liquid pools. She licked her lips. Somewhere inside of him, some part understood, and it writhed, screaming. She smiled. “I am sorry, you were a noble man. I do not want to kill you, but the master says I must ... And you did trespass in his lair.” He felt a cold tongue slide across his chest, lapping up the dripping blood. “You were very kind when I met you ... perhaps, Lucian will let me keep a pet.” Again, the tongue darted out, this time to caress his neck. Hot fetid breath splashed across his throat and he felt hopelessness dragging him down. His strength and will were gone.

  “Clarissa, over here!” It was Coragan’s voice, but Galladrin did not care. The Scythe-Bearer’s Sickle was coming, borne on a woman’s canine teeth.

  Clarissa looked up. “Wait your turn, I’ll take you—” she stopped, suddenly, and screamed. An inhuman howl, filled with rage and hate rattled Galladrin’s ears and seemed to shake the very stones of the castle.

  The mirrors, Galladrin thought. Coragan must have used a mirror.

  The rogue dropped to the floor and the woman retreated, clawing her eyes as if to rid them of some infernal vision. She backed through the door and out, disappearing from sight.

  Galladrin sighed in relief. She was gone. The Scythe-Bearer could wait. He struggled to his feet, then slammed hard against the floor. Again, he tried to crawl, his hands scraping uselessly on the floor. He flailed about desperately seeking purchase, yet he was being inexorably dragged backwards through the door. He choked as the cloak caught tight against his throat, then turned and braced each foot on either wall.

  He could see her, just beyond the arch. She gripped the end of his blue cloak in both her hands and pulled on it, dragging him toward a grisly demise.

  Gasping for breath, he pulled out his dagger. “You ... want it ... so much? ...” he said. “Keep it!” He drew his blade across the fabric and the cloth gave way with a loud tear. The woman disappeared into the shadows.

  Galladrin stood, regained his breath, and pulled out a rose. He slid it toward the doorway, then headed over to his friends.