“It’s there,” he muttered. “All yours at last, Mendel.”
“The Arcyan Crest!” The gleeful figure scooped up the brooch, cradling it in his hands. Mendel’s eyes surveyed his prize, fingers stroking the fine craftsmanship.
Vandor Grizt studied the mage in disgust. Mendel did not deserve such a treasure. He himself had made no effort, had sacrificed nothing. Grizt, at least, had the credo of a thief; he worked to earn his prizes. Mendel could thank the little girl for the Arcyan Crest. Only because she had been willing to part with her mother’s heirloom for Vendor’s sake did the black robe now have more power with which to stoke his ego.
“So long. .” cooed the aged spellcaster. “So long have I sought you. . you are mine now. . mine.”
Mendel had his great desire, now Vandor would at long last have his. “Mendel. . my body.”
“Cease your prattling! I’ve more important things on my mind!” The archmage went back to stroking the artifact.
Grizt, this time, would not be silenced. “My body, Mendel! You said that if I stole this for you, I might-”
“Talk to me no more about your wants, dandy! You’ll obey my every command or suffer the consequences for it! Don’t think you have any choice!”
“But my body-”
“You have no body.” Mendel glared at him. “Not for some thirty years, fool! Did you think I’d waste precious power on preserving that bit of tawdry meat? What does the husk of one paltry thief compare to my needs? Be satisfied with serving me, Vandor Grizt,” he said, laughing, “for you’ll be doing so for the rest of my life!”
A roar of agony escaped Vandor. He threw himself against his side of the mirror, trying to reach for the throat of the monstrous mage. All these years he had been tricked. What a fool he had been. Mendel had led him by the nose, making promises he never intended to fulfill. Gabriella had thought him a ghost; how accurate she had been. Vandor the ghost, dreaming of what never could be, must have amused his master.
To hold a woman again, drink fine ale, feel the warmth of day without fearing its searing heat. .
A ghost. All these years he had been nothing but a ghost.
Vandor tried to force himself through the mirror. He felt something begin to give. He pushed harder, fury and bitterness fueling his strength.
Unfortunately, Mendel saw him and reacted accordingly. The Arcyan Crest in one hand, Mendel touched his medallion with a smile.
A shock of unprecedented pain coursed through Vandor. It was worse than ever, undoubtedly enhanced by the Arcyan Crest. Screaming, the thief fell back into the mirror, practically sobbing.
“I think. . yes, I think I’ve had enough of you,” the vulturish mage proclaimed. “This would be a most excellent time to test the limits of the Arcyan Crest. I will draw the magic from the mirror and from what little there is in the spell binding you as well and augment the potential of the crest. Let’s see if the tales of its power are true.”
Grizt fell against the other side of the mirror, gasping, still recovering. “Damn. . damn you, Mendel.”
“You should be happy, Vandor Grizt. I am putting you out of your suffering-and at least you won’t have to suffer very long.”
Holding the artifact high about his head, Mendel muttered a chant. The phantom thief braced himself, certain that his end was near. In a twisted way, Mendel had spoken the truth. At least Vandor was grateful that it would be swift.
The sinister spellcaster spouted a final word and waited. Vandor felt the edges of the mirror quiver.
Suddenly, Mendel stumbled and gasped. His hand shook uncontrollably, nearly dropping the Arcyan Crest. The dark mage struggled to keep his grip on the artifact, his face already covered in sweat from the effort. A red glow rose around the magical crest.
“How. . dare. . you?” Mendel hissed, staring not at Vandor but at the magical brooch. He looked suddenly smaller, drained.
Vandor blinked. Instead of absorbing magic from the mirror and channeling it into Mendel, the crest instead seemed to be sapping the power from him.
You have to give it to him. Sir Vandor. I don’t want him hurting you again.
Gabriella had said that to the thief, her face so old, so unnerving. Had the strange child planned something sinister? Did she now reach out from her home to punish Grizt’s captor? Could she have the power to do that?
Mendel’s entire body began to shiver, and the gnarled spellcaster’s skin, already so pale, grew parchment white. Nevertheless, Mendel fought back. He did not seem at all prepared to surrender.
“Insolence!” he snapped, clawing at the air. “You dare? You dare? I am Mendel! Mendel!”
The black-robed mage muttered something else and slowly but surely seemed to regain his footing. Vandor’s hope turned to dread; now it seemed the Arcyan Crest no longer rebelled against its wielder, but rather Mendel’s distant adversary, a young girl with much magical ability but, as Vandor knew, lacking the maturity to best manipulate her skills.
Now Mendel was gaining strength, and the young girl, back in her home, must be losing hers. Grizt knew his master well enough to realize that Mendel would continue to drain the girl until nothing remained. The thought that Prester’s daughter would die horribly for his sake upset the thief more than he would have guessed.
The insidious wizard was standing straight now, laughing at his unseen foe. “How I’ve waited for this, Prester! How I’ve waited to remove your smug presence from Ansalon!”
Prester! Mendel did not even know that he threatened the life of Prester’s child, a young girl, not that he would have cared. The mage believed that only his old rival could command the power to contest him thusly.
With all his strength Vandor reached out as best as he could, taking advantage of his master’s distraction. Try as he might, though, even with half his torso free of the mirror, the ghost-thief could not reach the black mage.
The thief pulled back and tried something else. Desperately he threw himself against the mirror again, battering it from inside. It had to give, had to give!
Suddenly he saw it. Near the spot where Mendel had struck the minor before, a tiny crack had developed. It was not much of a crack, but it was enough to somehow weaken the magical mirror. Desperately, Grizt struck at this spot again and again, knowing each second that passed pushed his young savior to the brink.
Suddenly, without warning, the crack gave and Vandor Grizt found himself falling through the mirror.
The thief rose from the floor, staring in disbelief. He saw he had some solidity, even though he could still see through himself from certain angles.
Solidity meant that he could put his hands around Mendel’s throat.
However, his action had not gone unnoticed. Mendel, watching him with a smirk, waved the medallion in his clutch. “The knight-errant, Vandor Grizt? Or simply too much taste for revenge? A bad idea to leave the mirror. Don’t forget I am still your master.”
Pain wracked Vandor, forcing him down onto one knee. He looked up, watching in mounting horror as Mendel worked his spell. Heat began to overwhelm the thief. The longer he struggled futilely, the worse the heat was destined to become. Already his garments began to blacken, the process swifter than ever thanks to the Arcyan Crest.
Vandor forced himself to his feet, fighting impossibly against the power of Mendel’s cursed medallion. He no longer feared for his existence, earthly or otherwise. He knew he would die. All he sought to do was reach the foul mage and find some way to prevent Mendel from ever torturing anyone else again.
“Lie down. . and burn away,” his master growled, perhaps just a bit hard-pressed. “You’re nothing but vapor, anyway, dandy! Simply a puff of smoke.”