The voice put the general’s already taut nerves on edge, but he wouldn’t let any walking corpse tell him what to do. “Where’s Valkyn? Where’s your master, ghoul?”
When the lone guardian did not reply, Cadrio marched forward, his sword at the ready. Behind him, slightly more reluctant, came Rudolpho and the others.
The shadow servant pointed at the floor just before Cadrio.
A flash of fire drove the men back. The fire traced after them, almost as if it were alive … and hungry.
Only Rudolpho stood his ground, already casting a spell. “Simple fireworks, General! I’ll have them countered in just-”
What looked like a wide, toothy mouth formed in the flames. Suddenly it snapped forward, growing ten times larger in an instant.
The fiery mouth swallowed Rudolpho whole before the mage even had time to realize his fate.
Cadrio and the soldiers stumbled back, each certain that he would be next. The mouth vanished, but the fire advanced, driving them farther back. The invaders tried to retreat to the ruined doorway, but the flames were faster.
A wall of blazing heat surrounded Marcus Cadrio and his men, imprisoning them. The flames burned so close that the general felt as if he were going to be boiled alive in his armor.
And once more the ghastly guardian repeated: “Waaait …”
Sweat pouring down his body, his armor like a tight-fitting oven, General Cadrio knew he had no choice now but to comply.
* * * * *
Tyros screamed.
“The pain should eventually numb you,” Valkyn remarked calmly from somewhere beyond the other mage’s tear-filled gaze. “They all cease screaming eventually.”
A sensation such as Tyros had never thought to experience coursed through him. He felt as if his body burned, although no flame could sear him from the inside as this agony did. The fair-haired wizard knew what assailed his body, knew what caused him such pain, and that knowledge only made his situation that much more terrible.
Magic-the elemental force that had, since his first teachings, grown to be so much a part of Tyros-filled him, touched him each passing moment, became anathema. It ripped the mage apart from within, entering his body, coursing through his very being and flowing out into Valkyn’s arcane device. Tyros drew magic into him, more magic than he could ever use, and then gave it to his captor. He could not do otherwise. The spells the black wizard had utilized to create his diabolic mechanism demanded it.
The arcane device and the spells with which it had been imbued forced Tyros to repeat the process without pause. So much magic entering, filling, then leaving his body in a rush took a toll on him, both physically and mentally. The pain threatened to drive him mad, and the tremendous magical forces, more than a mortal body should have to accept, ate away at his imperfect human form. Given time, the process would drain Tyros completely, leaving behind a burned-out husk.
Tyros stood with arms and legs stretched to the side, manacles holding him securely in place. Only now did he notice that the manacles had not been forged from iron, but rather some more conductive metal, perhaps copper. Tyros realized that, in addition to keeping him chained, they served also to transmit the magic to the columns, where the great crystalline spheres then stored or discharged it as needed.
Above the trapped mage, the twin spheres crackled with renewed vigor. Obviously Tyros was a more useful component to the mad device than burned-out Leot. Even deep within the castle, Tyros could hear the thundering of the sorcerous storm as it grew to new life.
This, then, was how the spellcaster had chosen to work around the cumbersome design of previous citadels. Although Valkyn did not see it so, his powerful spellwork demanded at least as much, if not more, power. Leot had lasted only a matter of days; Tyros might last that long, but little longer. Valkyn would have to constantly capture new wizards to keep his creation afloat.
The mad mage had turned from the teachings of the orders, even those of Nuitari. Valkyn had chosen to make himself a renegade, one who served his own evil, not that of any god.
Yet Valkyn clearly did not see himself as evil … just determined in his research.
“Gwynned will be the final test for my castle, Tyros. I will need the city and its resources to further my experiments. The choice could not be better! Do you know that the mountains of Northern Ergoth are where these crystals were originally mined? I’ll be needing more of them, both to replace these eventually and to ready citadels still to come!”
Tyros had always been ambitious, even to the point of arrogance, but clearly Valkyn had outdone him. Gritting his teeth and blinking away tears, Tyros forced out, “And how do you … hope to keep them all … afloat?”
Valkyn smiled. “There will always be magic and those taught to wield it.”
“But who … can you trust to fly your demented creations? Cadrio? The gargoyles?”
“No. My shadow servants are more loyal. Give them a command and they obey it to the letter. They will serve as my captains.”
Tyros tried to sneer, but his pain no doubt made the expression a pathetic one. “As no one else can be trusted? You will become … a very lonely, very nervous emperor of Ansalon if you can trust no others to serve you.”
The smiling figure did not reply at first, instead going to the column on Tyros’s right and inspecting the symbols carved into it. A frown briefly replaced the smile as Valkyn touched his gloved hands to the column and started mumbling. The symbols suddenly shifted and changed. New patterns appeared.
Valkyn pulled back, mulling over his work. “There! That’s better. That should regulate the flow better and keep you alive a little longer.” Seeing no gratitude in the prisoner’s expression, Valkyn shrugged, finally replying to Tyros’s remark. “A tiresome role, Emperor of Ansalon. Ariakas would have been welcome to it had he lived. I thought Cadrio would do well so long as he understood his place, but I’ve been forced to rethink that alliance.” He clasped his hands together. “And speaking of the general, as he, too, has made his way so diligently to Castle Atriun, it behooves me to greet him and perhaps admonish him properly. If you will excuse me?”
A flash of light burst forth where Valkyn had stood. At the same time, new, sharper pain ripped through Tyros. He screamed and did not stop screaming for more than a minute. When at last he could keep himself from crying out, the ragged wizard looked around. Valkyn had completely disappeared. The shock that Tyros had felt had been due to the mad mage’s latest spell, which had drawn upon the device. So each time Valkyn cast a spell of strength, the magic would course through Tyros.
“What a fool I’ve been.…” He had dreamed of capturing the citadel and flying it back, creating a legend that would rival that of the motley band that had somehow managed to defeat Lord Ariakas and drive Takhisis back. Instead, he would be a minor part of another legend, Black Valkyn’s Death Citadel. Tyros had witnessed what Atriun could do against gold dragons; surely nothing else could match it so long as its master kept the foul edifice powered.
As for that, as Valkyn had said, there would always be magic and those taught to wield it.
Another surge caught him unaware. The helpless spellcaster let loose a roar of agony, at the same time feeling a slight shift in the castle. Atriun had begun moving toward Gwynned, and Tyros could do nothing to stop it. Nothing.
Again the devilish device flared. Tyros cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Nothing …
* * * * *
Serene lay atop the immense, soft bed, staring, without seeing, at the gilded decor of the sumptuous chamber Valkyn had provided her. Love had truly blinded her, for how could she not have noticed his dark ambition? He had played her for a fool the whole time. Serene had thought him a kindred spirit, one fascinated by the wonders of the natural world. Instead, he was the foulest of monsters. She did not quite know what her former love’s spellwork entailed, but in the process, it turned his fellow mages into soulless puppets, animated husks who existed only to obey Valkyn’s will.