Kalrakin paused to admire one of the ruined paintings. Once it had been an intricate moving painting, a ritual display of elegant dancers performing their stylized steps at a grand ball in the grand manor of the Lord of Palanthas. The sorcerer snorted in amusement-the painting still moved-but now the lord in the image was dead, impaled by a decorative halberd, while the dancers moaned and writhed on the floor, their faces pocked by plague, blood running from their mouths and ears.
He placed his hand against the wall, and a blue-lit doorway opened. Two steps took Kalrakin through the outer wall of the Tower, emerging at ground level. He advanced until he stood just within the gates in the outer courtyard. Here his golem stood silent watch, its marbled brows tiered in a constant frown, the boulders of its fists dangling at its sides. Those fists, at the low terminus of two long, powerful arms, hung high above the tall sorcerer's head.
"Keep a careful watch, my stone sentry," Kalrakin said, tracing his hand over the craggy outline of one of its massive boots. "Be ready to smite the lackeys of the three gods-I know they will be here soon."
Of course there came no reply, but the wild mage nodded serenely, utterly reassured by the emanations of readiness he felt within the stone sentry. When it was needed, the golem would be ready.
Then Kalrakin was back in the Tower of Sorcery, this time in the hallway outside that vexing door that still resisted his most determined efforts. He stood on one of the damaged floorboards, staring at the barrier contemptuously. He toyed with the thought of another convulsive blast of magic, but decided the contemptible chamber was not worth his efforts; instead, he turned and stalked away, following the broken boards like a rickety bridge toward the stone stairwell at the end of the hall.
Halfway there he halted, frozen in his tracks. His mind churning with pent-up frustration, he whirled, his long finger extended toward that vexing door. An inarticulate cry exploded from his mouth, and wild magic shimmered in the air. That power lashed out, smashed into the door-and then burst backward against the spellcaster, slamming Kalrakin down onto the remains of the floor, rolling him along until he fell between two support beams, barely catching himself with a desperate grab of one lanky arm.
He pulled himself back and staggered toward the stairs, growing stronger every minute. Lost in thought, he opened another dimension door in the stone wall. His next step brought him back to the anteroom.
"Luthar! Bring me drink!" he called, his voice booming and echoing through the empty chamber and its towering adjacent hallways.
"Yes-of course, Master!" Kalrakin heard footsteps from the direction of the kitchen and, moments later, Luthar hastened into view. He carried a crystal pitcher, the outside of it slick with condensation.
"Chilled water," offered the short mage.
Taking the pitcher with a swipe of his hand, Kalrakin leaned his head back and poured the ice-cold contents into his gaping mouth. He ignored the spillage, though in fact much of the water splashed through his beard, soaked his robe, and fell into a growing puddle on the floor. When the pitcher was empty, the mage sent it flying across the hall; it shattered against the stone hearth, and joined the wreckage on the floor.
"Would you like something to eat?" asked Luthar.
"Hah!" Kalrakin sneered at the very idea. "Wild magic is my breath, and the body of this tower is my bread! I have no need of sleep, and I have no need of food, not while this ancient totem still stands."
"Dare I ask-how long will that be?" said the shorter mage somewhat wearily. "I am ready to go away from here, Master. There is a sense of doom about this place that allows me no peace."
"We do not need peace, my friend-for we have power!"
Magic sparked from Kalrakin's slender fingertips, arcing through the room in repeated, visible streams. The stone over the door began to melt, flowing like mud, seeping right across the wooden panel that had allowed access into and out of the tower. Pieces of black stone tumbled to the floor, sparking and flaming, rolling around the room, trailing plumes of thick smoke. Luthar cried out and fled from the room, though not before one of the rolling chunks of molten rock scorched the hem of his robe.
Kalrakin took scant notice. He flexed his fist and his voice rose in a keening, bestial cry, and still the very substance of the Tower broke apart and flowed down and added to his magic. Deeper and deeper the molten stone piled, sludgy waves of darkness rolling down across already-cooling base elements. By the time he was finished, the door was gone, buried under a sheen of hard black stone.
Chapter 23
Pathway and Guardian
See how the forest is thick against the slope, there in the foothills?" Coryn asked, pointing toward the foot of the mountain.
"Yes," agreed Jenna, pausing and leaning on the staff that she was carrying. Dalamar too came to a stop, resting on his haunches as they looked down the steep slope.
"It wasn't there last night," the White Robe pointed out. "Last night that was a dry plain for as far as I could see."
"Then Wayreth has, at last, come to us," Jenna said, with a surprising rush of relief. "We have no time to waste!"
Coryn looked back at the lofty ridge they had descended. The summit itself was already out of sight behind the mountain's shoulder. She knew that they had negotiated the steepest parts of the descent, which had so far taken much of the Night of the Eye and half of the following day. The sun was slipping into the afternoon, and the air was growing more humid, and warmer, as they came down from the lofty elevation.
Though they had gone without sleep for a whole day, none of the three had wanted to rest on the mountaintop. Now, the sight of the forest they sought, the wood that surrounded the Tower of High Sorcery, infused them with new energy. They worked their way down the slope as quickly as possible, stepping sideways, Jenna leaning heavily on her staff while the more agile Cory and Dalamar skidded ahead, waiting just long enough for the Red Robe to catch up.
As they neared the ground, they could see the full vast-ness of the forest and smell the verdant wood-a mixture of pollen, foliage, and rot. Coryn recognized with certainty the forest that had provided her with a path to the Tower. The trees were tall, gnarled, and majestic. Those strands of moss still looked like beards, as if venerable old men formed a great congregation in the thick of the woods. Occasional birds hooted and cawed, though she did not hear the distinctive avian summons that marked her first visit. This time, though, she thought she imagined a layer of mist or vapor deep in the woods, lurking between the trees, collecting as a miasma in the hollows.
A path became apparent as soon as they reached the edge of the wood. Jenna seemed to find a renewed sense of youth and vitality as she strolled along, and Coryn found she had to hurry to make sure she didn't fall behind.
"How long has it been since we treaded these pathways?" mused the Red Robe, regarding Dalamar with an almost affectionate sidelong glance. "It feels as welcome and familiar as ever, I admit."
"Certainly there were many times I felt we would never be here, never find this place again," Dalamar acknowledged. He smiled wryly. "Even as recently as a few days ago."
Coryn was content to follow her two companions in reverent silence. Birds cried out familiarly in the depths of the woods. But that mist was an oppressive intruder, she sensed, growing thicker and ever more poisonous as the Master of the Tower lost his battle with the sorcerer Kalrakin.