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Well, no matter. Now to escape the mansion and make his way to the Magisterium chapterhouse and send the magi after the Moroaica. In the chaos he could leave Malarae. He had caches of money hidden throughout the city, and could easily escape and set himself up in comfort in some distant land.
Sicarion turned towards the mansion’s doors.
And as he did, the doors, the frame, and part of the surrounding wall exploded in a spray of shattered masonry and splintered wood.
The blast flung Sicarion to the floor, and he scrambled backward, coughing and wheezing in the masonry dust. A figure strode through the doors, a tall, thin man in the ragged clothes of a Nighmarian noble. A strange jade mask covered his features, carved in the expression of a serene face, and he carried a silver rod in his right hand, its length carved with Maatish hieroglyphs.
Sicarion’s spell to sense the presence of sorcery was still active, and he sensed mighty arcane forces upon the tall man.
Power enough, perhaps, to match the Moroaica.
“Where is she?” said the masked man in a hoarse voice, rod pointing at Sicarion. “Where is she?”
“What?” said Sicarion.
“You are one of the Moroaica’s minions,” said the masked man. “I sense her necromancy upon you. Where is she?”
Suddenly Sicarion knew just who had dispelled the wards around the mansion.
“You’re one of her enemies, aren’t you?” said Sicarion, his mind racing. “She must have collected a few over the centuries, if she is as old as she claims.”
“I am Talekhris,” said the masked man, “of the Sages of the Scholae of Catekharon. Where is the Moroaica? I have come to put an end to her evil.”
“She’ll just claim another body,” said Sicarion. If he could goad this Talekhris and the Moroaica into fighting one another, he could escape during the battle. “Why bother?”
“Because she is evil,” said Talekhris. “Because she has used my knowledge to wreak great harm, and will work greater harm if she is not stopped.” His jade mask took in Sicarion’s new sword hand. “And you are one of her disciples, one of her students in the vile necromancy of old Maat.”
The rod began to glow with silver light.
“Wait,” said Sicarion, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not…”
“Talekhris.”
The Moroaica stood at the end of the hall, pale and motionless and beautiful.
“This ends now,” said Talekhris, pointing his rod at her.
“No,” said the Moroaica, “it does not. How many times have you said that in the last seven hundred years? Time and time again I have slain you. Do you even remember them all?” Scorn entered her voice. “Do you even remember your own name? Or how to lace your boots?”
“I remember enough,” said Talekhris. “I will not allow you to continue using my knowledge to work harm.”
“Fool,” said the Moroaica. “Your Sages squat in your precious Tower, pouring over old books and hoarding knowledge you barely understand. I labor to remake the world and cast the gods from their thrones.”
“Your path is madness,” said Talekhris, “and you will kill the world.”
Again Sicarion shivered at the thought. An entire world dying at his hand…
Killing brought him pleasure.
How much pleasure would he derive from killing the entire world?
“No,” said the Moroaica, green fire burning around her fingers. “I will remake the world anew. And you will not stop me.”
They both struck at once, the Moroaica unleashing a volley of green flame and swirling darkness. Talekhris waved his rod, a ward of silver light appearing around him, and sent a blazing pulse of silver flame at the Moroaica. Their wards turned aside both attacks, but the howl of competing spells filled the hall, the mansion trembling around them.
And then both the Moroaica and Talekhris began fighting in earnest.
The roof and the walls exploded, both combatants using psychokinetic force to hurl volleys of jagged masonry at each other. The floor heaved, knocking Sicarion from his feet, and he saw his slaves fleeing and screaming as the mansion ripped itself apart around them. He supposed their disloyalty ought to enrage him, but he could not blame them for trying to escape.
In decades of assassinating powerful magi, he had never seen wielders of arcane force as mighty as Talekhris and the Moroaica.
Talekhris took step after staggering step at the Moroaica, the fury of his sorcery thundering around him. The floor between the Sage and the Moroaica cracked and melted, the air between them rippling as their competing spells wrestled. Sicarion got to his feet and again worked the spell to sense the presence of sorcery.
The amount of power he detected almost overwhelmed his senses.
Yet the Moroaica and the Sage were almost evenly matched. The Moroaica’s face was locked in a grimace of effort, her hands hooked into claws as her blood-colored robe billowed around her slender body. He could not see the Sage’s face beneath the jade mask, but the man’s arms trembled, sweat rolling down his neck.
Both their wards had collapsed, and they were just barely battering aside the attacks of the other. The first one to make a mistake would die.
Sicarion hesitated. Now was his chance to kill the Moroaica, to take his revenge for his sword hand. Of course, he had a new sword hand now. And if he struck down the Moroaica, Talekhris would kill him as one of the Moroaica’s disciples.
And the Moroaica would take a new body in short order anyway.
Better, perhaps, to simply slip away. He had planned to lure the Magisterium here to distract the Moroaica, but Talekhris had made a far superior distraction. Perhaps he would even destroy the Moroaica so thoroughly she could not take another body.
Or the Moroaica would kill him.
And then she would go on to kill the world…
Talekhris moved another step closer to the Moroaica, and Sicarion reacted without thought.
He gripped his dagger in his stolen hand and buried the blade in the Sage’s back. Talekhris gasped, his spells sputtering out, and Sicarion stabbed him twice more.
“You know,” he said, seizing the Sage’s hair, jerking his head back, and opening his throat, “for a man who fights evil, you’re not terribly good at it.”
Talekhris let out a gurgling scream and collapsed to the smoldering floor, his jade mask bouncing away. The face beneath it was lined and thin, the blue eyes bloodshot.
And quite thoroughly dead.
Silence fell over the ruined mansion, save for the crackling of the flames, and the moaning of the wind. Sicarion looked up and saw the night sky. The battle had ripped away the roof.
He saw the Moroaica staring at him, the wind tugging at her robe. Her calm had returned, though she looked exhausted, dark rings circling her blue eyes, her black hair dancing in the wind. Perhaps if he tried to kill her now, he would succeed.
Or she would kill him. And even if she fell, she would only take another body.
“Why?” said the Moroaica at last.
“Because,” said Sicarion. “Your great work. I wish to help.” His hands, the stolen one and the original one, tightened into fists. “I want to kill the world. I want to see it die.”
The thought thrilled him as nothing ever had.
“I am going to remake the world, not destroy it,” said the Moroaica.
“But to do that,” said Sicarion, “you have to kill the old world first.”
“True,” said the Moroaica.
“I am very good at killing,” said Sicarion, “and if you continue on your path, you shall need a lot of people killed.”
“Also true,” said the Moroaica. “That fool Talekhris. He will return to life in a few days, though he may not remember me this time. I have had rebellious disciples like Maglarion before, and undoubtedly I shall have others in the future. To say nothing of men like Talekhris, fools too misguided and blind to see that my vision for a new world is best. Yes. There will be a great deal of killing. Though if yo
u betray me, you shall be the first to die.”
Sicarion grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Come,” said the Moroaica. “This level of sorcerous disturbance shall draw the attention of the Magisterium, and they will send magi to investigate. I have no wish to kill them all unless it is necessary.”
She strode from the ruined mansion, and Sicarion followed, eagerness filling him.
With her power, he was going to kill the world.
And with his new spells, no one would ever stop him.
THE END
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The Demonsouled Saga
MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.
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About the Author
Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.
He has written the
DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.
Visit his website at:
http://www.jonathanmoeller.com
Visit his technology blog at:
http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com
Contact him at:
[email protected]
You can sign up for his email newsletter here, or watch for news on his Facebook page.
Table of Contents
Description
Ghost Undying
Other books by the author
About the Author
Table of Contents
Description
Ghost Undying
Other books by the author
About the Author