The Gems of Raga-Tor (Elemental Legends Book 1) (3 page)

Sorcery-induced terror rolled and knotted his gut. It was time to run. Reaching down to pull the quarrel that pinned his cloak, the glowing water exploded upward ripping planking from the dock. Barrels and crates flew high into the air and far out into the bay. Thin streaks of fire ran across the top of the dark water in spidery patterns. A fiery column shot skyward and ripped a wider swath of planking.

Eris looked up and quickly closed his eyes. He turned his face away from the bright, burning fire, while his feet tried to balance on one strip of planking. His back pressed hard against the door, trying to break it open, as enormous heat roiled out from the brilliant, fiery, red-gold column.
Verin’s mercy.
He couldn’t breathe as terror seized him. Exposed skin on his face and hands felt hot and tight as the column flared out. The wood beneath his feet collapsed and dropped him into the cold sea.

“Aacchhh!” he choked in horrified surprise as he traded one terror for another. The cloak's fabric failed to rip away. The silken cord tied at his throat abraded his skin, then tightened and dug into the flesh of his neck.

He gasped as the cold swells, glowing with powerful magic, undulated around his waist. His heart pounded, panic flared, and he couldn’t escape the touch of drifting sorcery. He jerked down a little lower as the cord suddenly gave before it knotted again. His head pounded with rising pressure as blood continued to fill his skull. His breathing ragged, gasping, the cord squeezed deeper into his flesh, Eris struggled to push the point of his sword between neck and cord. Losing a little skin, even an ear, was better than dying this way.

Sweat broke out on his face as the mucky, putrid smell of the water, and charred remains of unknown origin floating under the pier gagged the remaining breath from him. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth and pushed the blade upward. The cord unraveled and snapped apart.

Eris slid with a raspy gasp beneath the sea’s scintillating surface. The salt water burned the abrasions around his neck and felt like ice against his heated flesh. His water-filled boots and heavy clothing pulled him down deeper and deeper into the dark water. He shoved his sword into its sheath then kicked and clawed his way to the surface.

Each desperate stroke made his lungs feel that much closer to bursting. Bright lights flashed before his eyes. He struggled to fight the impulse to open his mouth and take a fatal, watery breath. He kicked upward and upward again not realizing how far he had sunk so quickly.

His face broke the surface and he inhaled a ragged breath. Something soft and slimy brushed against his neck. With a silent oath, coughing and gasping, he kicked himself away from the floating mass glad he couldn't see what it was. The air, rotten and foul smelling, was welcome relief as it rushed into his starved lungs.

Quickly he looked around and spat salty water. He panted for breath and struggled to stay afloat as the weight of his clothes, the heavy pouches of gold and the sword hanging from his belt became a liability.

The water still flickered fiery red and gold here and there. He looked up and saw nothing but black sky tinged with Azoreth’s pink hue. The gentle, yellow moon, Minrah, had long since passed over the horizon.

He shuddered and wondered if the red explosion would draw creatures of the deep to him. He wanted out of the sea faster than he had gotten in. Looking out across the bay, Azoreth’s sharply pointed crescent reflections shimmered like a thousand bloody knives dancing a pattern of malignant ritual on the dark water. He sensed evil in the air and shivered. He knew of no man who didn’t fear Azoreth’s evil.

He paddled back to where his cloak hung down from its peg, and gripped it with trembling hands. He heard voices; quiet and cautious, but increasing in number. He couldn’t let them find him. There was no good way to explain Slott’s body, the amount of gold he carried, nor the incredible amount of destruction caused by the red beard going into the water.

Eris shivered and thought of the man’s claim that he was Raga-Tor, first-level elemental of fire. If true, it wouldn’t be long until his life was forfeit. Legend told that none of the first-level elementals had any sense of humor, compassion or forgiveness whatsoever. He heard the wheel of fate squeak and begin its downward turn.

Giving the cloak a firm tug, it seemed it would hold. Both fabric and bolt held as he pulled himself hand-over-hand from the sea and onto the pier.

The voices were almost to his position. Water sloshed out of his boots making a sizable puddle. They would know someone was here, but Azoreth’s threat should prevent them from searching any further in the dark. A quick inspection of the odd destruction pattern told him this would give them plenty to wonder and worry about. With a firm, quick tug, he pulled the bolt and cloak from the door and disappeared into the shadows.

Opening the door to the inn, the Black Mare by name, Eris tried to pass through the common room before any of his few acquaintances recognized him in his befouled condition.

“There you are, Eris,” a bright-eyed girl said as she hurried across the half-empty room. He turned with a frown. “My!” she exclaimed and stepped back. “What happened? You’re soaked through, and you don’t smell very good either.”

“Glad you noticed,” he said ungraciously. “Is my room prepared? Has the fire been started?”

“Well, I — we’ve been real busy and I —”

“Never mind your excuses. Go back to whatever you were doing,” he said annoyed, dismissing her.

“But I could —”

“I said never mind.” He gave her a look that sent shivers down her spine. “Blasted wench. What do I pay you for anyway? You can’t even warm a man’s bed without a whining fuss.”

The girl flushed and rubbed her hands against her apron. Eris gave her no more thought and quickly ascended the stairs before anyone else stopped him. His wet boots creaked nearly as much as the wooden steps.

Taking a key from his pouch, he thrust it into the lock and cursed as the rusty tumblers refused to slide back into their barrels. When the door finally opened, his room was dark, except for a slit of light filtering through a crack between the shutter and window frame
.

Beneath the window was an old, rusty-banded trunk, and opposite it was a bed that could hardly be called as such, but at least it wasn’t the floor. A rickety partition divided the room and a pair of equally old chairs sat next to it. Beyond the partition was an old, stained table that Eris never considered using, as it would likely collapse the moment it was touched. As far as accommodations went, it wasn’t much, but it was warm enough and the roof didn’t leak.

Eris closed the door and slid the bolt into its slot. He let out a long sigh. Exhausted, more from fear than anything else, he slumped down on the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his damp hair.

What a damnable night this has been
.

A bit of thieving to collect caravan pay illegally held from him and the other outriders would have required much less exertion than his supposedly pre-arranged and simple exchange. The next time he would consider letting his agent handle the transaction without him. Memories of the fiery explosion made him shiver and cold seeped deeper into him. At least his skin wasn’t burned and blistered as it easily could have been.

After a while, he stood and stretched. He unbuckled his sword, tossed it onto the bed, and then knelt in front of the cold fireplace. He fumbled with flint and kindling. Sparks flashed in the blackness, but there was no hint of fire. He mumbled angrily to himself and was fast losing what little patience he had left. His stomach growled with an unhappy sound. He just wanted to be warm, dry and perhaps have a little wine to take the chill from his blood.

“Fire is a useful tool don’t you think?” a voice said from somewhere in the dark room.

Eris startled. His heart raced as a shaft of fear pierced him. Remaining crouched on the floor, he went for his sword, which lay on the bed, out of reach. With a whisper of movement, he spun around on all fours and faced the direction of the sound. His dark-violet eyes scoured the pink-tinged darkness for the source of the voice. The same damned voice as before. He was sure of it.

He thought a shadow moved somewhere near the partition. He prepared to lunge across the room and tackle his assailant, when an enormous fire blazed into existence in the fireplace behind him.

Agile as a mountain panther, fear twisting into terror in his gut, Eris sprang away from it and into the corner with his back pressed against the splintery walls. Daggers, one from each boot, were clutched in his hands. Fearful, tingling tension pulsed through him.
Getting too careless
, he scolded himself. He was taken by surprise perhaps once in the course of a year, not twice in one night.

Sweat rolled down his temples as much from the blazing heat as by the knowledge that the red-bearded man, the same from the pier, stood before him with a broad grin on his ruddy face. Worse yet, he was a necromancer of sorts. He wasn’t ready to admit or believe that the great sorcerer, Raga-Tor, stood in front of him. Verin save his soul. There was nothing Eris loathed more than magic and its users, whose numbers seemed to multiply on any given day. Even the tricks of a street clown were often enough to churn his stomach.

The big man stepped into the fire’s light, seemingly in good humor despite his fall into the sea. He now wore a magnificent, red-velvet tunic embroidered with golden threads. The pattern stitched on that broad expanse of red was of a longbow floating amidst a ring of flame. His loose-fitting black trousers were tucked neatly into the tops of the sturdy brown boots he had worn earlier. Boots somehow dry and clean, unlike the cold and wet ones that shrouded his feet.

Eris blinked and would have sworn that for an instant the man’s eyes glowed like coals, and the hair on his face and head flickered like tiny flames dancing on the end of a log.

“What will you do, burn the damned place down to get my green bauble?” Eris shouted over the roar of the fire. He glanced nervously at the fireplace turned blacksmith’s forge. His clothing was nearly dry from the intense heat, but nervous sweat rolled on his skin making him feel damp.

The red-faced man suddenly roared with laughter.

Eris stared at him. The stranger was crazed. The red beard waved his hand and the fire reduced to a normal, natural level.

“Come, come, Eris,” the man said, smiling. He waved for Eris to come out of the corner, but resolutely, he stayed.

Eris noticed the man was now unarmed. He considered his weapons. One good throw was all he needed, but thought better of it. There was no reason to be turned into a human torch for this man’s amusement, and Eris had no doubt he could do it.

The stranger moved aside and waved his arms for Eris to join him at a table laden with food and prepared in a most lavish manner; a table that wasn’t there only moments ago. The feast, aromatic and abundant atop the polished surface, wasn’t exactly the fare served at the Black Mare either.

“Have a seat. We have much to discuss and the time grows late,” the red beard said. “That was a clever trick you used to get away from me. I must have you explain the finer details of it to me sometime. However, I would suggest that for your own continued well-being, you not plunge me into water again. Fire and water—not a suitable combination.”

Eris grimaced. He had been nearly turned into a cinder himself, hanged, drowned, and for what? To find this intruder, a magic user of all vile things, giving pyrotechnic displays in his room? Eris Pann disliked playing a fool’s game, and even more so when he was the one being made the fool.

“You want to eat in the corner?” The man made ready to move the table.

“What I want is for you to leave. I don’t care who you are, or what you want. If you want the stone, choose your weapon. Otherwise, get out and leave me alone. We have nothing to discuss,” Eris warned and struggled to keep his voice strong and steady. He was desperately trying to ignore his sense that magic was coursing through the room.

“Leave me alone,” the man whined. “You sound like a petulant woman, Eris. A bit of sea water stuck between your ears, perhaps?”

Eris nearly roared for his frustration. His jaw clenched and angry, violet fire flashed in his eyes. He was a man of action. He had no use for these senseless word games. Did the idiot want the gem or not? Anger erupted and he threw the daggers at the floor. They struck with such force that they didn’t quiver when the points gouged twin holes in the wood. Eris glared at the man and then strode to the door. If the red beard wouldn’t leave, he would.

“Feel better?” the man taunted.

Eris ignored him. He reached for the knob on the bolt to slide it back and instantly the metal blazed white-hot. He drew in his breath sharply between clenched teeth. The intense heat radiated against his open palm, which he closed angrily into a fist.

Eris stood for several silent, angry moments facing the door. He realized he had to be calm and reclaim his mental acuity. Action wouldn’t win this struggle. Before turning around, he quelled his physical anger into a mental strategy. Threats and weapons were useless and as the red beard had him at an overpowering disadvantage; it was his only strategy. Two could play at this absurd game, and he played as well as anyone. He folded his arms across his chest and turned around to look at the stranger with a raised eyebrow.

“So be it, illusionist, you have my complete attention. Tell me again—what is your problem?” Eris asked in a pleasant voice reeking of insult. It had the desired effect.

“I’m not an illusionist. I'm a practitioner of the sacred arts.” The man was obviously offended. A look, something akin to a pout and very uncharacteristic for a man of his stature, appeared on his face.

“Listen to me carefully,” Eris warned. “There are very few things I hold sacred, and sorcery, in any of its forms, is absolutely not one of them. Keep that in mind, old man.”

“I’m not old either. Not that old anyway.”

“Listen,
old man
, cease your nonsense and tell me plainly what I need to know and stop wasting my time.”