throat.
Both those things stopped when he very, very slowly lay back down.
“Or perhaps it will,” he said weakly.
“You need at least a full night’s sleep before you get up from this bed, Lord Chamberlain,” the other healer, an older woman, said.
Cace added, “I’ve already taken the liberty of rescheduling your appointments.”
“Good.” Drahar nodded to his assistant, then considered. “Keep three psionists on the dungeon at all times, and tell
“Of course, sir.”
The female healer tut-tutted, while the male shook his head. “You really shouldn’t try to perform any acts of magic for at least a few days, Lord Chamberlain.”
“We do not have that option. It’s obvious that this creature is getting stronger and harder to control.”
The two healers looked at each other, then back at Drahar. “Very well, but one of us should be monitoring you at all times.”
“I was going to insist on it,” he lied. It actually hadn’t occurred to him, but it was an excellent idea.
Drahar got a good night’s sleep, and then went into his office the next morning, intending to catch up on everything that happened while he was sick in bed.
However, Cace ran in immediately. “Something’s happened to Mandred.”
The worst part for Rol was the total loss of control.
The excruciating pain in his extremities, he could deal with. Watching his body change and alter itself, that was bizarre, but tolerable in its own way. Even the increase in strength that accompanied each act of violence was something he could handle.
But from the moment he surrendered to the voice, gave in to the Voidharrow, he lost all control.
One of the things that defined Rol as a fighter was that he was in full control of himself. He only used exactly as much force as was necessary to win a battle.
Now, though, he had nothing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, could barely
No, he did remember. Fehrd was dead. Someone killed him. And Gan-Gan had done something stupid. Of course, Gan was
It didn’t make sense that Fehrd was dead. The three of them had been through
Willing himself to speak, he screamed, “No.” But nobody heard him-he didn’t even hear himself.
But the Voidharrow heard his plaintive cry.
“Like hell,” Rol said. “I’ve fought every type of sand creature in the desert, I’ve fought demons, I’ve fought madmen and madwomen who wanted me dead, I’ll fight you too.”
“Who you calling little?”
“What’re you talking about?”
The Voidharrow granted him the ability to see himself.
Then he screamed.
His skin had turned gray.
His hands only had three fingers each.
And he had grown larger.
Something felt wrong with his shoulders and chin as well.
“What have you done to me?” Still he spoke, but could not hear his own voice. The Voidharrow had granted him the wherewithal to feel his own face, and his mouth did not move when instructed by his mind.
He was still caged within his own body-or, rather, what his body had been changed into-but the only difference was that he could see the bars on the window.
“Some gift.”
Then Rol screamed again, but it was not a scream of his own making-and he could hear it.
That didn’t sound good.
Suddenly, Rol felt his stomach contract into a ball, pressure slamming into both temples making his head feel as if it was being squeezed, and his muscles turn to jelly.
After a second, the sensations died down, and he found himself standing in a multicolored plane. The ground beneath him was purple, the walls around him were orange, and the ceiling was a pink and red spotted pattern. The purple floor felt as if it was made of metal.
At least, Rol thought it was metal. He’d never walked on a metal floor, but it certainly felt like what metal
And then he realized what was happening. Someone was entering his mind.
Rol had been interrogated by a mind-mage before. He’d found himself on some strange plane of existence where nothing made sense, and then afterward his spit tasted bitter and acidic for the next week, and he couldn’t hold any food down for two days.
It was happening again.
One thing that relieved him: he looked like himself. His skin was back to its former bronzed state, and his arm was the size it had been for most of his adult life.
Standing next to him, on a part of the floor that was gold instead of purple, was a large creature with gray skin, three fingers on each hand, strange rubylike protrusions coming out of its shoulders, and a bizarre mouth. Its chin had been bisected down to the throat, making it look as if the mouth had three lips.
“Holy frip, is
“I don’t even know what the dreadnaught
Another voice said, “Nor do I.”
Looking up, Rol saw a tall, thin man walking on the ceiling. He was wearing the functional beige clothing of one of Urik’s sirdars, and was surrounded by a glow that Rol just
“I am Drahar, the chamberlain of Urik.”
“So you’re the bastard who took me from my friend.”
Drahar regarded Rol for a moment, then turned to the monster. “Fascinating. It seems that you are both occupying this mind, and that you-” he pointed at the gray monster “-are the source of the strength and power that I sensed in Rol Mandred.”
