people in the room.
“This was as we expected,” came Vraith’s voice. “Let’s try a stronger dose.”
Beaugrat nodded then took a deep breath. He gathered a larger ball of gauzy flames and sent them lashing out at Duvan again. The light flashed searing white this time, casting the room in sharp shadows.
The familiar melting gut feeling triggered inside Duvan’s abdomen. And again, the wild magic weakened and faded before it could touch him. The coherent burst of white disintegrated into an ineffectual mist when it neared Duvan, then vanished completely, dissipating into nothingness.
More murmurs and gasps from the gallery.
“You know, I could save you some time,” Duvan said. “I have been thoroughly experimented on already.”
“Hold off for a moment, Beaugrat,” Vraith said. After a relieved nod from the plate-clad warrior, she stepped slowly up to Duvan. Her blonde eyebrows narrowed as she looked down on him. “When was that?” she asked.
“A few years ago.” Duvan’s mind flashed on his tenure in the Wildhome cage, huddled against the elements inside the border of the Plaguewrought Land, miserable and waiting for Rhiazzshar to come take him out.
“What can you tell us?” Vraith asked.
“I can tell you the extent of my ability,” Duvan said. “I’m sure we can come to some agreement.”
“Why would I trust you?” Vraith said. “You work for Tyrangal, and she has been less than cooperative.”
“I am a man of my word.”
The faintest of smiles tugged at Vraith’s thin red lips. “Oh, perhaps you are,” she said. “But then again, if you weren’t, you’d say the same thing.”
“True,” Duvan admitted.
“We both know how this is going to go. You are not in a position to negotiate at the moment.” Vraith’s hint of a smile faded completely, and she retreated to stand back out of the way.
“I could agree to stay far away from your operations,” Duvan offered. “I could agree to help”
“Beaugrat,” Vraith said, ignoring Duvan. “Resume the testing. More power this time.”
Lashing blue-white fire struck out at him again. Then once more. Over and over, with increased intensity, each successive attack. Each time, he felt no hint of an effect. Nothing.
Finally, Beaugrat collapsed to his knees with exertion. “That’s all I can do.”
“It’s enough,” Vraith said. “He is immune to the Blue Fire.”
Duvan sighed. “I could have told you that and saved poor Beaugrat some embarrassment.”
Ignoring Duvan, Vraith said, “Let the next stage of tests begin. Guraru, you’re up.”
A dark figure stepped out from behind hima dwarf with a brilliant red beard intricately plaited down his portly front. The dwarf nodded, the dry brown skin of his balding head stretched over his skull like aging parchment. “Let’s try some heat,” he said. The dwarf muttered an incantation so softly that Duvan could not hear the words, while at the same time his hands traced the lines of an invisible glyph in the air.
Suddenly Duvan was on fire, his skin blistering and blackening from the heat. Agony took hold of him, his whole being burned. Duvan clenched his jaw, trying to resist the urge to scream. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. But he felt like he was being drowned in a vat of boiling oil. His skin singed and blackened. His eyeballs seemed to melt in his head.
He gave in. He let out a guttural scream that was at least as much anger as it was pain. This dwarf must be stopped. Duvan would happily kill him to make the pain go away. Duvan would kill them all. He screamed and screamed, and he wished he could pass out from the pain.
“Heal him.”
Duvan breathed a sigh of relief as the searing diminished to an afterimage of the burning agony. Then he was whole and sound again. But while the reprieve from the pain was a welcome numbness, his mind flinched from the residual memory of the torment.
“Again,” came Vraith’s voice. “I want exact measures of his tolerances.”
Duvan started to speak. He could tell them. There was no reason to keep testing him. He had no resistance. Fire and ice and dread and mind magic all worked on him. But he never got the chance to speak before the fire engulfed him a second time.
The first attack was a mere hint of the crisp, soul-searing agony that consumed him the second time. The fire erupted everywhere at once: inside his chest, all over his skin, under his fingernails. His hair burned. His skin blistered and blackened. And all of it happened in the briefest flare of the sun.
The world went dark around him, and Duvan found himself fluttering like silk in a gray wind. All around him was a flat, dark plane, only discernible in shades of gray. He could not move of his own accord, could not step through onto the plane; his presence here was insubstantial.
Against the backdrop of gray, Duvan flashed on Talfani’s frail and emaciated body as he held her in those last moments. He remembered curling around her, holding her, and stroking her hair gently so it would not fall out in chunks.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated to her over and over, hoping that she would hear him. Hoping that she would forgive him.
Talfani never spoke a word during the days between getting sick and when she finally gave in and stopped breathing. The damage from the plaguestorm had taken away her voice so that she could just stare at him with huge, pleading eyes and try to signal that she couldn’t eat or drink.
She just wanted him to hold her, to stay with her, like he should’ve done the entire time. If he had stayed with her, she wouldn’t have gotten sick. She wouldn’t have withered, her once vibrant soul wasted away and dried up.
Lying on her bed, cradling her frail figure, young Duvan cried as he felt her breath rattle to a halt. He cried as she slowly grew cold in his arms. Her spirit had left; the twin to his soul, gone. Where she had gone, he did not know.
Perhaps he could follow her.
But young Duvan lacked the will to do anything active to take his own life. He merely lay with Talfani’s spiritless corpse slowly souring next to him. He blocked out the devastation of his village outside. He cried and cried that he had let this happen to her. He didn’t deserve to live when she was gone. He didn’t want to live if that meant being alone.
And Duvan might have died there too. Starvation or pestilence may have eventually taken him if the Wildhome elves hadn’t come through the village.
“He’s coming around.” The voice was deep and male.
“Was he dead, Renfod?” Vraith asked.
“Nearly, but not quite,” said the clipped voice. “I have healed him, but you might want to be more careful.”
“I’ll determine that.”
“Of course, Commander.”
The fluttering gray gave way to dim torchlight as Duvan opened his eyes. Milky, cataract-clouded eyes stared down at him, very close, seeming to look through and beyond Duvan at that same time. After a moment, the man blinked and stood up, retreating slightly.
Renfod, Duvan guessed, the cleric who so graciously brought him back to endure more torture. Renfod’s thin, brown face displayed dour concern. He did not seem to be enjoying this part of his job one bit.
Next to the dark cleric, Beaugrat’s wide, boyish face grinned down at him. He seemed to be relishing Duvan’s torture. Duyan silently vowed to kill the big fighter, if he ever made it through this.
“Renfod, step back if he is healed,” Vraith said. “Let’s continue. Guraru?”
Renfod retreated to stand next to Vraith. Into Duvan’s field of vision stepped the red-bearded dwarf again. Oh, this is going to hurt, Duvan thought.
Abruptly, an icy dread crystallized in his chest. The dread spread through Duvan, freezing him to his very core. The chill seized the marrow of his arms and legs. He struggled to breathe against the chill.
One breath, two breaths.
The third breath didn’t come, and he felt the sharp tingle of frostbite in his fingers and toes. His skin grew numb, and the numbness spread behind advancing waves of needles, to his heart.’
Duvan welcomed the numbness. He felt no pain by the end. And he welcomed the approaching death. He
