Short Story: The Lord of Tromarnj

The aged hand gestured as the words were spoken. Effortlessly, Zynneth Rho-Thyde completed the least rite of conflagration. In response, the wick of the oil lamp sputtered and began to burn with a dull orange flame. The incantation complete, the Sorcerer of the Circle paused in momentary contemplation of the twine of black smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

The room was cool and dank, and the dampness of the old stone walls sparkled in the dim light. No windows penetrated the deep basement of the Griffin Tower, and the fungus mold gave the air a musty, foul taint. But there was more. If he desired, the sorcerer could identify each of the curious odors. But for the moment, Rho-Thyde was consumed in other matters. He stepped over to the table, and looked down upon the man lying unconcious upon it. He was a young man, of good health and fine physical condition. Handsome to the ladies, no doubt, the sorcerer mused as the hint of a smile touched his lips. Then the moment passed, and his face again grew impassive.

This was the son of Evinthurd, brother of the King of Viston. But he was a great treasure beyond his royal birth, for his grandfather Sarinon had entered the Mists and taken part of it as his own. Rho-Thyde touched the pale birthmark upon the man's cheek, and felt the power of the Mists stir faintly beneath his fingers. The old sorcerer had also done battle with the Mists, but he had not been as successful as King Sarinon Raunotay.

Taking the obsidian blade in hand, Zynneth Rho-Thyde began to recite the ancient ritual which would impart the young man's strength to the sorcerer. Carefully, Rho-Thyde cut lightly through the flesh of the man's chest with his trembling hands. The sigils he would carve were the first focus which would allow Rho-Thyde to transfer his conciousness into the mind of the young man. By dawn, the Sorcerer of the Circle would not only possess part of the Mistpower of the Raunotays, he would also inhabit the body of their youngest son.

Engrossed in his ritual, Zenneth Rho-Thyde did not notice the sudden dancing of the oil lamp's flame. From the shadows, Pallthoone, Lord of Tromarnj, watched silently as his aide performed the incantation. But the Sorcerer of the Circle would not complete the dark ceremony he had begun this night. The bloodstone dagger pierced quickly, masterfully sliding between the old sorcerer's ribs, and Zenneth Rho-Thyde slumped in the arms of Pallthoone. The lord of Tromarnj smiled as he consumed the last flickers of the sorcerer's life. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned.