Nael

Nael - Chapter 3

"Ut pariter," Nael whispered, focusing on the chains that bound him. They fell away, turning to dust without so much as a clink. He repeated the command and the terrible piece of steel seemed to dissolve into itself around the hole in his leg, leaving a gaping wound.

"But....you have no stone!" The torturer managed, after failing to win a brief struggle to keep his bladder from loosening.

Nael locked eyes with the man. "Ossa tua pulvis," He said as he raised his finger to point at the old man's nose, having already freed himself from his bonds. He felt his magic bloom in his chest, it reached his stomach and began condensing on the ingested stone. Reaching its pinnacle, it flowed out of his outstretched hand and into the hated old man in front him. It started with the torturer's bony arms; they fell to his side, flapping slightly. His head began to cave in next; his eyes oozed down his face as the supporting bone gave way, swiftly followed by the remaining bones in his body. Within a matter of moments, all that remained was a growing puddle of fresh blood and a pile of folded flesh.

The guard, who had drawn his wickedly-curved sword, was looking down at the puddle of spreading gore, which now reached the toes of his leather boots. His green eyes rose to meet Nael's orange, and in them, he saw his gruesome death awaiting. To Nael's surprise and the guard's credit, the guard charged directly for him; sword raised high with both hands gripping the hilt, ready to bring the blade down in an overhand cut. Nael used his magic to crumble a section of the cell's stone wall. The crumbled pieces of stone traveled across the cell in the blink of an eye as they reformed and solidified around Nael's clenched fist. Nael took two shadow steps forward as he extended his stone fist, catching the surprised guard in his armored chest, using his magic to speed his body and strengthen the muscles behind the blow. The shockwave that followed lifted the gua­­rd from his feet as he was thrown against the far wall of the cell, impacting with a sickening crunch before slumping to the floor. Nael knew what a dead man looked like and he was looking at one right then as his eyes had tracked the guard's trajectory.

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As he made his way to the door of the cell the bits of stone, surrounding his fist, began to fall to the floor in small chunks, leaving his hand completely free in a matter of moments. Nael took a deep breath as he stood in front of the solid metal door of his cell. He lifted his arm and gave two booming knocks, counting off several seconds before placing his palm flat on the door.

"Eicio," Nael whispered.

The door exploded outward, slamming into the far wall of the hallway with an immense crash that echoed down the dark hallway. The blood seeping from the sides of the door and splattered along the wall confirmed the remaining guard had been just about to open the door as it blasted across the hallway to sink several inches deep into the stone wall.

Nael limped out of his cell, his leg throbbing where the old man had impaled him. Nael used his magic to cease the flow of blood, but he was going to need a dedicated healer to fully heal the wound. Shame about the hand, though, he thought mirthlessly. He shuffled forward and placed his right hand against the embedded door, the crimson skin of his forehead bunched in concentration.

"Ignium," Nael said.

The door began to glow red-hot under his palm, the scent of burning flesh accompanied the smoke wafting up, and the door suddenly sunk a few inches further into the stone wall as the unfortunate guard behind it became liquefied as well as crushed.

Nael spoke another command to his magic, and the door was blown clear through the wall and out into the starless night. Nearly half a minute later, he heard a hollow clang as the door landed in the courtyard below. Near the top then, eh? Didn't think I warranted the view.

He stepped to the edge of the newly-created doorway and looked down. His glowing, orange eyes narrowed as he took in his surroundings. He knew, from reports generated by his network of spies, the black tower of Diabolocles rose several thousand blocks from the enormous, granite slab of rock making up its foundation. From the looks of things, he was at or very near the top of the vast prison of horror. Going back through the hall and attempting to make his way down floor by floor would be suicide. The resident horrors of this prison were legendary throughout the realm, and it was said that near 3,000 men-at-arms were housed in the barracks occupying the first few floors of the tower. No one had gotten close enough for an accurate count, of course, or if they had, they were now residents of the tower themselves.

Nael backed away from the ledge slowly and tore the rest of his mangled shirt from his shoulders. He used his remaining hand and his crusted stump to secure the shirt around the wound in his leg, pulling it as tight as he could. This is going to hurt, Nael thought as he took two shuffling steps forward and leaped through the hole.

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Nael controlled his descent, as best he could in his weakened state, with short bursts of levitation incantations. He had dropped nearly half the total distance to the ground when his magic began to give out. He gave himself over to the fall, spreading his arms and legs to keep himself oriented to the ground as the wind whipped violently across his face, tearing at his tattered clothing and bringing black tears to his eyes.

As the ground rushed to greet him, he used the last bit of his power to create a shield of magic over his legs just before making contact with the hard granite in an ear-splitting crack! A great plume of dust arose from his point of impact as small cracks radiated outward for a ten-step in all directions. Nael's lower body took a tremendous pounding despite his shield; his leg wound was seeping blood again, the pressure created by the impact having burst fresh fluid through the veins and arteries he could no longer hold magically sealed. Behind him, Nael heard an alarm begin to blare and the faint baying of magehounds loosed for the kill. There were few deaths more gruesome than being torn to bits of jagged flesh by the razor-sharp, corrosive bites of the conjured mongrels. 

He shakily rose to his feet and looked ahead, taking in the impossibly-distant outer gate he still had yet to pass through. Have to move...faster. Slowly, he began limping towards the gate, stubbornly refusing to admit defeat after having come so far. 

He was only certain of one thing: he was not going back into that hellhole alive.     

Stay tuned for chapter 4!