The "himself" in Galath had just been torn apart by lorn, and those lorn could only have been sent by Lorontar. Wherefore the Lord Archwizard was hunting for him; he'd been right to set forth his duplicates.
Narmarkoun smiled. He could have spun a spell to pluck up the decaying woman-she was barely more than a lolling skull, two arms, and a crumbling pelvis trailing a few ends of bone-to hang upright in the air facing him. Yet it was easier to just reach down, physically embrace her, and hold her against him while he breathed the spell into her pitiful bones.
Besides, nothing thrilled him more than these silent, chill embraces.
Chapter Two
Nothing but dust and grit. Rod rubbed a pinch of it between his finger and thumb, sighed, and let the rising breeze slowly take the rest out of his hand.
Damn. When his hand was empty, he drew the gauntlet back on, anger flaring again. He was useless. As bumbling and fumbling as always… Shaking his head, Rod turned and looked all around.
Trackless forest, in every direction. He looked down carefully at the ground, seeking markings or anything special that would help him find this exact spot again, or show him some evidence that magic had in the past brought more people here than just him.
Nothing. A muck of dead leaves and loose forest loam everywhere, small tree-roots wandering through it all, muddy here and over there… it was the same as everywhere else underfoot that he could see.
Face it, Rod, you're lost.
As bloody usual.
Lost in the heart of some forest he'd never seen before, a real forest. Deep and dark, stretching away in gently-rolling hills that he could barely see through all the trees, as gloomy as Hades in all directions. No proper clearings, the sky above a bright milky overcast so he couldn't even try to tell east from west… oh, he was lost, all right.