A short story from “The Heart of Anarand Saga“
The radiance of the place drew him in with irresistible force, like a carrion worm lured by the sweetness of decaying flesh. It was almost blinding in its intensity, rendering the towering white spire’s outlines hazy and tantalizingly unreal. So much magic, so many humans whose blood and marrow thrummed with its presence. And they were only a stone’s throw away.
His entire being ached to go there, to step inside and surrender to an endless, unrestrained feast.
His claws twitched and flexed convulsively in barely restrained anticipation. This movement elicited a soft moan from somewhere below him, drawing Shar’da’kaar’s vacant gaze toward the figure writhing helplessly in his grasp. Whimpers were all the woman could produce, for the first thing he had done upon capturing her was to tear out her tongue. Her pitiful sounds were like a melody to his ears—sweet, melodic, full of unspoken promises. Soon, he would make her reach new heights in the art of singing her pain. Soon. Very soon.
But for now, he had only to watch. His target, the dark Archmage, was inside that alluring building at the center of the square. And his Mistress would be most displeased if Shar’da’kaar were to lose sight of him.
Two days had passed since their clash at the palace. The memory sent Shar’da’kaar’s long tongue slithering from his mouth to slowly lick the series of deep wounds his opponent had left behind. He could still taste the traces of that magic upon his flesh. There was something strange about it. A peculiar flavor, unlike anything he had ever encountered—simultaneously repulsive and addictively enticing.
Millennia had passed since anyone had succeeded in wounding him. Not only that—had Shar’da’kaar not fled the battlefield when he did, the Archmage might very well have destroyed him. And while he did not fear eternal darkness, the Mistress had not granted him permission to die. She still had need of him.
The Mistress…
His thoughts inevitably drifted toward her. Within his shriveled heart, twin flames of devotion and existential dread flared to life. He bathed in that mixture, luxuriating as though immersed in a sea of the purest delicious magic. The Mistress was everything to him. She was the reason for his existence. She was a hundred times greater than anything Shar’da’kaar could ever be. A thousand times! If only he hadn’t betrayed her trust through his incompetence. If only he weren’t so pathetically weak compared to the Et’eliani.
Yet, despite his failure, she had permitted him to live and serve her still. And Shar’da’kaar would do precisely that—for as long as she allowed it.
A sudden movement near the entrance of the building drew his attention.
A group of humans had just emerged, each of them glowing like a beacon against the radiant backdrop of the tower. Yet one familiar figure, clad in black, outshone the others by an order of magnitude. The signature of his magic was unlike the rest—darker, more sinister, utterly alien. Shar’da’kaar’s jaw slackened, and thick strands of drool dripped from his parted lips. His focus on the Archmage and the lingering taste of his magic was so consuming that it took him several moments to notice another aura of a similar nature, though weaker, standing close by.
It belonged to a woman with long black hair—someone vaguely familiar. Yes. She had been there as well two days prior—at least at the beginning, before fleeing with the ward of his Mistress.
Interesting, he mused. Very interesting.
Such intriguing, delectable creatures, both of them. A shame he had only been granted permission to observe.
The human group stirred and moved as one. It seemed their discussion was concluded. The Archmage and the woman climbed into a waiting carriage, which soon set off along the cobbled street. One by one, the remaining figures returned to the glowing tower. Shar’da’kaar cast a final, wistful glance at the radiant building before turning to follow the carriage.
The eyes of mortals could not perceive him—not with the protections his Mistress had woven about him. And so, without concern or caution, he stalked the streets in plain sight, silent and swift in pursuit of his quarry. The fragile, half-broken figure of his captive still dangled from his claws. The hunt might prove long, and Shar’da’kaar’s appetite was swift to resurface.
For now, the Mistress’s orders were clear: observe and track.
But sooner or later, those instructions would change. Sooner or later, he would be allowed to taste that strange, repulsive, and yet irresistibly addictive magic once more.
All he needed was patience.
Invisible, swift, and silent as a shadow, Shar’da’kaar melted into the streets of Westgate.
