City of Torment by Bruce R. Cordell

around her waist before exiting her bedroom into the darkened hall. Water. Water was what she needed. Her headache, the one from her dream, persisted. She wandered into the upper story of the manor, then down a curving flight of steps into the front hall. As she was about to pass into the back hall that led to the kitchens, Anusha saw a glint of light out the windows. She moved to the glass and saw that the lights in the south wing of the manor were lit. Two men were illuminated in the glow of the strong lamps. Anusha immediately recognized them. Her half brother, Behroun, and the warlock, Japheth, argued in Behroun’s office. Tiny wings seemed to pat and flutter in her stomach. The feeling accompanied a mad inkling. Could it be? A chill swept from her brow down her spine, tingling as if with vertigo. Her dream had come true.
    CHAPTER FOUR The Year of the Secret (1396 DR) Near the Ruins of Starmantle Darkness defined the length and breadth of the world, forever. Timeless intervals passed. Ages and epochs, or days and tendays, no consciousness persisted to measure the void’s period. Other worlds were born, matured, grew old, died, and passed away in that interlude. Or had the darkness lasted the duration of an eye-blink? Or somewhere in between… The void’s edges wavered, blurred, and then peeled away. Behind was exposed a pale, misted light. The darkness contracted upon itself, becoming a dome, then a sphere, then a blot as it lifted up and away to nothing. A cloud-shrouded sky of gray, lit with occasional flashes of distant lightning, was revealed. Eyes slowly integrated elements, as if assembling pieces of a puzzle. Concepts of sky, time, and cloud leisurely assembled within a man’s fragmented, subconscious mind. The man’s brow furrowed. A sudden disorientation collapsed his blank observation of the heavens. Where was he? And… Why couldn’t he remember his own name? The man turned his head. Or tried to. Some force resisted. His gaze rotated less than an inch. Scanning with only his eyes, he saw he was surrounded in some cold, unyielding substance. He was caught like a bug in some sort of greenish material. Anger’s flame woke. He tried to suck in a deep breath. He failed�he was completely isolated, apparently, even from air. A sliver of his mind wondered why he hadn’t already suffocated. The greater portion of his attention focused on the crisis at hand. He must break free, or he would die. Whatever had kept him alive prior to this moment was failing. Already, lack of air made dark spots dance on the periphery of his vision. A subconscious instruction surfaced: Shout! Scream a single syllable of concentrated desire with the last of your stale breath, and hope it is enough. The man focused on his diaphragm, then expelled the final vestiges of air from his lungs with an explosive, guttural, “Kihop!” The material surrounding his head shattered like dry adobe struck with a maul. Cool air suddenly caressed his face. He was still caught, but at least he could breathe. He sucked in a long, deep breath, expanding his chest so much that the material surrounding him cracked. He wrenched his body with a violent strength his limbs remembered, even if he did not. Pain knifed through his left shoulder, and the man loosed a surprised yell. His left arm throbbed with a twinge so intense that blackness threatened to rob him of consciousness again. Was it broken? No way to tell while he remained trapped. The man deliberately isolated his left arm while thrusting with his legs and remaining arm. It was difficult to accomplish, and agony spiked through his body once more. What options did he have? He rested a moment, considering. The problem of his imperfect memory swam once more to front and center. It was maddening. He had to get free! He wrenched his body again, sucking in his breath against the hurt. And again. Each time he tensed and thrust with his arms and legs, he gained a sliver of additional clearance. Each