Leftovers

Here is an excerpt of the short story I am currently working on…

The bowl slid across the polished obsidian table with a simple grace, with barely any spin to it at all. The bowl slid down the entire length of the table, past stacks of paper piled high, before slowing and coming to a rest a few inches from the end. This it did without spilling so much as a drop, or unnecessarily jostling its contents. There it waited for its intended recipient, who seeemed not to notice it. Undaunted, the bowl sat there, allowing the aroma of its contents to waft gently into the air, slowly filling the room with its tantalizing scent.
The man at the end of the table, for whom the meal was intended for, was clearly focused on his task. He sat staring at the sheet of parchment before him, his quill writing impossibly fast and accurately, only occasionally dipping into an ink well filled with a dark red viscous liquid.
It was long moments before he even moved and when he did, it was his long pointed nose that twitched. He turned sharply to glare at the bowl. His bushy, bright orange eyebrows raised in surprise, and his mouth twitched in a rare smile. He regarded the bowl for a long while, while his right hand, a curiously hideous blue hand, continued to write, unerringly and of its own accord.
To a casual observer, Praxis De Salle was old for a human, appearing to be in his sixth or seventh decade of life. The truth was that Praxis was nearing his tenth decade, having extended his life by magical means. Though he often pretended otherwise, Praxis was not a frail old man. His thin, emaciated frame literally pulsed with power. He could easily crush a man with his remaining human hand. One needed only to look into his eyes to see the impossibly black pupils to know that Praxis was no longer completely human. If that were not enough, one need only to observe his right hand, the six-fingered hand the color of a horrid bruise, to know that Praxis De Salle was not a dabbler in dark magic. He was a master.
Praxis turned back towards the page he was scribbling, his fiery brow knit together once more in concentration. This decade long project was nearing completion. When he was done, Praxis chuckled to himself, revenge would finally be his. His rival would be dead. Perhaps, the mage mused, he would keep Draen’s head as a trophy, or his skull as a drinking mug.
Though he did not speak the name, at the mere thought of it, Praxis black eyes shot up to look furtively around the room. Speaking a word of power, his eyes revealed the layers of sigils, and dweomers of protection that surround not only this chamber but his entire mansion. Praxis had taken immense precautions prior to beginning his work, and his caution had more than tripled since. After all, one does not research how to kill an archmage lightly, and Draen Do’Gra was no mere archmage.
Praxis continued to glance about the room until he was certain he, and the stew, were alone. Still he spoke another phrase of arcane power and added another layer of magical protection around his home. Though he could not be sure his wards would stop the infamous Draen Do’Gra, he was confident the wards would at least slow him down for the demonologist to strike him down. Especially after what his research had uncovered.
Once again, Praxis’ eyes scanned the room. This time when his gaze fell over the bowl, the mage’s stomach growled in anguish. He hadn’t yet eaten today, and only once yesterday. In fact, now that he thought about it, Praxis had only eaten a single meal for at least the last month or so.
The fact that he had eaten at all could only be attributed to the fact that his wife Aldanis, loved him enough to ensure that Praxis would have at least one good meal a day. For the last week or so, she – being the only other being who could enter this chamber safely – had brought him an exquisite stew. So wrapped up in his work was he, that Praxis hadn’t had the chance to ask Aldanis, what was in the stew.
Still, he had completed this most dangerous research, about arguably the most dangerous mortal on the planet, without incident. Well, he thought dryly, without major incident. His home had been blown up a week after he had started the project. Fortunately Praxis was not in residence at the time. He had gone to visit his wife who had just given them a child, a daughter he named Lexi. Praxis had been overjoyed, especially since he was keeping this one.
Now that he was not concentrating on his task, Praxis realized how ravenous he was, and he grabbed the bowl with his left hand, his human hand, and began to eat. The meal was exquisite. Try as he might, Praxis could not identify all the spices his talented wife had used. The potoatoes were soft and tender, as were the carrots, onions and  mushrooms. There was a vegetable he couldn’t identify, and the meat, tender with just the barest sweetness to it stumped him as well. Regardless, he devoured the bowl in record time and was just about to call to his wife for seconds – he was truly famished – when he glanced over at his still writing demonic hand.
“There“, he thought to himself, “That infernal bastard will finally get what’s coming to him!” His hand stopped writing. Praxis looked down at the last line of the page. It read:
And armed with this knowledge, the believed invincibility of Draen Do’Gra will be dismissed, and he will fall like grain to the reaper.
Praxis began to chuckle, and that chuckle turned into a raspy laugh, like pebbles grinding together. “At last!” he cackled, a line of drool dribbling into the orange patch of hair at the end of his bony chin. “I am finished!” he growled, “And soon, the so-called mighty Draen Do’Gra will be too! I hope I’m there as his life ebbs, so that he’ll know it was me that caused his downfall.  That he never should have dismissed Praxis De Salle!”
Once again Praxis looked up, feverishly scanning the room, sweeping his head left and right. Praxis hadn’t mentioned his name out loud in years. Still, there was no sense in not being cautious. His blood froze when a voice, silky soft and infinitely dangerous spoke behind him.
“Are you planning to appeal my dismissal?” the voice inquired with genuine amusement in the voice.
Praxis turned around slowly, trying to gather courage as he did so. “It cannot be”, he thought to himself. “Even if the sentry spells would be unable to warn me of his approach…the wards…why aren’t they going off?!?”

© Yves Desince, II and A Darkness Rising, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Yves Desince, II and A Darkness Rising with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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