Double Magic by Lyndon Hardy

Author:Lyndon Hardy [Hardy, Lyndon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Magic, Quest, Sorcery, Wizard, Adventure, Alchemy, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781733095075
Amazon: B08MMLXT7Y
Goodreads: 56130767
Publisher: Bartizan Press
Published: 2020-12-01T06:00:00+00:00

THE NEXT morning, Sylvia again heard the tromp of boots. They were coming for her quite early. Her heart raced, and she sucked in air until she felt lightheaded. After filling her lungs twice more, she abruptly stopped. That would not do. Her salvation lay in clear thinking, being alert to any opportunity presenting itself. Her plan was a feeble one, but she had not been able to think of anything better.

Wetron was accompanied by the same two soldiers as before. The men-at-arms said nothing as they positioned her arms behind her back. Two quick loops of cord bound them together. She held both of her fists tightly closed. If they pried her fingers open and saw what was inside, everything would be lost.

As a last step, one of the soldiers found her heels discarded in a corner of the cell. One man-at-arms held her, while the other raised her legs one at a time and inserted her feet into them. Sylvia grimaced. It made no difference, but wobbling to the stake was not the image she relished being remembered by.

She blinked as she emerged into the light of day. In the near distance, a raised platform had been constructed. It stood on top of some of the ruins of the alchemists’ shops. Hundreds of townspeople were arrayed around it. Some still jostled to get better views of what was to come.

As she drew closer, the crowd quietened. They needed no prodding to part so she could climb the three steps to the stage unimpeded. Wetron stood there the same as he had at Dargonel’s presentation. The escutcheon of his heritage brightly embroidered his vest.

And next to him, there was Mason, hands bound behind like hers, but unlike her, he stooped and his head was bowed. His chin rested uncomfortably on a square block stained blood-red. His eyes were closed, as he waited patiently for the inevitable.

Sylvia was positioned in front of a stout pole erected in the center of the platform. It stood amidst a bed of broken twigs and kindling scattered over larger branches. One man-at-arms cut the cord binding her wrists. Then the other looped her arms around the stake and secured them again. Finally, several turns of rope coiled around her. Evidently, the idea was that she would have room in which to strain and twitch.

She glanced down at the kindling sprinkled around her feet. Most of it was rather green, some still oozing sap. It was as the old tales related. The point was not to build a fire that roared from the start. But instead, it should be a struggling one that could take hours to become a crackling flame.

When the men-at-arms had finished their preparations, they left the stage and vanished into a side alley. Wetron raised his arms upward, signaling the crowd to become silent and pay attention.

“Observe closely what happens here,” he bellowed. “See first-hand the fate of those who dare to rise above their station.” He lit a torch and used it as a pointer.

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