Free Nightlord: Shadows by Garon Whited

sand for the floor.
    “Ah, there we are.”
    I looked up. Across from me was another chair. A man occupied it. He looked amused. His face was round, with a trace of jowls. Thin, blonde hair, possibly going silver, crowned his head. He smiled a lot. To the left and right, other chairs, other occupants, all shadowy and not-quite-there, ringed the miniature arena.
    I tried to stand. I couldn’t get out of the chair. It was as though I was a part of the chair, or vice versa. Disconcerting and annoying.
    “Last I recall, I was standing in a courtyard,” I observed.
    “Indeed. We saw that. But now your body is lying in a courtyard, and your consciousness is here, with us.”
    “I presume you have a reason?”
    “Of course. This is a dream-spell. Together, we have reached across the miles to bring you here, to this arena. Since you are difficult to challenge physically, you will face us here.”
    Dream-spell. I knew this spell, sort of. I couldn’t have cast one—at least, I don’t think so—but I understood immediately what it was. It created a pocket of dreaming for combatants to use as a personal battleground. This was a lot like a contest of wills, a duel between wizards, but the magicians’ version of it. Normally, magicians of Zirafel would both cast the spell, with a third coming along as arbiter, but it could be cast on an unwilling subject if you could manage to get close enough to him, and had enough power reserves to force it.
    Of course, that made it less of a duel and more of an assassination. Zirafel outlawed them outside of formal dueling occasions. The person casting the dream-spell could end it before being seriously harmed, but the target of the spell had no choice—and, therefore, could eventually be killed. Hence, an assassination tool, rather than a dueling spell.
    If the Church is no longer after me, will I still be a target when I go home? Something to think about, since someone obviously is after me. I don’t like it.
    That was on the surface of my thoughts. Deeper down, there was an enraged thing that was entirely displeased with having someone interfere with my mind. I did my best to chain it, to harness it, but I’m not sure I was entirely successful. I have a lot of repressed anger.
    “Aren’t these things illegal?” I asked, and I could hear my tone, cold as a killer frost. I saw him wince.
    “Slightly. We have a special dispensation from the King of Rethven.”
    “I see,” I said, trying hard to suppress the rage at what had been done and deal with the situation in hand. “All right. Is this one pure imagination?”
    “No. Only the things you have seen or experienced. Real things, not some phantasm conjured from the depths of your twisted fancy.”
    I looked around the arena.
    “And the things your assistants have?”
    “Yes. You are immortal, after all, and we have no way of knowing how long you have lived.”
    “Not exactly fair,” I noted, still struggling with my tone. He licked his lips and shrugged.
    “No, but this isn’t meant to be. Are you ready?”
    “No, but that won’t stop you. By the way, is there some way you would prefer to be addressed? I don’t want to just say, ‘Hey, you.’ It seems impolite.”
    “You may call me ‘Magician Hagus’.”
    “And these?” I asked, nodding toward the shadowy, wavering figures. Hagus smirked.
    “Assistants in bringing the spell to you,” he said. “No one of importance.”
    “I see. Thank you. You may call me ‘Halar’.”
    “Very good. I shall go first.”
    In the arena, a dragon appeared. In scale, it was probably about forty feet long. It was quite pretty, all green and black, with some reddish glints on its scales. I remembered, without remembering where I learned it, that the things summoned from the memory would have a certain independence and quasi-reality. The spell would manufacture what the participants remembered, with all the qualities and powers they recalled.
    “Impressive,” I observed, and