Darkness surrounded Mikhail. He couldn’t breathe or move. There was no sound and all he smelled was scorched earth mingled with sulfur. He feared, feared for the first time since abandoning his mortal self, that the intense heat would consume him. Mikhail never should have doubted the master’s power. Despite the pain his armor had kept him alive.

The boy had tricked him again. Twice he’d lost to a mere whelp. A child! If the heat didn’t kill him the embarrassment might. He let the anger rise and pushed out with hellfire. His left arm came free and soon after his right popped free as the dark fire carved out a pocket of space around him. In less than a minute Mikhail’s body was free of its stone tomb.

He straightened his legs and banged his head on the stone above. The tiny space he’d made for himself was barely adequate. He’d lost his sword somewhere in the earth. Mikhail didn’t care how long it took, he wouldn’t leave until he regained it. Bad enough the master had had to provide him a new arm, he wouldn’t return without his weapon.

Mikhail concentrated and soon sensed the blade. It was as much a part of him as his hand or foot and every bit as important, maybe more important. He followed the connection, burning away earth and stone until after an unknowable time he reached the hilt of his weapon. Mikhail grabbed it and ripped it free of the confining rock. Now he felt whole again. There remained the task of burning his way free. He had no idea how deep his tomb was.

Stolen novel; please report.

Mikhail growled in the back of his throat. He would kill the boy next time. There was no question of it.

He raised his black sword and flames poured forth. Foot by agonizing foot Mikhail rose through the crumbly black stone. Hours later, exhausted and nearly drained of soul force, the tip of his sword burst through the outer crust of the lava field. Mikhail smashed the last of the stone away and climbed out.

All around him looked like a scene from the end of the world. Black, still-warm stone covered everything. The mountain where the weak druid and his servants worked had collapsed into a pile of rubble. He would give the boy this much credit: when he destroyed something he did a thorough job. Mikhail appreciated that.

He turned first toward the druid village then back north to the master’s library. Conflicting desires warred in him. Mikhail badly wanted to slaughter the villagers, but he also needed to hurry back and warn the master that his enemies may now know where his library was hidden.

Mikhail willed himself into the air and grimaced. He hated flying without a proper mount, it was beneath his dignity as a knight, but he had to do what he had to do. Mikhail turned north. The villagers would have to wait.