Izebadd
On came the broken old sorcerer, and Izebadd was ready for him. Flushed with the success of his gambit, he waited, laughing to himself. And that collection of vanquished limbs, that mess of polished, sorcerous organs gathered up its pitiful self and limped, a shattered mess, after the glory that was Izeb—
—crash. Thoughts abandoned Izebadd; pain blossomed instead, pain in every limbless part of him. His head filled up with the sharp crack of shattering glass, and he felt every splinter, as though he were a great window breaking into pieces. He cowered, shuddering, shock rendering him momentarily powerless.
How had the withered old sorcerer moved so fast, or hit so hard? He would swear Ibn Samar never did so before, not even when he had been a young man of living flesh, and at th
