walls undulating in waves, the bodies of the Wurt and their prisoners swelling in some places, contracting in others. The air felt charged, and time itself grew thick, sluggish.
Something slapped against the side of his neck. Galen turned, his torso seeming to torque around while his legs remained in place, his body ductile, made of liquid fire.
A Wurt stood there, his mouth open in an almost comical expression of fear, his hand, withdrawing from Galen, curving in a serpentine course.
The Wurt had stuck something to Galen's neck. And before Galen's hand even reached it, he realized what it was: a tranq tab, bonded to his skin. In three seconds, he would be unconscious.
G'Leel and the bright room had been misdirections. Here was Elizar's trap. Simple and effective.
Already a second had passed. The sphere must cut into his neck to have any impact; the tranquilizer would already be driving into his system, and he must remove as much of it as he could. If he lost consciousness, he would never wake again. Galen focused on the location of the tab, visualized the one-term equation.
With the blazing energy surging through his body, he felt no pain, just a growing pressure against his neck as the sphere formed.
If the drug had already gotten into his system, then he could do nothing to stop it. Yet under the influence of the spell of destruction, time was slowed, distorted. He must take advantage of that.
Elizar and Razeel remained nowhere in sight.
Galen conjured a platform beneath himself, conjured equation of motion, equation of motion. He sped from the cavern, twisted past a group of Drakh, swerved down a dark tunnel. He must go deep, so deep that no one could find him.
His legs wobbled, the fluid fire swaying, wavering. He fell to his knees. Forming