The Red Citadel and the Sorcerer's Power

by Craig Halloran

  In a fury, Moth hacked with two hands as burning needles coursed through his limbs. He stabbed throats, hearts, and bellies, all to the sound of Unus laughing. With painful red welts popping up all over his half-naked frame, Moth hewed into the sea of multiplying men.

  Ahead, he caught a glimpse of the sorcerer in gold-checkered robes. The sorcerer flung balls of mystic energy into the air. Great stone blocks tornadoed around Finster, shielding him from Richter’s monumental efforts. Hunks of stone exploded in the sky. Bits of rocks and debris rained down.

  Moth punched his way through the mill of bodies that had stinging fingers. He needed something he could hit. Something that he could kill. He took aim at Richter, who hung behind a mystic shield dome. Hands over his head, with the enemies’ fingers ripping into his abdomen, Moth chopped into the shield. The blade skittered off the glowing disk. Moth’s sword bit into the ground. He cocked back his sword. A ball of energy smacked into his chest, sending him sprawling backward as if he’d been kicked by a horse.

  Lying on the ground, he pushed up from his chest with a snarl on his face. Moth’s chest had a black sear mark smack dab in the middle. His skin smoldered. The duplicates of the blue-and-white-robed mage laughed at him. They poked him repeatedly with their pain-delivering fingers. Moth made his way back to his feet. With spots in his eyes and the blood in his veins thickening like molasses, he slowly ambled forward. His sword swings became sluggish. The inside of his body burned. The sky filled with bright spots in a multitude of colored stars. They bubbled, wobbled, and faded only to appear again.

  Moth staggered through the sea of sorcerers. He swiped at them with heavy, clumsy swings. His iron endurance began to cave against the sway of unseen forces pricking at his body. All he could do was swing at the growing, mad cackling of voices. He chopped on, thrusting his weight into them one by one. Finally, a man in armor waded through the strange flock with a sword of quivering, shiny steel in hand. Two more appeared right behind the first knight. They moved in as quickly as a brisk wind, stabbing Moth over and over again. The lights of the world went dim.

  ***

  Osgald the Bold pulled his sword free of Moth’s chest. Among the tapestry of strange blue-robed mages, his skin hadn’t stopped crawling. Eerie dark forces were afoot. Unus’s face was everywhere. The blue-toe savage lay on the ground with nasty black bleeding welts all over him. Now three gaping sword wounds had gashed the brute like a slaughtered pig. Osgald found a face of Unus and said, “What is going on here? Is the savage expired?”

  All of the many images of Unus spoke as one. “I released powerful toxins from my fingers. The poison is spreading, turning the savage’s mind into mud and blood into sand. Act quick. Cut off his hands and bring them to me. I will have those rings.”

  Osgald tipped his chin at Chet. His second-in-command knelt by Moth. Dagger in hand, he started sawing the savage’s hand off at the wrist. Osgald glanced up at the field of stones soaring a dozen feet above his head. Through the flashing veil, he could see Finster, suspended in the sky, clutching his chest and gasping for air. Elam’s ghostly form hovered in front of the magus with the fingers clutching and squeezing as if they were trying to crush a stone. “What of them? Is that situation under control?”

  “It’s been under control since the moment we came here,” all forms of Unus said. “The fool never should have crossed the Violet Citadel. Now all the power will soon be ours.”

  CHAPTER 91

  Elam the Red’s ghostly form hovered just out of reach. The older sorcerer had a gloating look in his eyes. As if he had Finster’s beating heart in the palm of his hand, he squeezed, turned, and twisted back and forth. With the snide look of a conqueror, he said, “Does that hurt, Master of the Inanimate? Hmm. Do you feel the sting of death, Guardian of the Mystic Forge?” His voice rose. “Will you plead for your life, Secret Slayer? I want to hear you beg!”

  With sweat streaming down his face, Finster clutched his chest. Painful, blinding shards stung him from head to toe from the inside out. At the same time, the block he floated upon dipped downward. He crumpled to his knees on the rectangular hunk of rock and let out another gasp. Foamy spittle dribbled out over his lips and the corner of his mouth.

  Laughing, Elam said, “What is the matter, Finster? Don’t you have anything witty to say? Don’t you want to mock the Violet Citadel and its inferior members? Hmm?” He extended his clutched fingers in front of Finster and squeezed tighter. Finster let out a pained howl. “Excuse me, what were you saying? I couldn’t tell if it was an apology or a plea for your life.”

  “Neither,” Finster moaned.

  “Ah, still defiant. I like that about you. Even in the Violet Citadel, your words and deeds carried weight throughout our chambers. But I never imagined I would be the one to come in conflict with you. Still, I am honored. Since I am the second-highest magus of our order, your destruction will lead me to the top.”

  Slowly rolling his neck, Finster squinted one eye and looked upward at his attacker. Through sputtering lips, he said, “What an accomplishment to be the top beetle on the dung heap.” He spit out foam. “And you dare call that a sorcerer’s tower.”

  “I’m going to enjoy sharing the tale of your slaughter with my colleagues. We might even use your corpse as a decoration. Perhaps we’ll turn you into a lich that guards our secret chambers.” Elam flexed his hand. Finster groaned with every flex of his fingers. “We came prepared, Finster. Our plan was to nullify the effects of your amplified powers. And though we wanted to negotiate, all of us agreed that, in the end, to take the Founder’s Stone, we’d have to kill you. The sooner the better. Goodbye, Finster.” Elam put both hands together and squeezed them with all his might.

  Body trembling, Finster started to stand. The rock he rode upon lifted him above Elam.

  Doubt grew in the red-robed wizard’s eyes. He clamped his hands together harder. “Die! Why won’t you die?”

  “Did you really think that you could take me with that cantrip that you call a spell? It is the pain that overloads the body and mind that kills. Unbearable, excruciating, chest-lancing pain that mortals would rather die than suffer.” Finster pulled his arms back. His fists balled up at his sides. Showing his own gloating sneer, he added, “But there is something that you need to know, Elam. Pain and I are very close friends!”

  Elam paled. He pushed his palms together, but the empty space between them grew wider as if a ball were expanding in his hands. “What are you doing? This is not possible. I am a magus of the ninth order. None can survive my Heart Devastator.”

  Finster tossed his head back and laughed. Embracing his chronic pain, he used it to fuel his own anger and reached deep inside himself. The Master of the Inanimate’s fingertips glowed like burning coals. Out of thin air, a cyclone of energy twisted around his body and filled a ball of energy inside his hand. The mystic powers he no longer practiced came back to him from the fuel of the Founder’s Stone. Like the other sorcerers who attacked him, he brought forth that old energy. “Stand still, Elam,” Finster said.

  With growing concern on his face, Elam asked, “Why?”

  “It’s time for me to kill you.”

  Elam abandoned the efforts to crush Finster’s heart in his hands and started swimming away in his ghostly form.

  With magic hands, Finster caught Elam by the skirt of his checkered robes. He yanked the man backward and spun him around. With a thrust of his hand, he shoved the ball of fire into Elam’s chest.

  Elam’s head rocked backward. “Guh!” Bright energy lit up the veins inside the man’s body. Back arching, the red sorcerer’s body solidified and floated toward the ground. He hit the ground on both feet and sank to his knees. Gasping for breath, he said with an agonized expression, “Mercy, Finster. Mercy.”

  Finster landed beside him. “You request mercy, and you shall have it. Look upward.”

  Elam lifted his eyes to the sky. Blocks of stone bigger than men hovered above him. “No, no, please.”

/>   Finster summoned two man-sized stones from out of nowhere. They smashed Elam between them like cymbals, pulverizing his bones and flesh. Blood oozed from between the rocks. “Crude but just as effective.” He let out a long sigh. The images of Unus the Uncanny were clustered together with a group of knights on foot, who were bearing down on Finster with swords raised. With a wave of his hands, Finster took the sphere of stones from the sky in his mystic grasp and hurled them into the charging men.

  The wave of blocks blasted the knights from their boots, crushing armor and breaking bone. The magi struck by the rocks dissipated into vapors. Finster flicked his fingers, watching the next wave of knights and wizards come right at him. He lifted more rocks with his mind. “Child’s play.”

  Seeing rocks flying over the rooftop, the knights lifted their shields. With a loud bang, the group was knocked from their feet.

  Casually, Finster said, “What am I doing? I don’t need blocks. I’ll use the knights’ armor against them.” Knight by knight, he took control of their metal-clad bodies and had them hack into the images of Unus, as well as striking at one another. With big white eyes, the knights unleashed fear-filled attacks against their allies as they shouted out prayers and pleas to one another.

  Images of Unus fell underneath the power of sword and dagger, leaving only a few standing. Waving their hands, they started to run.

  Finster sent four knights flying through the air like missiles. Their sword points gored the images of Unus. Two of the three faded. The lone remaining one bled to death. “Two down. Now where is the last moron from the Violet Citadel of dung hiding? Gah!” Finster felt a sharp needle bite down into his neck. He turned to see an image quaver before his eyes. It was a shapely, beautiful woman with the cold, expressionless face of a killer. New fire raced through his veins. “You!” He crumpled to the ground. “You’re the assassin from Rayland.”

  She knelt beside him. “I am Alexandria, the High Executioner of the Circle.” She offered a frozen smile. “We always get our man.”

  With his limbs seizing, his jaw locking, and dribble coating his lips, he said, “In the end, that bastard King Rolem wins.”

  Alexandria shrugged. “He’s the king. Of course he does.”

  CHAPTER 92

  Pinning Moth’s arm down with his knee, Chet sawed into the savage’s wrist with a dagger. “This barbarian’s bones are like stone.” As he cut, the skin bled, then quickly started to mend. “Curses! The skin sews itself. What bizarre madness is—urk!”

  Moth punched the knight hard in the Adam’s apple, sending him sprawling on the floor. Whatever dark force ailed him suddenly began to clear as a spring of cleansing energy washed throughout his body. The stinging welts all over his body faded from black to red and pink. Sword in hand, he jumped Chet and thrust downward, pinning the man through the heart of his armor to the stones.

  Osgald and bleeding-out Unus exchanged a nervous glance. Above them, Finster, once dying, came back to life with a sorcerous glow about him.

  Osgald shouted out a command. “River Knights! Rally!” He pointed his sword at the sorcerer and the savage. “Take after that sorcerer and take down that savage!” He led the charge toward Moth, while his third-in-command rushed over to aid Unus. Osgald, a master swordsman, stabbed his sword in behind Moth’s exposed shoulder blades and drove it deep to the hilt. “Die, monster!”

  Moth twisted his shoulders, ripping the sword free of Osgald’s iron grip. He grabbed the River Knight commander by the arm. A jolt of lightning shot from Moth’s fingers, lancing through Osgald’s body and armor. Black marks spread out over the man’s body. His skin seared against the hot steel. He started screaming.

  A wave of knights plowed into Moth, shouting, “Save the commander!” They drove Moth down onto the deck. Daggers in hand, they stabbed and cut him.

  With a sword still in his body, Moth wrestled against the stalwart brood with a tiger’s ferocity. His big hands became hammers. He punched them off like a kick of a mule. The seasoned fighters spun away from his wild attack. Quickly, they clipped at Moth with their swords. Moth sprang clear over the heads of the row of knights in front of him. He landed on his big feet by the fallen form of Chet and yanked his sword free. With one sword buried in his chest and his broadsword dripping in his hand, he faced off against them.

  The knights’ eyes grew as big as saucers. The one in the middle of the three said, “It’s not possible!” He pulled a shield in front of him. So did the others.

  The raspy voice came from the throat of Osgald the Bold. His face was blackened and charred, and his hair was as crisp as fallen leaves. He said, “Cut his hands off and get the rings. Get the rings!” He went into a fit of coughing.

  Moth pulled the other sword out of his chest. With both hands covered in blood and filled with steel, he charged.

  The knights brought their own might into the collision. Putting their backs and iron-hard skill into every swing, they cut into the brawny savage.

  Swinging both of his arms downward, Moth cut both arms off the centered knight at the same time. His broadsword sheared clean through the man’s shield. He paid the price for it. A knight chopped his arm deep in the shoulder. Blood sprayed. Moth’s shoulder hung slack. With his good arm, he gored the man in the belly, lifted him from his feet, and slung him off the end of his blade.

  The last standing knight cut Moth open across the belly. “Die, barbarian!” The knight’s eyes were filled with triumph as he looked at the gaping wound exposing Moth’s entrails. But as quickly as he’d cut the barbarian open, the wound began to mend. “No,” he said, shaking his head. The stalwart knight’s steely spine fled him. He teetered a half step back. “Impossi—”

  Moth split the man’s head from the top of the skull down past his chin. The knight fell aside. Fixing his gaze on the wizards and knights who were scrambling toward a revived Finster, Moth started in that direction. A ball of red energy soared at his head. He ducked under it. Quick as a cat, he turned on his attacker. Another ball of energy caught him square in the chest.

  “Die, you, you mindless brute!” It was the magus, Richter the Gold, flinging one golden-red ball of energy after the other at Moth. The fiery balls blasted into Moth’s chest. He stormed at Richter as mystic flames engulfed Moth’s burning flesh.

  He hacked into the sorcerer’s energy shield. The blades skipped harmlessly away. Moth flung them aside. He pounded on the shield with his glowing fists. The shield bowed against the weight of his blows. It chipped and cracked.

  “Stop! Stop! What are you doing?” The exasperated Richter’s face had become haggard. His confident expression turned into a growing frown. His shield flickered and buckled. “No, you must stop. You must stop!” His shoulders sagged. The last of his shield fizzled out. The flames inside his hands went dim. He cowered.

  Without hesitation, Moth scooped the trembling magus up in his arms. He marched straight to the wall and threw him between the battlements. The exhausted magus hit the ground without uttering a scream.

  Moth turned just in time to see flying knights gored and the last of the wizards fall. Far away, near the center of the roof, Finster lay on the ground. A woman on one knee gloated over the fallen wizard. Moth took in a deep snort of air, grabbed his broadsword, and ran right at her.

  CHAPTER 93

  “Alexandria is a very pretty name,” Finster said to the woman who looked down on him. “And you are a vision. It is no wonder that you are such a fine assassin. I never would have seen it coming.” Deep inside, he knew he should be dead by now. The poison would have taken him if not for the scarab and the Founder’s Stone. The powerful magic kept him together, but without him, it would die as well. His vision became cloudy, and he could barely see her face. “Alexandria. Such a pretty face and lovely name.”

  “Your death is boring me,” she said with a cold smile. “Do you think you could make it quicker?” Her eyes drifted away from him.

  Finster saw Moth approaching. In his weakened state,
the big savage appeared as a shambling form. He coughed out a laugh. “You might have gotten me, but I don’t think you’ll get him.”

  “We’ll see,” she said.

  ***

  Alexandria stood up. She had Finster right where she wanted him, but now she had to contend with Moth. The savage was the biggest, scariest man she’d ever seen. She slid two of her poisoned needles out of her sleeve. She moved away from Finster and squared off with the savage. “You might not speak, but I know that you hear. These needles have been dipped in the most potent poison in the world. The only cure is death.” Her eyes drifted over Finster. He lay panting on the ground. “Ask your friend.”

  The sullen-eyed Moth gave her a deadpan stare.

  A chill went down her spine to her toes. The savage had nearly crushed her before. This time, she wasn’t going to take any chances. She pulled the hood of the Assassin’s Shroud over her head and disappeared.

  Moth’s chin came forward as his eyes searched the area. From among the dead and the large chunks of fallen debris, the other two assassins emerged. With sharp longswords in hand, they flanked him.

  CHAPTER 94

  With his innards burning as if he were being filled with hot sand, Finster rolled to his side. Moth faced off with two assassins the moment that Alexandria vanished. Fighting with everything he had left in him, Finster tried to hang on. His fading vision became bright spotted and blurry. Through it all, the scarab still pulsated like a searing brand of iron in his back.

  How can any one man be expected to endure such hellish pain? Of all men, why me?

  Finster had been through hard times in life, but nothing had ever compared to this. Reason told him to give up. It was time to make his bed in the grave. But pride, anger, and envy kept him going. He wasn’t going to let anyone get the best of him if he could help it. Still, the shroud of darkness continued to envelop him. He crawled, pitiful and shaky, like a wounded old man, as he walked a tightrope between life and death.