by Paul Sobol
One of the guards tugged on Athenais’ gag, freeing the old mage to speak. “The attack against the lich-fiends could have been handled differently, had we not been held captive. Your men bound and gagged us before we had a chance to explain we are on a mission of peace.”
“Lich-fiends,” the old soldier chuckled, “I haven’t heard that name in a very long time. We call them Z’gal. In the old tongue it means Death Stalkers.”
At the mention of this Archer suddenly became curious. These people were using words from an old elven dialect, somewhat poorly, but that could be attributed to changes in language over long periods of time.
The soldier turned serious again. “Why have you come here?”
“We are searching for the Water of Life. We believe it is here in the Ice Keep, at least according to legend.”
“This is the Ice Keep, but I do not know of any Water of Life. There is an old fountain in the courtyard but it has been dry for many years.”
“It has to be here somewhere. With your permission may we search the Keep and surrounding grounds?”
“I have lived here my entire life, as have several generations of my family. The only water here is drawn from the deep well fed by the lake, and I would hardly call it the Water of Life.”
“We haven’t come all this way just to find out it’s not here.”
“And where exactly have you come from Magician?”
“We entered the Temple of Air, passed through the labyrinthine tunnels and beneath the Great Lake.”
“I know not of these things,” the old soldier said warily, “but there is one here who may know of what you speak. He proclaims to be the oldest of us, whether he speaks truth I do not know, however he is knowledgeable in many things including your own arts.”
“Please, we are not your enemy, could you release our bonds?”
For a few moments the old soldier thought about the request. Nodding to the white robed guards behind, the anti-magical bonds and gags were removed. “We know what you are capable of, but I warn you, attempt any magic here and my guards will not hesitate to use their weapons. I will not have you draw more attention to us than you already have. Follow.”
Turning, the old soldier began walking along the battlement towards a staging area holding several huge mangonels and a trebuchet. Similarly dressed soldiers manned the huge war-machines, quietly and efficiently loading them with munitions.
Among the scurrying soldiers stood a tall well-built man wearing a long ankle-length white coat. His silver hair, hanging well past his shoulders, was loosely tied back with a leather thong. In a deep commanding voice he ordered two nearby soldiers to begin loading the trebuchet with stone fragments, each the size of a large melon.
As the group approached the tall man in blue turned around. His expression, similar to the old soldier who led them, could only be described as stormy verging on open anger. The old soldier spoke quietly for a few moments. The tall man stepped aside to address the five magicians but was interrupted by a loud exclamation.
“You! I thought you were dead!”
“I should have known you would one day return. It has been a very long wait I must say, Athenais.”
“Arthos,” the old mage said in a near whisper, “but how?”
“That will have to wait, my old friend. Unfortunately your arrival has drawn some unwanted attention to this area and we have little time to prepare. But first, guards stand down to your posts.” Arthos turned to the old soldier beside him, “Captain, they will come in force, and soon. Prepare the outer defences and make sure the men know what to expect. I fear however, we may lose many this time around.”
“Aye, Protector.” The captain snapped off a hasty salute. Retreating down another set of stairs to the courtyard below, the Commander could be heard shouting orders at various groups of soldiers needing last minute instructions.
Arthos motioned for the five to follow him and they continued along the battlements, sometimes stopping to inspect various war engines being prepared for what could only be a full-scale battle. Beneath one of the outer towers located around the wall the group was taken up yet another flight of stairs. Reaching the top, they found themselves gathered upon a viewing platform facing a particularly tall mountain prominent amongst the ranges.
“There,” Arthos pointed, “is where our enemy waits patiently. Our scouts have never been able to get close enough but I was able to see it from above once. There is another fortress, similar to this one though a lot bigger. It looks to have been carved straight from the rock-face of the mountain itself, heavily fortified, with a thousand-foot drop as a moat. A single narrow drawbridge is the only access.
“We do not know who or what dwells there, but our scouts have always reported great numbers of Z’gal moving to and from that location. During my first attempt to infiltrate the fortress I was lucky to escape with my life. I was set upon by a score of frost drakes from the mountain top and out of the clouds, and before I knew it I was surrounded and chased away. The frost drakes, as you may have realised, are descended from the few fire drakes that managed to survive here.
“I believe something is creating the Z’gal and controlling them. For a long time we have observed a pattern of behaviour with the Z’gal; every time we kill a few they always send a larger force in retaliation. Like a hive mind they are considered to be part of a larger whole. No individuals. So if we kill several it is noticed by the collective and more drones are sent to counter the threat.
“This time however, we stung them a little too deep. From what I was told, it was no simple hunting pack chasing you - they were out there in force for a purpose. Maybe searching for something…or someone.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re not the first magicians to seek out the fabled Ice Keep. Over the years many have come, by land or air, but few make it this far. Usually the frost drakes, or Z’gal, get to them first. The only odd thing is our scouts don’t find any remains. We believe any magicians are captured, but for what purpose only the Master of the Fortress knows.”
“But why would they attack such a heavily fortified position? It would require huge numbers to assault this Keep.”
“At least a force ten times our own. We have only a thousand soldiers capable of defending the walls, and our best guess would place the enemy at a twenty to one advantage with a combined force of Z’gal and frost drakes. A coordinated attack from both land and air will soon overwhelm our tenuous position.”
“The Keep is certainly impressive, but why remain here with such a threat at your very doorstep?”
“It has become our home, for a long time, and abandoning it seems just as pointless.”
Something Arthos had just said rang false. There was definitely something important his long-ago companion was trying to hide, but Athenais decided now was not the time to call attention to it. “Perhaps,” he said in response, “my companions and I could be of some assistance?”
“Looks like you don’t have much choice,” Arthos said, looking at the horizon. It was only then the others noticed what the tall magician had seen approaching. Like a slow moving river of darkness spreading across the ice approached a horde of 'undead' skeletons. What looked like a small cloud formed above the mountain range and followed in the wake of the 'undead' force intent on smashing against the Keep’s wall.
As the horde approached, hundreds of men ascended the battlements, taking up positions near the war engines as well as dozens of bins filled with arrows. A contingent of the white-cloaked guards climbed onto the viewing platform and formed a living wall around the six magicians, bows in hand. From strategically placed bins they each drew and notched an arrow similar to those used earlier on the frozen lake.
Each arrow was tipped with a small amount of explosive material which, when detonated, should rip through the ranks of the oncoming skeletal horde. Against the heavily scaled drakes it was unknown how effective the arrows would be, relying on concussive force rather than
piercing. At best the explosives might stun any drake unlucky enough to be hit in the head.
As one, the magicians began incanting spells.
From a pocket Father Benedict withdrew a small book and began reading quietly. Although concentrating on their spell-craft, those around him recognised the language as an ancient derivative of Latin. Unsure if the old priest was merely reciting a prayer or invoking the power of his God the mages continued to weave their magic in preparation for the oncoming wave of evil.
As time passed, defensive wards of magical protection were established around the Keep’s walls. They wouldn’t stop physical attacks from the Z’gal, but at least the frost drakes might be hindered. Droning on with his prayer Father Benedict seemed to slip into a kind of trance, becoming totally oblivious to anything else, while the magicians finished their defensive spells.
Half way across the frozen lake the ‘undead’ army inexorably continued, unhindered by snow or ice. What had looked to be a ‘cloud’ had overtaken the ground forces and those on the platform could clearly see it was composed entirely of frost drakes; their white and blue scales a perfect camouflage against the higher clouds above.
As though having crossed an invisible line, the hundreds of archers lining the wall loosed the first volley of arrows into the oncoming army. The highly agile drakes easily dodged the slow moving projectiles which continued falling to the ice below. The first few explosions could be distinctly seen and heard by those on the wall. Shortly afterwards, more than five hundred concussions joined together to create not only a physical wall of shattered ice and flying debris, but also a shockwave of sound that could easily shatter the bones of the oncoming horde.
Quickly closing the distance, the frost drakes let out an ear-piercing cry, causing more than a few soldiers to blanch and turn deathly white. A series of small fireballs were flung from the viewing platform and those on the wall watched in wonder and expectation of what was about to happen. The drakes merely scattered and dove triumphantly towards the Keep.
The fireballs arced overhead, having passed their supposed targets, but then each exploded in a shower of fiery sparks. Those drakes caught directly beneath shrieked in agony as the falling sparks stuck to scales and continued to burn through. Wings of at least a dozen frost drakes were immediately riddled with burn holes and, unable to maintain speed or altitude, plummeted to their deaths.
A cheer went up from the white-cloaked men standing on the walls. Volleys of arrows now sped through the air in the chance of making a hit, especially against those drakes that accidently flew too close to the wall. However, not all of the drakes were attacking; several dozen remained with the advancing horde and, using their frost breaths, created bridges spanning the shattered ice surface.
Even though hundreds of explosive arrows rained destruction amongst the ranks of skeletal creatures they continued advancing. The surviving drakes used their potent frost breath magic to freeze the explosives mid-air; leaving them to fall harmlessly to the ice below or snatched up by those more adroit. Suddenly the soldiers on the walls became the target of their own munitions.
Magical wards scintillated in a riot of colours as explosive arrows fell towards the Keep’s defenders. A soldier below gave the order for catapults to engage, and hundreds of fist-sized stones sailed through the air into flying forces. Chaos reigned as arrows and rocks randomly struck each other and the sky erupted with deafening explosions.
Unfortunate drakes fell by the score, unconscious, only to be trampled to death by the 'undead' host. But for every drake that went down a soldier on the wall was also killed, either by the deadly frost breath or being snatched up and crushed by powerfully taloned claws.
The protective shields around the Keep flared sporadically as more drake attacks penetrated through its weakening layers. Winter frantically snapped off several quick incantations in an attempt to fortify the shields against the drake’s freezing breath, and with a small measure of success the blasts were again repelled. The soldiers on the wall raised a heartfelt cheer and continued firing the explosive arrows amidst the flying mob.
Below on the ice the first ranks of Z’gal reached the foot of the tor. Dozens of soldiers rushed forward carrying buckets of slick black oil which they dumped over the wall. A burning torch was thrown over and within moments the oil caught fire, incinerating hundreds of 'undead' attempting to reach the Keep.
A visible wall of shimmering heat raced up the battlement, forcing the cheering soldiers back several feet. The cheering however was short-lived. Several drakes dove down amidst deadly exploding ammunitions to extinguish the inferno, allowing the skeletal horde once more to advance, climbing over the smouldering corpses of their fallen brethren.
One of the frost drakes sped towards the front gate intent on blasting a way through. Arrows exploded against the scaled monster as it approached on what would be a suicide mission, and before it hit the portcullis it let out a long blast of its freezing breath.
Instantly the metal and wood turned brittle. Finally rendered unconscious, the drake’s massive body continued onwards through sheer momentum, and upon impact the portcullis and gate violently exploded in a shower of splintered wood and metal fragments.
Waiting within the courtyard was a score of heavily armoured soldiers with pikes and spears. As the falling debris cleared, the 'undead' host entered the Ice Keep in a dark tidal wave. The frost drake corpse was quickly trampled to a slushy gore, its blood quickly freezing making the stone paving slick and difficult to manoeuvre on.
The front ranks of skeletons were caught off balance, many falling upon the eagerly waiting weapons of the soldiers. Crashing against the immovable wall of sharpened steel dozens of Z’gal were impaled, even driven further onto the spears as those behind pushed forward, uncaring as to the fate of their dying brethren. With single-minded, fanatical purpose, the ‘undead’ were only concerned about overwhelming their foe with sheer numbers.
Those soldiers who could not retrieve the weapons abandoned them and drew swords. From the viewing platform every magician felt a powerful surge in the Aether originating from below as the magically enhanced weapons were brought to bear against the 'undead'. Blue fire danced along the blades, eagerly consuming skeletal bones whenever they hit. The magically enhanced weapons cut a swathe through the oncoming creatures, but soon it appeared as if the tables were beginning to turn as superior numbers began to overwhelm the defenders.
Between casting fireballs and webs of noxious green acid at frost drakes, Athenais noticed the beleaguered soldiers below in the courtyard and quickly cast a series of spells. The first spell ignited a fiery wall where the portcullis once stood. Dozens of Z’gal attempting to enter the Keep were caught in the magical barrier and were instantly vaporised.
The onrush of 'undead' slowed and eventually stopped at the ruined gatehouse, but not before accidentally pushing several more of their kin through the wall of fire. This set several of the front-most skeletons fighting against those pushing from behind, but soon the entire group once again turned their attention back to gaining entrance to the Keep.
Seeing this strange behaviour, Athenais had a wonderfully comforting thought. The collective consciousness shared between Z’gal, the so-called Hive Mind, was responsible for directing the creature’s actions, but unable to handle the vast numbers the mindless creatures occasionally operated without consideration for each other or the consequences.
The remaining 'undead' inside the courtyard slowed down, as though the surrounding air had instantly solidified like jelly. Unaffected by the spell the magically-armed soldiers advanced, and with brutal efficiency dispatched the motionless creatures.
The Commander appeared on the platform and hastily spoke to the tall magician. “Do we have any more oil?”
“Unfortunately we used what little we had the first time.”
“They certainly are persistent. Come take a look, we will need some help.”
Descending the stairs quickly the two m
ade their way to the barbican. Soldiers on top were throwing rocks down upon the 'undead' forces that had started to form a rudimentary ramp using the dead as well as their own bodies. Hundreds of the creatures were already piled on top of each other, and every minute more joined. It wouldn’t be long before they reached the top of the gatehouse and spilled unopposed into the Keep.
From above drakes attacked relentlessly with their frost breath, making it difficult for the soldiers to mount any sort of effective counter-attack. Arthos sent several fireballs into the thick of the drakes, expecting them to momentarily disperse. The fireballs never exploded.
Several drakes flew directly into the path of the fiery missiles. Their sacrifice allowed the others to continue the assault against the soldiers upon the walls, thus buying more time for the massing Z’gal. Cursing, Arthos cast several spells at various flying targets, but the agile drakes easily avoided the magical attacks.
With his magic was being thwarted at every turn, the battlements would soon be overrun and there hardly seemed anything he could do in response. Most of the spells at his disposal would either do not enough damage to stem the tide, or cause catastrophic devastation to everything and everyone in the Keep.
As a final act of desperation, and a last chance to save the remaining soldiers and their families, Arthos began preparing one last spell. Rather than be destroyed, he would transport everyone away and demolish the Keep before leaving. Hopefully the final destruction of the fortress would take as many of the 'undead' and flying creatures with it. But before uttering the first word all sound ceased.
Believing he had suddenly lost all hearing, Arthos watched as drakes silently flew around the Keep, while the 'undead' Z’gal continued to pile upon each other to reach the top. Even his soldiers were silent as they loosed arrow after arrow, but the explosions went unheard. For a brief moment he felt a stab of panic. Without sound were the magicians capable of casting their spells?
