by Dan Zangari
“Shall I go investigate?” Griffith asks, looking to Dorith.
After a moment, Dorith answers, “No, Griffith. And I agree, the assault on the west gate is a diversion. But, since the alarm was sounded the city is sealed. Only I can relinquish the barsion now.”
“Uh, whoa,” Regas gasps. “Does that mean if you die we’re all trapped in here?”
Each of the mage studies Dorith, anxiously awaiting an answer.
“In theory, yes,” the grandmaster replies. “I suppose the city’s architects didn’t intend to contain an internal threat.”
“Great…” Regas sighs, “Chaos will ensue when people realize they’re trapped in this tomb…”
“Calm down, Regas,” Griffith urges gently. “It won’t come to that. We just have to protect Grandmaster Dorith.”
Chuckling, Dorith says, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine. Each of you stay here, follow Almar’s orders. I’ll circle the city and try to spot Iltar from the air. When I find him, I’ll launch a battle-signal.”
With that said, Dorith turns to the east and shouts for his mystical drake.
Eradas appears from its invisibility, swooping to the border highway beyond the conversing mages.
As his drake lands, Dorith sternly eyes each mage and says, “Be ready.”
* * * * *
As the last Alathian mage dies at the eastern gate, Iltar angrily spits blood from his mouth; he glances at the surrounding bodies, searching for Rinden. Each of his minion’s enthralled guards lay on the roadway, mingled with the host defending the eastern gate. Hundreds litter the ground, their blood turning the once white road red.
After a moment, he spots the illusionist’s corpse among several guards and citizens.
The necromancer utters a necrotic incantation, and purple magic gathers around his hands, then wisps into Rinden’s body.
Reanimated by Iltar’s magic, Rinden pushes himself up from the corpses and walks toward the necromancer.
“Nath?!” Iltar hollers for the thief.
“Over here,” Nath grunts, appearing from his cloak between Iltar and the gate; he clutches his side while his face contorts in pain.
Seeing the thief, Iltar strides toward him with Rinden’s reanimated corpse in tow; all the while, Ashulbah, Ulnal, Vurakna and Vestrua appear from black mists and glide through the air alongside Iltar.
“Did you see their bodies tear?” Ulnal asks with intrigue and excitement. “Mortals are so flimsy!”
“A pity there aren’t more,” Vurakna sighs.
“Focus,” Ashulbah commands. “Our master hasn’t breeched the gate yet.”
Amid the command, Vestrua grunts furiously, his face contorting with unbridled malice.
“I’m glad they’re on our side,” Nath sighs and hobbles with Iltar toward the gate.
Once at the barsion encased opening, Iltar commands Rinden’s corpse, “Open the gate.”
With perfect obedience, Rinden saunters toward a small indentation glowing a pale-green hue; he presses against it, but the barsion magic encasing the opening doesn’t disperse.
Nath slowly turns to Iltar and bemoans, “Oh… don’t tell me.”
“Again!” Iltar shouts with rising tension.
Rinden obeys, but nothing happens.
“I’ve come too far…” Iltar growls.
“I say we break it down!” Vestrua shouts, and glides toward the gate.
Iltar sighs, shakes his head, and says, “Nath, check it out with your specks.”
The thief nods, and hobbles toward Rinden, placing his mystical lenses on his face. After a moment, he says, “Uh, I don’t know if this is normal… but, there’s no magic flowing to this thing.”
Narrowing his brow, Iltar thinks, I wonder if it’s because Rinden’s dead.
Ashulbah clears his throat, and interjects, “Master, I suggest we break through that barring veil.”
Still pondering the situation, Iltar turns around and stares at the beam of white-blue light that spires above the Estate. He studies it for a moment then raises his brow, intrigued.
“Nath, go back to the Estate. There has to be something there that will cease the barsion.”
“Alright,” Nath warily answers. “But don’t leave without me.”
“Of course not,” Iltar chuckles. “I’m not through with you yet.”
“I don’t know if I should be comforted by that… but head east, the others should be at a–”
“Silence!” Iltar barks. “Tell me after we’re out of the Inner City. I have a feeling the other mages could still hear us… like how Merda heard Tilthan say my name outside her chambers.”
Nath nods, “I’ll just meet you outside.”
With that said, Nath dons his cloak and disappears.
Iltar notices his four illusionary-encased entities gathered at the gate, each focused on the barsion.
“Ashulbah, Vestrua, Ulnal, Vurakna!” Iltar loudly beckons, “Help me reanimate the corpses before we start breeching the barsion.”
Turning from the barsion encased gateway, Iltar’s minions obey, and appear beside him. The necromancer utters the incantations to bring the dead under his control while the others simply gesture to the corpses and raises them.
Once all the dead are reanimated, Iltar moves to the gate and orders the undead under his control to file in behind him, filling the aisle and the areas along the barricades.
Each illusionary-encased being appears beside the gate as Iltar reaches it.
The necromancer glances at the gate’s surroundings then says, “I’m sure this will take some time. Ashulbah, make some extra protection for us. The rest of you, help me breech this barsion.”
With that said, black magic gathers around Iltar’s hands, followed by the other three illusions. In unison, they stretch their hands toward the barsion, unleashing their dissolving mists.
20
The Massacre
Dorith soars northeast, cautiously scanning the roads along the border highway leading to the eastern gate; however, all is silent and the roads are empty.
Once near the gate, Dorith sees a tight cluster of mages and Kingdom Guardsmen. That formation is too tight, and where are the citizens?
Intrigued, Dorith pulls on Eradas’ reins and the mystical drake circles in the air, gradually descending; while gliding toward the gate, Dorith sees Iltar and his illusionary minions focused on the barsion encasing it.
“He’s at the east gate!” Dorith exclaims and pulls back on the reins.
Eradas abruptly flies upward, swiftly reaching the barsion veiling the sky.
“I’m on my way,” Zanille’s voice stoically chimes in Dorith’s ear, followed by Alnese urgently declaring, “So are we!”
Eradas arcs backward, flying upside-down and Dorith notices several flashes of red, pink and purple magics racing from the road; arcane bolts whiz past him and erupt against the barsion.
Dorith swiftly utters an incantation, and illusionary magic gathers in his hands, spreading along the reins.
More magical bolts whiz through the air as Dorith gracefully maneuvers Eradas right-side-up and back toward the gate; however, three crimson orbs pierce the drake’s left wing.
Dorith finishes the incantation and flings the illusionary magic through the air; it races to the barsion, erupting in a brilliant flash of light.
As the light fades, dozens of deadly magical orbs racing from the border highway, from mages previously concealed by magic.
“Eradas, fly!” Dorith shouts and grabs the armor-turned-pendant around his neck; it glows a soft-white hue while slowly transforming.
Eradas flaps its wings, struggling to circle back toward the eastern fortress; at that moment, several purple and pink magical beams strike its underbelly and pierce its other wing.
The drake jolts turbulently and Dorith loses his grip on the reins; he tries to grab them but falls off Eradas, plummeting toward the intersection along the border highway.
While fal
ling, his transforming armor contours to his body over his robes.
He notices Eradas falling toward the fortress and calmly exhales as the armor covers his face, completely encasing him; it pulses a pale-blue as Dorith crashes against the road, creating a small crater.
Undaunted by the otherwise debilitating fall, Dorith flips onto his feet, drawing his staff.
Several bolts of arcane magic arc through the air, swiftly whizzing toward him, while the nearby undead guardsmen charge.
Dorith gracefully twirls his weapon as the magic approaches, catching one bolt. It speeds along the groove on the staff and strikes an advancing guard. Then, he catches another, swiftly redirecting it.
Meanwhile, the sounds of battle reach Iltar’s ears, and he glances over his shoulder. He sees Dorith parrying the fanisars of several undead guards.
“One of you, deal with him,” Iltar grunts, and turns back to the barsion barrier; the dissolving magic from himself and his illusions erodes the barsion, slowly spreading a small hole further open.
“With pleasure!” Vestrua growls, then vanishes within a black mist. He reemerges behind Dorith and kicks him.
The grandmaster tumbles forward, but gracefully recovers. He spins to face the illusion while repulsing the nearby undead with furious blows.
“Since the fall didn’t kill you, I will!” Vestrua shouts, mustering crimson magic that soon engulfs his body.
While repulsing the undead, Dorith swiftly utters an incantation. His hands glow a brilliant white hue, then spread along his staff.
The repulsed undead rebound, and swing their fanisars, but the grandmaster parries, thrusting his staff toward the nearest guard’s breastplate; the white magic pierces the armor, dispelling the necrotic hold upon the guard.
As the lifeless body collapses, Vestrua finishes his spell. He flings his hands toward Dorith, then the magic erupts, knocking the grandmaster along the south branch of the border highway.
Dorith tumbles backward twenty phineals, but rolls backward and up onto his feet.
“What manner of man are you?” Vestrua grunts furiously. “That should’ve killed you…”
Exhaling, Dorith notices several undead bounding toward him, and more deadly magical bolts whizzing through the air. I need to draw them away…
The grandmaster swiftly turns, dashing to a nearby road lining the fortress’ walls.
Several of the bolts weave through the air, and strike his armor, but they dissipate along the golden surface, glistening a pale-blue hue.
While running, Dorith hears Vestrua shouting, “Coward! You cannot flee!”
* * * * *
Meanwhile, at the southern gate, Thranar and Nemmerin notice the burst of illusionary magic cast by Dorith; they stand among a crowd of citizens, mages and guardsmen.
“A battle-signal,” Thranar observes while glancing to Nemmerin.
“It could be a trap,” Nemmerin replies warily. “But we can’t open the gate anymore.”
Both council-mages stare to the east while Callun and several mages push their way through the crowd toward them.
Once near, Callun declares, “I’m taking a part of our forces to the western gate. There’s no point in staying here.”
“Master Callun’s right,” a mage interjects. “If there is a battle, and if Iltar is as deadly as Master Mathal says, then we need to reinforce them.”
Thranar sighs and sternly stares at Nemmerin, who returns the gaze with an intrigued glance.
“We’ll go east,” Thranar says solemnly, then utters an incantation. Golden light forms in front of him, and many of the guardsmen move away while the mages stand clear of the magic.
Callun shouts orders to the Alathian forces while Thranar finishes the spell.
The old conjurer’s magic spreads in an oval forty phineals in height, then a mystical creature emerges, known as a rencath.
It stands the height of the portal and is humanoid in shape, covered in brown scales with hints of greens. A white mane surrounds his head with tresses hanging to its chest. A long snout contorts in a furious grin while piercing yellow eyes gaze beyond those gathered nearby. It growls while lowering on all-fours.
“My rencath will lead the way,” Thranar shouts. “Mages, enhance yourselves and the guardsmen assigned to you.”
* * * * *
Dorith dashes westward along a wide road leading to the Inner City’s center, his staff pointed behind him. He gracefully maneuvers around a raised median of grass and mature trees, hemmed by white stone.
The grandmaster utters a dispelling incantation and white magic gathers along a groove in his staff; he glances over his shoulder, noticing the horde of undead chasing him. Vestrua appears then disappears through a black mist, slowly progressing along the road.
After finishing his incantation, part of the white magic bursts from the staff’s groove, whizzing behind him; it strikes the nearest undead guard, abruptly dropping him to the road.
Dorith mutters a sharp sounding word, and the rest of the white magic separates into several orbs and burst one-by-one, dispelling the advancing undead.
Once the few undead collapse, Dorith halts and turns around. He levels his staff horizontally, sliding his hands to the oval indentations a quarter of the way from each end. As he touches the ovals, blue magical light shines from the nearby groves; suddenly, the staff breaks apart along the glowing lines, separating into three sections bound by coursing dark blue magic.
He tightly grips each quarter-section, then more dark blue magic bursts from their ends, transmutively forming glistening axe-blades; with his weapon transformed, it resembles Menal’s elven fanisar.
All the while, the undead horde bounds toward him.
Casting another dispel, Dorith’s staff-turned-fanisar glows a white hue as the nearest undead guardsmen reaches him.
They violently clash, and Dorith swiftly parries his blow, striking the undead man with his weapon’s other bladed end. He wildly slashes, slicing the dispelling magic through their armor.
As his nearest foes fall, Dorith grabs the center of his mystical fanisar and twirls it above his head, flinging the bladed ends toward the advancing undead; they arc through the air, striking the undead with precision.
Amid Dorith’s dispelling melee, Vestrua appears above the corpses dispelled by the grandmaster; without incantation, he reanimates them and they rejoin their undead comrades.
Meanwhile, a loud pounding echoes from the west. Dorith glances over his shoulder, parrying a blow from the nearest guard. Ignoring the sound, he continues delivering dispelling blows.
“Dorith, right!” Zanille’s voice resounds from the west and within Dorith’s ear.
Dorith parries and strikes a blow, spinning to his left. He sees the giant statue of Zatryn Phar bounding toward him, clutching arcane magical orbs.
Alongside the statue, Zanille emerges from invisibility, leaping through the air while drawing his weapons. He gracefully lands while cutting through the fanisars of the nearest undead, and utters a sharp incantation. White dispelling magic surrounds his curved blades, then Zanille thrusts them through one undead guardsman’s chest and the neck of another.
Both men mercilessly dispel the undead guards, but Vestrua reanimates them speedily.
Amid the fray, Dorith grunts, “We need to eliminate that illusion.”
“Zatryn!” Zanille shouts, piercing another undead guard. “Clear a path!”
Dorith and Zanille continue their assault, pushing their way toward Vestrua while Zatryn’s statue obeys, unleashing his orbs while uttering another spell, gathering brown magic between his stony hands.
The arcane orbs strike the reanimated corpses between the men and Vestrua, repulsing them.
With the road partially clear, Dorith and Zanille bolt toward Vestrua. Behind them, Zatryn’s statue flings the brown magic into the road, and the ground shakes, toppling the repulsed undead.
Seeing them advancing, Vestrua defiantly stands, splaying his hands while bla
ck magic seethes from his body.
Once within weapon’s reach, Vestrua hurls the magic, but both evade. While dodging, Dorith flings one end of his fanisar, severing Vestrua’s arm.
The illusionary arm drops to the ground, still mustering the dissolving mist; the roadway around the arm erodes from the deadly magic.
Surprised, Dorith mutters, “That should’ve dispelled him…”
* * * * *
While Dorith and Zanille battle Vestrua, Almar leads the mages and guardsmen stationed at the north gate; they bound along the border highway, their horses enhanced by the mages’ magics.
Once Almar and the others near the eastern fortress, they see the army of undead; only a fraction pursued Dorith, and hundreds remain, ready for battle. Among the undead mages and guardsmen, many citizens stand with them, each glowing a necrotic hue.
“Hold!” Almar shouts, pulling the reigns of his transmutive steed.
In unison, the mages and guards stop behind the grand mage besides Balden, who continues to Almar’s side.
“He killed them!” Regas gasps, appalled by the reanimated citizens among the undead Alathian forces. “Those children…”
Several others utter disgusted remarks while Fren asks Almar, “Where’s Dorith?”
“They’re just standing there, waiting,” Griffith remarks sadly.
“Do you think they killed him, too?” Regas woefully asks.
Amid the question, black mist gathers between the mages and the undead horde, then Ashulbah appears, defiantly folding his arms. All the while, the undead march in unison toward him.
“Iltar, stop this!” Almar shouts, dismounting his steed.
Ashulbah retorts angrily, “You dare speak my master’s name, as if to command him?”
“Your master?” Almar wonders, and then declares stoically, “Whatever you are, I will vanquish you!” He utters a spell; a glowing aura of a myriad colors surrounds his body, forming a barsion barrier infused with a variety of magics.
Amid Almar’s declaration, the mages and guards dismount their steeds, then rally behind the grand mage; the guardsmen draw their weapons while the mages cast defensive spells.
