War Wizard

by King, DB

  “But… but why would he do this?” Jaleth asked as he stepped over to the elf’s body. “He would know better than to do something so foolish, so greedy.”

  Marseille shrugged. “Maar‘s traps aren’t merely physical in nature. Many strike at the heart of those subject to them, make them give in to their most base desires.”

  So that explained why the elf had done something so damned foolish. He had been taken in by some kind of magic that had tapped into his greedy desires. Perhaps Buldock, the orc who had attempted to take the rubies from the statue outside the temple, had been enchanted by a similar magic.

  “More to be wary of,” Jaleth said, his gaze still on the elf.

  Logan laid the elf down and closed the corpse’s eyes.

  “What was his name?” Logan asked.

  “Llweon,” Jaleth said.

  “We’ll bury Llweon when we leave this place. But for now, let’s move. And remember the priestess’s warning.”

  The rest of the elves nodded, a tinge of fear on most of their faces.

  Logan wasn’t pleased to lose a man. But he was in command—casualties were inevitable. The best he could do would be to minimize them, to make sure he was leading his soldiers as best he could.

  “Priestess,” he said. “This place is enormous. Where are we going?”

  “The throne room,” she said. “That’s where Maar’s power is strongest.”

  “Then up?” he asked.

  She shook her head and smiled. “Not the commander’s throne room—Maar’s throne room. You could call it the inner sanctum if you like. It’s down below.” Marseille nodded toward a set of wooden doors straight ahead.

  “Figures a snake would live in the lowest pits,” Arachne said.

  “You said you’ve never traveled this far into the fortress,” Logan said. “How are you so certain that he’s down there?”

  Marseille appeared sheepish for a moment. “Well, I’m going by what our texts say. They describe this place in great detail.”

  Arachne let out a laugh. “Our lives are in the hands of a guide who’s leading us according to centuries-old books. Excellent.”

  “The books have been preserved,” Marseille said. “They’re accurate, I assure you.”

  “Either way,” Logan said. “Looks like we’re about to find out.”

  He said nothing further, not wanting to inflame the rivalry between the two. He approached the doors and noted right away two things—one, that they were made of heavy stone. And two, that they were inscribed with etchings.

  “Below are the chambers of Maar,” Marseille said. “None of his followers have dared venture down for centuries. We were all afraid of his anger, what he might do if we were to invade his place of power before he was ready to return. But… the time for caution has passed. His devotees are in danger, and if saving the last of his faithful isn’t the right occasion to speak to him, I don’t know what is.”

  Logan eyed the etchings. They were intricate reliefs of a leader commanding an army into battle, his soldiers strange hybrids of men and snakes. And the leader was covered in tattoos, a massive sword in his hand.

  A War Wizard. There was no doubt in Logan’s mind that was who the figure represented.

  He placed his hand on the stone door and pushed it open. A stairwell of similar gray stone was on the other side, leading down into the darkness.

  “Stay close,” he said. “Marseille and Arachne and I will take the lead. And if Llewon’s fate wasn’t enough warning, don’t touch a damn thing.”

  Logan glanced back at the men, their silence an affirmation of his command. After lighting a nearby torch with a piece of flint, he readied himself.

  With a deep breath, his hand on his blade’s hilt, he began to descend the stairs. The trip took several minutes as they plunged into the fortress’s depths.

  “I can feel the power,” Marseille said. “Can you, War Wizard?”

  She was right—Logan could feel something. It was as if something below this fortress called out to him, urging him to venture into it.

  “I can,” he said. “But we’ll see if this is some sort of trick.”

  Marseille frowned mockingly. “Aw, you don’t think I’d do something like that, do you?”

  He didn’t. But he knew he needed to be careful, to never let his guard down—especially when it came to the enticement of power.

  “If Maar is truly down here,” he said, “then you’ll have my trust.”

  Marseille smiled broadly. “Good. In that case, I’ll look forward to it. I can feel the presence of my master. Each moment that I’m away from him now that I’m so close is pure torture. And I’m sure he’ll be more than pleased to see me, too.”

  They continued down, the stairs opening into a long hallway, the walls lined with stone sculptures of snakes—the same fearsome snake warriors that Logan had seen on the stone relief upstairs.

  “Yes,” Marseille said as she approached one of the statues. “The Nagas of Maar.”

  He stepped next to her. The rest of the group formed up in the center of the hall, holding their double-line formation and not budging an inch, Arachne at their head. Llewon’s death was unfortunate, but at least in death he’d sent a message about discipline to the rest of the soldiers.

  Logan made his way up and down the hall, lighting the torches and illuminating the space. When that was done, he took position next to Marseille in front of one of the statues. Up close, he could make out more details of the serpent warriors than was possible with the stone etchings.

  If the statues were accurate, the serpent warriors were fearsome indeed. The statue stood seven paces tall, the skin diamond-patterned scales, its arms and legs thick and muscular, nothing on its body but a pair of cloth trousers and light, leather chest armor. A massive sword that resembled a butcher’s cleaver was in its hand.

  Up until the neck, it resembled a man with snakeskin. But the head was all serpentine, with a massive cobra’s hood, slits for eyes, and mouth complete with long, forked tongue and teeth as sharp as daggers.

  “Fearsome creature,” Logan said.

  “You’re right about that,” Marseille said with a knowing smile. “The legends say that Nagas are formidable shock troops, solid and powerful as the strongest human fighter combined with the agility of snakes. Their greatswords are strong enough to cleave armored soldiers in half—much like what was demonstrated out front with the unfortunate orc. And their fangs are deadly at close quarters. If your neck isn’t broken by their jaws, their venom will have you dead and gone within seconds. No War Wizard army of old was complete without a regiment or two of Naga shock troops. That is what the most ancient stories say.”

  She kept on smiling, as proud as a mother looking over her babe. She turned back to the elves, the unmarked ones looking on with great interest.

  “I see that this power appeals to you,” she said. “As it should. Imagine wielding the sort of strength Maar’s Nagas are capable of. A mere dozen of them is more than enough to carve a bloody swath through any army of elves or humans. And all you need to do is bear his mark.”

  “Save the enticements for when we’ve actually summoned Maar.” As Logan stepped back and took in the sight of Marseille, a thought occurred to him.

  “See something you like?” she asked.

  “Your power,” Logan said. “Is that something that can be learned?”

  The smile still on her face, she pulled down the connecting point of the two straps that covered her breasts. Underneath, over her chest, was the intertwining tattoo that Logan recognized as the mark of Maar.

  “Most certainly. Any woman is more than welcome to become a priestess of Maar. We’re skilled in magic and close-quarters combat. Many War Wizards employed them as personal bodyguards. Though, that might have something to do with our other skills.”

  “You’re marked, but not by a War Wizard. How is it that the mark gives you power?”

  “It is a poor imitation,” Arachne answered for
Marseille. “Those who are truly devoted to an Archspirit can mark themselves and gain some semblance of power, but it is nothing compared to the mark a War Wizard can provide.”

  “It is all I could gain,” Marseille said in protest. “But now that we have a War Wizard with us, I will gain far more.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Logan said.

  Her eyes narrowed, the corner of her mouth curling. “You wouldn’t like those who fight for you to use blood magic?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw Arachne shudder. Fear took hold of more than a few of the men.

  “I’ve only heard of blood magic,” Logan said. “But what is it, exactly?”

  “It’s simple—the power over blood, over life itself. It works like this—you give up some of your blood, and that allows you to affect the blood of other creatures. For example, if I were to cut my palm and offer some of my blood, I could gain power over the blood of someone in this room.” She held up her hand, opening it toward Logan. Dozens and dozens of small cuts, some long-healed, others fresher, crisscrossed her tanned skin. “You can make the blood run hot, hot enough to boil. Or make it move so quickly that it superheats and explodes. Or do the opposite, make it run cold and slow down your enemies.”

  “Dark, twisted magic,” Arachne said.

  “Oh, hush, insect,” Marseille said with a roll of her eyes. “People fear what they don’t understand, and blood magic is no exception. It’s power, power like you’ve never seen.”

  “And the War Wizards of old used it?” Logan asked.

  Marseille tilted her head to the side. “Some did, some did not. At least, that’s what the texts tell me. You’re the first War Wizard I’ve met in person, of course.”

  It was much to think over.

  “We can discuss all of this after we’ve summoned Maar,” Logain said. “For now, we’ve got a dungeon to get through in one piece.”

  “It’s not far ahead,” Marseille said. “There are only a few more rooms between us and Maar’s inner sanctum.”

  “Then let’s not waste any more time,” he said.

  Logan led the way to the end of the hall. Once there, he passed through an arched entryway into a large, circular room. The moment he crossed over the threshold, he noticed the strange scent in the air.

  “Smells like a jungle in here,” Jaleth said as he and the rest of the elves entered, Arachne bringing up the rear. “Like a jungle and like death.”

  The light from Logan’s torch flickered in the round room, and he could see a brazier in the middle. He stepped up to it, noting its ornate, golden design. He raised the flame to the brazier and set it ablaze. A whoosh sounded out, followed by the flame taking hold and illuminating the room.

  The light cast onto the walls, letting the party take in the sight of the carvings along the curve of the room.

  And they told an awe-inspiring story.

  The scene was one of total violence, of Nagas ravaging an enemy army. And no detail was spared. Fangs were buried in necks, bodies ripped apart by powerful man-serpent arms, and swords cleaved others in twain.

  “Look,” said one of the unmarked elves, pointing to the ground along the circular wall.

  Bodies, bodies were everywhere. The bodies of slain orcs were piled against the walls, dark, dried blood all over their skin.

  “What the hells happened in here?” asked one of the marked elves.

  “It appears,” Arachne said with a smile. “That Maar doesn’t like unexpected visitors.”

  Marseille said nothing. From the grim expression on her face, it seemed she’d begun to wonder whether coming down here had been a good idea.

  Logan turned his attention to the carvings once more, noting that, at the back of the engraved army, stood a man in robes, what little skin visible covered in intricate tattoos.

  The War Wizard.

  But they didn’t have any more time than that to admire the art. The stone door slammed down at the entryway they’d just entered, along with the door that led out of the room.

  Logan’s party was trapped.

  One of the unmarked elves rushed over to the nearest stone door and placed his hands on it, moving desperately over the smooth surface. But his panicked mutterings made it clear that his efforts to find a way out were coming up short.

  Logan pulled the axe from his hilt and held it with both hands. The rest of the warriors followed suit, taking out their spears.

  “Form up!” Logan shouted, his voice echoing through the space. “Arachne, Marseille, and summoners in the middle, assassins close to them. You five unmarked, take position on the side toward the door we’ve just entered from, the remaining two on the side behind!”

  The group moved into position as soon as the final word had been uttered. Logan had no idea what to expect, but he was determined to be ready for whatever might happen.

  The axe in his hands, his eyes flicked from one place in the room to another.

  “There!” Jaleth said, his voice a sharp whisper. “Movement!”

  Logan turned in the direction the elf assassin had indicated and saw right away the movement he’d pointed out. It was something small, something coming from one of the bodies.

  It was something slithering from one of the bodies.

  Then it became multiple somethings.

  Six snakes emerged from the corpses, each moving to a separate corner of the room. And when Logan’s party was surrounded, the snakes began to grow. Gasps sounded from the elves as the snakes grew larger, their bodies shifting from prone on the ground to standing on their hind legs—that is, the area where their hind legs would’ve been, except they were the lower halves of giant snakes.

  Logan glanced over at Arachne, who watched with a smirk on her face.

  “Something funny?” he asked her.

  “No. Just that it appears we’re about to have a demonstration of exactly how powerful these Nagas are.”

  Logan said nothing, bringing his eyes back to the snakes and watching as they began to sprout limbs, their sizes still increasing. Soon, they were as large as men—then even larger, standing seven to eight paces tall. Their arms and legs bulged with muscles, the hoods on both sides of their faces curving around their twisted, snake-human features.

  When the transformations were complete, the man-serpents stretched their arms and legs, stuck out their forked tongues toward the elves, and hissed. The sound of the six serpents hissing in unison was hellish, a horrible noise that would strike fear into the heart of a lesser man.

  But Logan wasn’t a lesser man.

  “My… My Gods,” gasped one of the unmarked elves as he took in the sight of the nearest Naga.

  The elf broke rank. With a fear-filled cry, the elf shoved his spear at the man-serpent.

  In a flash, the Naga, despite his massive size, effortlessly side-stepped the spear attack, grabbing the weapon right out of the elf’s hands. With a deft turn, he pointed the spear right back at the elf and shoved it forward, the pointed end driving right into the soldier’s eye and through his head.

  There was a gurgle and then nothing. He was dead.

  The Naga hissed, placing his snake-like lower half on the slain elf and pushing off, pulling the spear free and brandishing it toward the group. The elf collapsed into a heap.

  “Maar!” Marseille shouted. “I’m one of your chosen, and I’ve given them all permission to be here! Call off your warriors!”

  But if Maar was listening, he did nothing to stop the attack.

  That would be Logan’s job.

  He had numbers on his side—six spider elves, four unmarked, a snake priestess, and a spider Archspirit. With Logan included, that was thirteen against six.

  But the man-serpents were massive. One of them seemed the equivalent of three elf warriors.

  “Summoners!” Logan shouted. “Spiders, now!”

  The three summoners obeyed without a word, closing their eyes and weaving silver mist at the feet of Nagas. The mist cleared, and thousands of
spiders remained, all crawling up the legs of the man-serpents. The reptilian beasts were taken aback by this, desperately trying to swipe the insects from their bodies.

  “Unmarked! Close in on the northern Naga!”

  The remaining elves did as they were commanded, brandishing their spears and letting out an elven battle cry as they rushed the nearest Naga, the one who had felled their compatriot. They formed a tight circle around him, jabbing their spears into his belly, bright red blood pouring from the wounds. The man-serpent fought back, but the attacks were too much for him. He dropped, blood pouring from his mouth, his entrails dripping from his wounds.

  A little revenge to start out the fight, Logan thought with a wry smile.

  But the victory didn’t last. The other Nagas rushed to the orc corpses, squatting down and snatching up their weapons. The man-serpents wielded a motley collection of gruesome, serrated greatswords, massive spears, and axes large enough to fell a Spire Tree.

  The fight was on.

  Logan had lost two men since entering this damned place—and he vowed not to lose another.

  He turned to Arachne, who was his greatest single asset. With five more of her, the fight would be an easy win. But he had no such luck.

  “Arachne,” Logan said. “You feel up to attacking two at once?”

  She grinned, revealing rows of pointed teeth. “With pleasure.”

  She stepped toward two of the Nagas, her spider legs extending from her body as she let out a monstrous hiss. The top four of the legs plunged into the nearest man-serpent, driving through him like skewers through warm fat. She lifted the impaled creature up and into the air, tossing him at the closest Naga. The killed beast collided with the other, who fell to the ground and rolled out from under it just in time to dodge another of Archne’s attacks.

  This time, the Naga was ready. He raised his orcish greatsword and swept it in front of him, deflecting her legs. He rose onto his feet and prepared himself for another attack.