War Wizard

by King, DB

Logan turned his attention to the rest of the warriors. Two of the Nagas attempted a flanking attack at the summoners, who began conjuring webs to entangle the beasts. But their power level was low, their energy depleted from the spider conjuration. They were only able to summon gobs of web that the reptiles easily tore through.

  The summoners needed experience, but this battle could prove to be too much for them.

  “Jaleth!” Logan shouted. “Make sure they don’t reach the summoners!”

  Jaleth assented with a nod, he and Alre and Threce moving to action. Jaleth and the assassins were powerful, but they wouldn’t last in stand-up combat. But Jaleth was quick on his feet, using his webbing to launch himself over the Naga, Alre and Threce following his lead. They used their webbing as rope, pulling themselves across the room and behind the serpents. Once they were behind the man-serpents, Jaleth and Alre withdrew their wrist blades and attacked one before the beast had a chance to react.

  It was perfectly executed. The Naga didn’t know what hit it. Jaleth and Alre and Threce’s blades plunged into its thick scales over and over, the elves covering themselves with the blood of the beast.

  Three down, three to go.

  Arachne and her Naga were locked in combat, Arachne holding her ground. The four remaining unmarked were doing their best to keep the line with another of the man-serpents. And Marseille was in heated combat with the third, using her curved blade and incredible speed to evade the swings of his axe and get in quick strikes when she could.

  It was time for Logan to finally enter the fray and finish the battle.

  He let out a mighty cry, tapping into his wolf mark and letting the power of the animal flow through him. Fury filled him, his muscles bulging and tensing as he rushed toward the Naga locked in battle with the unmarked elves. With a howl, Logan pushed off the ground and toward the ceiling, extending his spider spines and latching onto the stone above the man-serpent.

  The beast flicked its ugly face up, a flash of what seemed to be panic taking hold before Logan dropped, axe-first. The blade of the axe split the Naga’s head in two, red blood and gray brain covering Logan’s hands and forearms. When he landed, Logan yanked the axe free, one final jet of blood spraying up at him.

  The four unmarked stood stunned, spears in their hands.

  “Fight’s not over yet, lads!” Logan yelled.

  His words snapped them out of their daze, the unmarked rushing to provide front-line assistance to Jaleth and the assassins as they attacked Arachne’s Naga from behind.

  Marseille was still locked in combat with her man-serpent, and Logan saw his opportunity to help finish the fight. He rushed to her side, his arms still covered with blood and gore, the power of the wolf still raging through him.

  “I can handle this on my own, ranger!” she shouted as she evaded a swing from the Naga’s weapon.

  Logan ignored her words, dropping his axe and diving under the swing of the man-serpent’s weapon. When the blade had sailed over him, he stood and grabbed onto the monster’s hands, shoving them down toward the floor. The beast stumbled forward as he held it in place. The Naga was immensely powerful. It took all of Logan’s strength to hold it for the few seconds he could, even with the wolf magic coursing through his veins.

  “Finish him!” Logan shouted as he glared at the snake priestess.

  Marseille nodded, leaping up onto the man-serpent’s back and driving her blade through its neck. She twisted the sword, slicing through the thick cords of its neck muscles and veins. Blood poured over its chest in a deluge, and the beast fell dead.

  Logan turned in time to watch as Arachne speared a spear-like limb through the chest of the remaining Naga, the creature freezing in place. The four unmarked elves went to work, bringing it down with a series of precise thrusts from their spears. When Arachne withdrew her legs, the man-serpent dropped into a heap.

  The monster was dead. They were all dead. The battle was over.

  Logan closed his eyes and let the power of his marks flow through and out of him. The rage of Fenrir went from all-encompassing to gone completely. He was soon back to normal.

  He could not, however, say the same for the marked elves. Their faces bore expressions of elation, their eyes wide with energy. They congratulated one another, shoulder-slaps and fist bumps all around.

  “They seem enthused,” Logan said.

  Arachne smiled. “They’re merely basking in the afterglow of tapping into the power of their marks. When they use my power, they gain more power. And that power then makes its way to me.”

  “Are we unwounded?” Logan asked as he swept his eyes over the warriors. Aside from a few scrapes here and there, his soldiers were unhurt. That was, aside from the elf who’d fallen at the start of the battle.

  “His name?” Logan asked Jaleth.

  “Errolyn,” replied the elf assassin.

  “Errolyn. He will be buried and honored.” Logan raised his blood-covered finger to Marseille. “What the hells happened? Why are the servants of your spirit trying to kill us?”

  “I… I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t know why Maar would attack one of his faithful like this.”

  “Perhaps you have less favor from your master than you thought,” Arachne offered with a smile as she came to Logan’s side. “Good thing a trustworthy Archspirit was here to help.”

  She placed her slender hands on Logan’s shoulders. It was clear what she was doing—putting herself out there as the spirit he should trust the most.

  Hells, she didn’t have a bad argument.

  But bickering would do them no good.

  The stone doors lifted, the far exit leading to another long hall.

  “This… this is the hall to Maar’s inner sanctum,” Marseille said. “I can’t say for certain what’s down there, but perhaps we can find the answers you seek—that we all seek.”

  The mission had taken a turn for the dangerous.

  “Soldiers,” Logan said. “There could be doom down at the end of that hall. None of you are required to accompany me and Marseille. If you wish to wait in front of the fortress, I won’t hold it against you.”

  He was likely going to need the men with whatever was ahead. But even so, he didn’t feel right leading them into the unknown. They deserved the choice.

  None of them said a word. But Jaleth stepped forward, the curved organic blades still sticking out from his wrists.

  “We’re with you, commander,” he said. “Whatever may come.”

  The rest of the soldiers gave their assent, standing tall.

  “Very well,” Logan said. “You do me the honor of serving under my command. Only fair that I do my best to keep you alive. Stay close, men. We’ll get through this together.”

  The men formed up, and Logan took the lead, Arachne at his left and Marseille at his right. They stepped into a grand hall, one adorned with more sculptures of Nagas, small statues of shapely serpent women positioned among them. The ceiling was curved, more engravings of man-serpents in battle overhead.

  Maar. Whoever this spirit was, Logan and his party were about to find out together. But there was still the matter of why the Nagas attacked them, and why there were dead orcs in the room they’d just left.

  Logan wanted answers. Two of his men were dead, and someone was going to answer for them.

  The hall ended in a huge arched door, a small basin in the center of it, the size just large enough for a hand.

  “What is this?” Logan asked.

  Marseille stepped up to it. There appeared to still be blood in the basin—fresh blood. And it was dark. Logan had no doubt it had belonged to an orc.

  “Blood sacrifice,” she said. “From the faithful.”

  Logan didn’t hesitate before lifting his hand to place it on the basin. But Marseille was quicker than him and hurriedly shoved her in hand into the spot.

  “You’ve given enough blood,” she said, looking him up and down. “Allow me.”

  Before he coul
d say a word, a pair of knives dropped down and pierced her skin. Marseille hissed in pain as blood trickled down into the basin. Logan watched as it mixed with the other blood, the basin filling. A click sounded, and the blades retracted. Marseille pulled her hand back and wiped the blood on her skirt as the door raised and revealed an enormous inner sanctum.

  And Logan saw right away that they weren’t alone.

  A half-dozen orcs were up ahead, two of them taller than the rest and adorned in jewels and gold. There was no doubt that these orcs, dressed in gaudy clothing, were priests. The magic orcs had once wielded had long left them, but priests still filled their ranks. Four more orcs, simple grunts by the look of it, flanked them. None of the orcs had noticed the door opening—they were far too enraptured with a strange ritual.

  The room was huge and grand as the rest of the sanctum. There were more Naga statues, these made of gold with rubies for eyes. And a huge statue was in the center of the space, a towering sculpture of a man with four arms and smooth skin, his face a perfect blend of human and snake, his muscles massive and his head bald. He stood with one pair of arms on his hips, the other pair outstretched as if summoning a spell to end all spells. His face was fixed in a hard, fearsome expression.

  There was no doubt it was Maar.

  “Come, snake spirit!” shouted one of the orcs. “Give me your power! We will pay any price!”

  Chapter 18: Logan

  The orc priests spoke in confused, desperate voices.

  “Are you there, Maar?” asked one. “We’ve already given you so much, the least you can provide in return is your favor.”

  Marseille winced. “Maar… doesn’t go for that sort of thing. He’s not exactly the sort of God that you can order around like that.”

  “Sounds like more trouble than he’s worth,” Arachne said. “Perhaps we should leave.”

  “Enough, spider wench,” Marseille hissed. “Not a chance I’ll be turning around before we’ve seen this through. I’ve given my life to Maar. Surely he’ll help his faithful.”

  Logan said nothing, watching as the priests continued to make their case to the statue.

  “Tell us what more you desire, lord of the serpents. We will provide it if you only give us a fraction of your power.”

  “Is it more blood?” asked the other. “We’ll give you as much as you want!”

  Without another word, the priest stood and slipped a dagger out of his hilt. With surprising speed, he rushed over to the nearest orc foot soldier and drove the blade into his neck. A spurt of blood jetted out, the orc falling to his knees with a gurgle, his hands clasped over his neck as the life drained from it.

  “There!” shouted the orc as he stood with the still-dripping dagger in his hand. “Is that enough?”

  But the statue of Maar remained still. The other orc foot soldiers stepped away from the priests, regarding one another with fearful, unsure glances.

  “Maybe if we’re lucky,” Jaleth said. “We can simply wait here until they all sacrifice one another.”

  Logan let out a snort of slight amusement before turning his attention back to the scene before him. He had a feeling that things were going to get more difficult, and fast. Without thinking, his hand moved to the handle of his axe.

  Out of the corner of his gaze, he watched as Marseille closed her eyes and began mouthing words silently to herself—likely a prayer. When she was done, she opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

  “What are you doing?” Logan asked.

  “Calling on my master,” she said. “He has to hear the words of his faithful. And his ears might finally be open now that you are here, War Wizard.”

  Logan nearly reached out to stop her, but checked himself. One way or another, they needed to summon Maar.

  “Maar!” she shouted, her voice filling the huge chamber. “As your faithful, I ask that you show yourself! Please, return to this world and assist those who have given their lives to you!”

  She dropped to her knees and brandished her blade. The orcs at the statue turned, rage in their eyes as they realized they weren’t alone.

  “I will give you my own life!” she shouted, bringing the blade to her throat. “Whatever it takes for you to return!”

  As she spoke, the flames in the chamber dimmed. The golden statue in the center of the room closed its eyes, life animating its face.

  And then it spoke.

  “Please, priestess. No need for dramatics.”

  A pleased smile formed on Logan’s face. Maar had returned.

  The statue stretched out its four long, powerful arms, the gold on its form cracking and splitting, falling onto the ground with heavy clangs. When all the gold was gone, green scales remained, the diamond patterns red and gold and black.

  The figure that had come from within the statue stepped down from his plinth and strode past the orcs with the confidence of a king. He approached Marseille, who still had the blade to her neck.

  “Put that down. If I want your blood, priestess, I’ll take it myself.” His voice was low and languid, spoken with the tone of someone who carried himself at his own pace, and no one else’s. And there was something aristocratic to the way he moved and spoke. He opened his mouth, revealing fearsome, razor-sharp fangs.

  Marseille dropped the blade, which hit the ground with a clatter.

  “To your feet,” Maar said.

  Without a word, she did as he asked. Maar looked her up and down, as if determining whether she was worthy of him with just a glance.

  “A little shrimpy for a priestess,” he said. “When I last walked the earth, the women of my Viperguard were no less than six paces tall. This doesn’t bode well for the rest of the world.” He cocked his head to the side, considering the matter. “How long has it been, anyway?”

  “Since you and the rest of the gods last walked the earth?” Marseille asked. “Thousands of years.”

  “Then you have truly been deprived, by dear.” He made a slow circle around Marseille as he spoke. “But I’m quite pleased to see that my faithful still live.”

  “Yes!” Marseille cried. “And we need your help!”

  “My help,” he said. “I’ll decide if you’re worthy of it.”

  His eyes flicked up to Logan, eyes of pure gold with red irises. Logan stood unflinching as Mar’s gaze tracked down to his tattoos.

  “Ah, and you’ve brought me a War Wizard,” he said, clasping his hands together in delight. “The perfect gift for any God who wishes to return to the physical realm.”

  “I’m no gift,” Logan said. “We can work together. But I take commands from no god.”

  He arched his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Bold, for a mortal. Perhaps I’ll simply find another War Wizard.”

  “Good luck with that, Maar,” Arachne said. “He’s the only one who remains.”

  This got Maar’s attention. “The last War Wizard? Him? He’s the one marked by Fenrir? So, the wolf spoke truly, after all.”

  Arachne smiled. “Fenrir did not lie. His words are fulfilled.”

  “Bah, this is merely the first part of his plan,” Marr spat. “We’ll see whether it comes to fruition, spider.”

  “It’s good to see you too, snake,” Arachne retorted.

  Maar snorted derisively. “I’m sure it is, spider.”

  “The point is,” Logan said. “You want to stay in this world, you’re going to need my help. Only I can mark the new followers you need.”

  Maar tilted his head to the side, as if ceding the point. “True, true. Or I could return to the spirit world and try back in a few hundred more years. Perhaps the War Wizards will have made their return, and I’ll have better stock to choose from.”

  Logan stepped forward. “Archspirit or no, you’d be wise to watch that forked tongue of yours.”

  Maar’s eyebrows arched again. “Threatening an Archspirit? Perhaps I’ve underestimated you.”

  Arachne swept her hand toward the door. “You could try again in anot
her time, Maar. But the world outside is not the one we left behind. Orcs have ravaged the realms of men, and the kingdoms of the elves are mere shadows of what they once were. You ignore this chance to return, and you might not get another. This is the chance Fenrir spoke of.”

  Something flickered across Maar’s eyes, something like recognition, then it passed. He put his hands on his hips, thinking the matter over.

  “You mean these foul beasts are everywhere?” he asked, gesturing to the orc priests who had been silent since Maar had begun speaking. “How the hells did they take over, conquer the kingdoms of the humans?”

  “Through our power and superiority!” shouted one of the orc warriors. “The humans trembled and fell before us. And the elves will be next!”

  Maar snorted and shook his head, not bothering to turn his attention to the orcs.

  “Blowhards as always,” he said. “And just as disgusting to behold.”

  “Give us your power!” cried out one of the priests. “We will do whatever you command!”

  Maar’s eyes stayed on Logan and his party.

  “But my faithful remain,” he said. “And though there is only one, there is still a War Wizard who can pass on my mark, give me more worthy followers.” His eyes drifted to Jaleth and the rest of the elves. “I see some of you have already taken the spider’s mark.” He shook his head. “Foolish. If only you knew the power I had to bestow. But some of you are unmarked. Perhaps you sensed that my gift was far superior to simple web-slinging.”

  “Mind your words carefully, Maar,” Arachne said. “Or I’ll show you how powerful I am.”

  “Oh, enough of that,” he said. “No reason to get up in arms, spider. I’m sure there are more than enough elves and humans to go around.”

  “Please, Maar!” shouted one of the priests. “Give us a chance to prove ourselves!”

  He smiled slightly. “A chance to prove yourselves… Yes, that’s what this situation requires.”

  “Right!” called out one of the orc priests. “We will prevail and prove to you our power!”

  Maar chuckled. “Listen to these fools. Do they truly think that orcs are worthy followers?” He shook his head. “I’m going to find out what happened to allow them to take over. But in the meantime… let us have a test.” He turned to Marseille. “Priestess—are you ready?”