Treachery in the Kingdom

by Dan Zangari

  Chuckling sadistically, Ashulbah barks, “I am beyond your greatest fears. I am a prince of terror, a god of destruction!”

  “You are no god,” Almar sternly shakes his head, and utters another spell.

  Ashulbah arrogantly raises his chin, condescendingly glaring at Almar; at that moment, the undead reach him. “So naïve,” he grunts. He motions toward the mages and growls, “Kill them.”

  The undead dash toward Almar but the grand mage continues mustering his magic; orbs of reds, pinks, purples and greens form around his hands and within his protective sphere.

  As the undead near, Almar finishes his spell, steadying himself in a wide stance. The magical orbs speed from his hands, striking the foremost undead and knocking them to the ground.

  While Almar thwarts the undead horde’s advance, the other mages muster their own destructive magics; among them, Balden gathers his black dissolving mist, mingling it with acidic energies.

  Undead weave around those repulsed by Almar, but the magic from the other mages strike them in similar fashion; within seconds, hundreds of the undead lay on the highway, but even more bound over their fallen comrades toward Almar’s forces.

  As they advance, the living guards from the north gate dart past the mages with weapons drawn. They clash with their undead fellows, stopping many from reaching the mages; however, several weave past them.

  Almar swiftly responds, hurling orb after orb at the advancing undead; he stands firm, keeping the undead at bay.

  While the forces from the north gate deal with the horde, Ashulbah narrows his eyes at Almar; without incantation, red and black magic seethes from his illusionary body, wrapping around his hands and forearms.

  Once the deadly magic forms, Ashulbah disappears within a black mist. He reappears in front of Almar, repeatedly striking the grand mage’s protective sphere.

  Surprised, Almar flings the remaining magic in his hands toward Ashulbah.

  As Almar and Ashulbah clash, Iltar, Ulnal and Vurakna continue to spread the hole in the barsion; the opening has since spread the size of a man’s fist.

  “We’re almost there…” Iltar grunts. Soon, I’ll be out of here.

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, Dorith and Zanille swiftly duel with Vestrua, their weapons still shrouded with dispelling magic; they violently swing at the illusion that’s lost both his arms, but he continues firing magic from his mouth.

  West of the duel, Zatryn’s statue holds back the undead, having cast a paralyzing spell upon each of them.

  Amid the duel, a beam of dark violet magic streaks from the west, disintegrating Vestrua’s left leg. He staggers, and Zanille stabs his chest; Dorith swings one end of his magical fanisar into his neck, severing the illusionary head.

  As it lands on the road, Dorith presses on the oval indentations, and the fanisar becomes whole instantly. He slams one end against the illusion’s head, and magic surges from the staff, dispelling it.

  While Vestrua’s head vanishes, the rest of his illusionary body slumps against Zanille’s sword.

  Both men breathe a sigh of relief, but notice a black speck floating a fraction of a phineal from the ground.

  “It can’t be…” Dorith mutters, dropping to one knee.

  “A hiss’thrak…” Zanille squints at the speck, but glances to the living statue of Zatryn and shouts, “Dispel the undead.” He looks past the statue, noticing a group of fifteen dashing toward him and Dorith; men and women each clad in white formfitting armor. They wield a variety of weapons: channeling staffs, swords of various designs, or fanisars.

  Obeying Zanille’s command, the statue utters another spell, and brilliant white magic surrounds the undead one-by-one.

  Amid the statue’s dispelling, the small group reaches Dorith and Zanille; the woman at their head removes her helmet, revealing herself to be Alnese. She stares at Dorith, who intently examines the floating speck, while several of the others remove their helmets.

  “Grandfather?” Alnese asks warily. “What’s wrong?”

  Dorith briefly holds up a finger to Alnese and utters a sharp sounding incantation while reaching toward the speck; pale-blue barsion magic gathers around it, encasing it in a palm-sized sphere.

  “Is that, a hemolin?” a young man in the group asks.

  “Yes,” Dorith answers with disappointment. “Iltar is more powerful than I first believed. There are three more at the gate, and a much larger horde of undead.”

  “Then we must hurry,” one of the women interjects.

  “I’ll take care of the hiss’thrak,” Zanille suggests. “Go!”

  Alnese and the others look to Dorith, awaiting his instructions.

  The grandmaster nods, hoists his staff upon his back, and says, “You with channeling staffs, take up positions in the fortress. The rest of you, come with me. We’ll have to cut our way through our undead brethren.”

  With that said, Dorith dashes back along the road to the east, and the fifteen men and women dawn their helmets and follow him.

  Once they leave, Zanille observes Zatryn’s progress; much of the undead lie on the road and less than a dozen remain, frozen by the statue’s paralyzing spell.

  “Zatryn, after you finish dispelling the undead, transmute a neretricly sealed sphere around the barsion encasing this hiss’thrak. After you finish, place it in the Estate’s Main Hall, then return to your pedestal.”

  With his orders given, Zanille looks at the blue sphere encasing the black speck. He pulls on his tunic and utters the sharp words, “Yid’nilak sum’shadil yaedim.”

  White-golden magic wisps to the fabric and black fibers weave upward from the tunic. The woven strands surround his neck, weaving into a mask covering his face, identical to what was destroyed the previous night.

  Once his mask reforms, Zanille looks to the east and the sounds of battle reach his ears.

  “Sium!” he whispers, then instantly vanishes from sight.

  21

  Demise

  Meanwhile, the battle at the eastern gate rages on; the living guardsmen engage their undead counterparts in a furious melee while the mages hurl deadly magics at the horde. The Alathian forces have since repulsed Iltar’s minions to the intersection in front of the eastern fortress; however, Ashulbah raises those felled, continually replenishing his minion’s ranks.

  Amid the fray, Balden and Griffith dart to a barricade near the fortress’ entrance; the half-elf leaps for cover while Griffith slides behind him.

  Both mages utter incantations; acidic magic gathers around Balden’s hands while lightning surges along the channeling staff in Griffith’s grasp.

  Once the agent finishes his spell he rises from cover, aims his channeling staff at the undead by the fortress’ gate and unleashes a bolt of lightning. Griffith’s foe collapses, and he continues firing electrical bolts at the other undead.

  While Griffith drops their nearby foes, Balden finishes his spell and clutches a dozen acidic orbs.

  The half-elf peers around the barricade and flings several orbs at the undead mages casting spells, but fail to interrupt their incantations.

  Will we ever stop them…? Balden bemoans, and glances to the gate. Between the rapid melee he sees Iltar with Ulnal and Vurakna; they stand in front of a hole in the barsion, over a phineal in diameter. Several undead mages stand between them and the battle and are the only undead not battling the Alathian forces.

  Balden grunts and hurls several more orbs at the undead guards dueling with their living counterparts, then anxiously says to Griffith, “We need to reach Iltar.”

  “No!” Griffith grunts, still firing the bolts.

  Confused, Balden furrows his brow.

  “If I can get into the fortress, I’ll have a better vantage point,” Griffith says, firing the last bolt. He crouches and adds, “I just need to hit Iltar with an enthralling spell. Then we can end this.”

  Balden warily glances at Griffith; casting such a spell on Iltar would stop him, but the half-elf
knows his former master would consider such a tactic.

  “Help me clear a path,” Griffith urges, and utters another incantation. Fiery magic gathers along his channeling staff and a flaming fanisar forms.

  Balden nods, and closes his eyes, mustering dissolving magic from within him; the black mist oozes from his pores, coalescing into several orbs, akin to Iltar’s favored globe of darkness.

  In unison, both Balden and Griffith dart around the barricade; the half-elf unleashes his spells upon the undead between them and the fortress’ entrance while Griffith wildly swings his flaming weapon.

  The agent swiftly strikes the undead, repulsing them while the magical flames consume their reanimated corpses.

  Both mages push their way to the fortress gate, then dash into the wards untouched from the battle; Balden abruptly stops while Griffith continues toward the fortress.

  “Guard the gate,” Griffith shouts.

  The half-elf regains his footing and braces himself against the stone wall, anxiously peering through the gate while mustering more globes of darkness.

  Rapid footfalls faintly echo from the southwest, drawing Balden’s attention, but the sound of his name returns his focus to the gate.

  “You can’t hold this alone!” Regas shouts, bounding into the wards. Two mages’ parasites follow him, each glowing an orange-crimson hue.

  “Something’s coming from the southwest,” Balden remarks.

  “Huh? What?” Regas asks, motioning for his conjurations to expunge the fiery magic within them.

  At that moment, several undead reach the gate, but Balden hurls his magic at them, leveling them to the ground.

  After the undead fall, several more attempt to breech the fortress gate to no avail; all the while, the rapid footfalls grow louder.

  “I hear that,” Regas gasps as his conjurations and Balden vanquish the second wave of undead. “Reinforcements I hope…”

  Amid Regas’s remark, Balden notices one of Iltar’s illusions turning from the city’s eastern gate; his illusionary sapphire eyes furiously stare at Balden.

  “Look!” Regas shouts.

  Balden recoils from the gate, glances at the conjurer who’s pointing to the south. The half-elf immediately turns, seeing several guards and mages climbing over the wall by use of magical cords. Beyond the wall, he sees Thranar’s rencath charging toward the battle.

  Clanking armor draws the half-elf back to the gate, and another undead guard charges toward him.

  Balden flings an orb at the guard, but he continues advancing undaunted.

  The half-elf steps backward while one mages’ parasite leaps toward his assailant; it collides with the undead guard and grabs him, exuding fiery magic that melts his armor.

  At that moment, more undead file into the fortress’ wards in greater number.

  “Fall back to the doors!” Regas commands.

  Both mages begin to turn, but several of the undead reach them. Three swing their magically imbued weapons at Balden, and he dodges several of the blows. However, one slices through his left sleeve; he shouts in pain and stumbles backward, and falls to the ground.

  Two of the undead move past him while the other readies his weapon. He swings his fanisar at Balden, but a reinforcing guard narrowly reaches him and parries the blow.

  Balden’s rescuer and assailant duel briefly, and the living guard dismembers the undead.

  Staggering to his feet, Balden continues retreating to the fortress’ doors; Regas and several of the other mages stand in front of them, casting spells at the undead in the wards. Among them are Thranar and Nemmerin.

  Once Balden reaches the mages, the battle in the ward ceases.

  “Griffith is trying to end this,” Balden grunts and clutches his arm; though it is cut, the magic has cauterized the wound.

  “How?” Nemmerin demands in a hostile tone.

  A shrieking sound echoes from the nearest of the fortress’ towers, and the mages see a streak of gray enthralling magic racing toward the city’s eastern gate. However, it abruptly stops in the air between Iltar and his undead horde; the magic spreads then falls through the air and dissipates before hitting the ground.

  Another beam of enthralling magic flies from the tower, but fails to reach Iltar.

  Several of the mages glance to Balden with disappointment, then turn to the two council-mages.

  “Masters, your orders?” a mage asks.

  “Hold the fortress,” Nemmerin answers. “We’ll push our way–”

  “You… you…!” a crass voice interrupts.

  The mages abruptly turn and see Ulnal crouching between them and the fortress gate; he reaches toward the fallen undead and purple particles wisp into his vanquished minions.

  Ulnal twitches while focusing on Balden and crassly snarls, “You wield his power!”

  The nearest corpses reanimate once again, then Ulnal shouts maliciously, “I’ll kill you… each of you. One by one. I tear you apart. Suffer, pain, anguish!”

  “I don’t think that’s Iltar,” Regas cautiously remarks.

  “Attack!” Thranar shouts, and utters an incantation.

  The guards rush toward Ulnal while many of the mages step forward and muster destructive magics.

  Balden files behind the reinforcing mages and hobbles beside Regas and another mage; the conjurer pulls a short channeling staff from a hoist around his waist and utters a simple spell, gathering an arcane bolt.

  “Move your hand,” the mage commands Balden, “I’m an arpranist.”

  The half-elf complies, but seethes more of his black magic from within his pores.

  While the reinforcements attack Ulnal, beams of dark violent magic streak from the fortress’ towers; they strike the undead battling with Almar and the others on the border highway, disintegrating their corpses.

  Puzzled, Balden looks at the towers and wonders, Who’s with Griffith?

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, Dorith, Alnese and several others in formfitting white armor run onto the southern section of the border highway leading to the east gate.

  “Grandfather,” a voice chimes in Dorith’s ear, “I see a gap between Iltar and his horde, about three hundred phineals from the gate.”

  “I’m going straight for Iltar,” Dorith says to Alnese. “Help the others vanquish the undead.”

  She nods and Dorith sprints ahead of her and the others; he nears the reinforcements from the southern gate, those who had followed Thranar’s rencath.

  The conjuration wildly swings at the undead, knocking some into the walls while grabbing others and hurling them away.

  The grandmaster swiftly dashes around the men and toward the enormous conjuration; while he passes them, several notice him and utter confused remarks about his armor and weapon.

  Still magically enhanced, Dorith leaps toward the rencath as it lowers itself, and swiftly scales its back; the conjuration notices the grandmaster and reaches for him, but Dorith swiftly scales to its shoulder and leaps forward, arcing through the air to the undead horde.

  With beautiful finesse, Dorith removes his staff from its hoist upon his back and presses the oval indentations to transform it; the weapon breaks apart and the axe-blades reform as Dorith lands.

  The nearby undead immediately turn, wildly swinging at him, but Dorith flawlessly parries their blows while uttering a dispelling incantation. Within seconds, the magic surges across his weapon, brightly illuminating the axe-blades.

  Furiously determined, Dorith cuts his way through the horde; just as with Vestrua’s minions, the undead abruptly fall to the ground, the enthralling magic controlling them expunged.

  While he advances, dark violet beams streak from the fortress; each disintegrates an undead guard or mage ahead of him.

  Soon after, Dorith breaks through the undead and sees Iltar and Vurakna at the gate, their magic spreading the hole in the barsion; the few undead mages by Iltar continue to stand motionless, blankly staring at the battle.

  “Keep them o
ff me,” Dorith grunts, running straight to the necromancer.

  Once fifty phineals away, Dorith flings one end of his mystical fanisar toward the motionless undead mages; it sails through the air but abruptly stops with a clang and drops to the road while the dispelling magic surges upward.

  Immediately thereafter, a crudely formed solid alabaster wall appears where the dispel surged, completely encasing the area around the gate; illusionary magic fades from the surrounding buildings, which are partially destroyed by transmutive magic.

  “Clever,” Dorith whispers, frustrated; he whips the center section of his weapon and the thrown portion lashes back toward him.

  While the axe-blade returns, Dorith notices a black mist to his right; he turns toward it while leaping backward, then Vurakna appears.

  The illusionary being glares at Dorith and splays his hands. A black mist surges, forming long whips; they coil to the ground and erode the stone paving.

  Both Dorith and Vurakna silently steady themselves into a battle stance and then strike at each other in unison.

  * * * * *

  As the other mages and guardsmen battle Ulnal and Vurakna, Ashulbah and Almar’s battle rages along the border highway’s northern branch; Almar fights alone, but Griffith aids him from the fortress tower by firing lightning bolts at the undead while the mysterious forces launch disintegrating beams.

  The grand mage’s unique barsion barrier flickers, but he gracefully hurls a blend of deadly arcane and elemental orbs at his foes.

  One by one, the reanimated corpses fall to the ground; however, Ashulbah evades by vanishing and reappearing within his black mist.

  With a stream of crimson magic in his hand, Ashulbah appears beside Almar and swings it at the grand mage; the magic whips through the air but stiffens as it strikes Almar’s barsion.

  The barrier flickers once again and fades with a burst, repulsing Ashulbah’s crimson weapon.

  Swiftly rebounding, Ashulbah swings at Almar again, the magic flailing toward his chest.