Into the Tower

by Bruno Stella

  ***

  The Necromancer approached a dip in the land. There, at the bottom of the wide, shallow basin, was a great spiral well lined with baked bricks. He had seen a few of these already, and he could sense that there was a deeper reason for their existence. There was a great deal of magical force in their waters, but it was unfocused, elemental. What they had been created for he did not know.

  The guide that Lord Harlequin had spoken of should be here. He walked slowly, carefully, looking about him. He deeply mistrusted the creature, and suspected that the guide would lead him to a place of great danger. Well, if that was the case, then he would make a plan when he got there … but his thoughts were cut off as the sand in front of him erupted, as a huge form leapt out of a shallow trench camouflaged in the ground.

  “Burning hells!” exclaimed the Necromancer in surprise, and then sudden shock gripped his gut. This was the trick. The “guide” was no guide. It was a monstrous warrior from, of all places, judging by the armour, Krangar. The Jester had led him straight into an ambush. This was the part of the truth that the Jester had left out.

  “Agrall na-thok!” bellowed the warrior, and swung an absurdly sized sword over his head. The shock in the pit of his stomach became fear. That was the warcry of Turgath, the Lion of Krangar. What in the name of all that was unholy was he doing here? He scrambled back, fast as he could.

  His fastest was not fast enough. The berserker lord had whirled his giant sword thrice, slicing deeply into his arm, thigh and glancing off of his staff with a shower of sparks. The Necromancer instantly mouthed the words to a spell to control the mind of an opponent. Pointless. Blind rage made the warrior immune to whatever subtle suggestions poured into his mind. Another mighty swing ripped his staff from his hand.

  His familiar arrived just in time to save him from decapitation. The sands themselves reared up in the form of a wolf, and the sand-shaped wolf leapt into Turgath’s face, bursting into a cloud of dust. It bought the mage a few precious moments, and he snatched up his staff, nearly cleft in half. The pain from the cuts was more shocking than anything else. The wounds felt as though cold water were running through them, and blood splattered everywhere. The warrior’s blade was ungodly sharp.

  He needed to take care of this quickly. “Croh!” he cried, and shimmering heat billowed up around his foe. The lion pelts caught fire, but the armour, which should have become incandescent, shrugged the magic off. It was enchanted.

  With a howl Turgath bore down again upon him, trailing smoke and flame, a blazing juggernaut of death. This time the mage’s staff was cut clean in two, and a fist – a wrecking ball of a fist – spun the Necromancer’s world around for him. The spirit familiar twined between the berserker’s legs in the form of a thick rope of sand, tripping him up. Turgath caught the mage as he fell, dragged him down, and clamped his great hands around his foe’s throat. Squeezed.

  The Necromancer’s eyes bulged; the man’s strength was immense, old as he was. The fume and stench of burning lion pelt and weeks of sweat rolled over him as he tried to struggle free. It was no use. The mage gathered his strength for one last effort, sending forth his mystical senses, searching for some weak spot, anything. He found it. Within the raging warrior’s body was a black core of corruption. Some malign growth was eating him from the inside. The Necromancer couldn’t but help grinning, and a ghastly rictus of a grin it was, covered in blood and his purple face with its eyes bulging from lack of air.

  He let go of the arm he was trying to wrench away and made the Sign of Nug at the spot where he could sense the corruption. And extended his will. Turgath howled in utter agony. Something writhed in him, and it felt as though a giant fist had grabbed hold of his innards and squeezed. The shock allowed the Necromancer to free himself, and he half-choked, half spat a dark curse. The vocalisation of the magic was much more powerful than the mere symbol.

  Turgath screamed in agony and fell back, writhing on the ground as the cancer grew like some evil amoeboid fetus within his body. Under his armour his skin burst and the growth erupted from it. The pain was paralysing.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” snarled the mage, and keeping an eye on his foe, rummaged through his backpack hastily. Blood pumped freely from his wounds, and he was already feeling faint. But the solution was here somewhere, if he could find it in time.

  Triumphantly he lifted a yellow vial from the pack, and drank the contents. Almost instantly energy coursed through him, and then his wounds began to mend themselves. In a few moments they had closed up, and only his soggy blood-soaked robes spoke of his close encounter with death. If only he could make an effect such as that a permanent part of himself, he mused. That potion had taken weeks of brewing, and months to collect the ingredients.

  Now, he turned to Turgath. The cancer had wormed its way out of his skin, bubbling out in masses of nodular growths. The sight was disgusting, and filled the Necromancer with joy. Cackling, he closed one fist, causing the growths to spasm, and agony to flare through the old warrior.

  “Turgath … the Lion of Krangar. How does it feel to be laid low, at last? Your demise will certainly add to the list of accomplishments I will present to my masters. You thought you could take me. ME? Dotard!” The mage paused to pick up the pieces of his iron staff, now useless. He would need another. More pain for the warrior as another fist closed. “The Jester thought that he could trick me. ME! But I have conquered his ruse. And now, you will tell me where the collection of arcane spells and weapons is. The one Lord Harlequin promised me. He said that you would know.”

  Turgath was on the limit of his endurance. Once he had emerged from battle with four smashed ribs, a cracked skull, a broken arm. Another time he had been doused in boiling oil. But nothing compared to this. He could not endure this. Fumbling fingers found the scrap of parchment, and the mage snatched it from him. Turgath hoped that his death would be quick.

  The Necromancer grinned when he saw the map. This was indeed what he had wanted. Turning to Turgath, he held up the pieces of his iron staff. A few sorcerous words later, and the ends began to smoulder. “A little something to remember me by,” he said, and plunged the hot metal into his foe’s eyes. Music, to his ears. Then he rolled, with some effort, the living body down the slope and watched it tumble down the spiral well into the bottom. Death by decay, fire and water. The symbolism was as important to him as the act.

  Tossing the bits of his staff aside, he consulted his map and strode off to claim his prize.