Narthak awoke in the musky darkness of the cold tent. A steady breeze of frosty wind blew on his face through a tear in one of the animal hides the tent was composed of. He shivered, then pulled the bear pelt he was covered with up to his neck. A faint glimmer of light could be seen through one of the tears in the tent’s sides; dawn was approaching. He threw the bear pelt off himself then sat up and let out a long, soundless yawn. Standing up in the chilly darkness, he slipped on his heavy steel plated boots then walked over to a small wooden table and lit a short wax candle on top of it. Light illuminated the small tent and he could now see frost lining the sides of it. He opened up a black chest near the table. Inside was a thick cuirass made of wolf pelts sewn together. Narthak slipped the cuirass overtop of his heavy cotton shirt then fastened it on.
He was a bulky man covered in muscle – built like a bear – he was over six feet tall and had a face as hard as stone. A curly brown beard covered half his face and a mangy, feral mane grazed his back. He had icy blue eyes and a moon-shaped scar on his cheek. When he spoke, it sounded like rolling thunder tearing through the night sky. Though, as strong and masculine as he was, he was very quiet and reserved and often kept to himself.
He was a part of the Mastodorian race. They were barbaric northerners who lived in the upper highlands of Mefala, organized in nomadic clans. It was said that long ago, back in the ages of myth, the Mastodorians could speak to the northern wolves through a special bond they shared, but those days were long past and all but forgotten. Each nomadic clan had one Elder appointed, this man acted as leader and spiritual guide of the clan. The Mastodorians rarely traded with peddlers and caravans. When they did, it was usually for weapons or armor.
Presently, Narthak picked up his iron claymore concealed in a leather scabbard from a small weapons rack near the table then strapped it to his person. He blew out the burning candle illuminating the enclosure then opened up the tent flap and headed outside.
The Mastodorians grew accustomed to wearing full arms and armor at all times, no matter what the occasion. The habit was formed long ago, during frequent wars with the southerners over land, among other things. Many times, the southerners would raid Mastodorian camps completely unprovoked, sometimes after months of peace. The Mastodorians finally decided it was better to be safe than sorry and made the decision to always be fully equipped, so they were always ready for battle. The only exception was when they slept. During the night, guards would watch over the encampments and those who slept, slept with a weapon close by.
Narthak was greeted with a brisk morning breeze that relentlessly nipped at his exposed face as he walked out into the cold. The snow under his boots was hard and packed, but the snow outside of the small encampment was soft powder, nearly two feet deep. The smell of fresh cooked meat and a wood burning fire passed through his nostrils and made his stomach grumble as he realized how hungry he was. He started to walk through the camp towards the central circle of tents surrounding the fire.
It wasn’t long before he arrived at the fire, a bright orange glow that contrasted with the never-ending white. Near the fire, he could see his clan’s Elder, Hathus; he acted as leader and spiritual guide of the clan. Hathus wore an even thicker cuirass than Narthak, though his was made of sturdy leather. He was very tall and had a long grey beard that went down to his breast. The symbol of the Elder was sewn into his cuirass; a wolf’s head inside a dark red circle. Presently, he was roasting a haunch of fresh wolf meat over the blazing fire.
“Morning, Narthak,” said Hathus gruffly, a thin smile touched the corners of his dry and cracked lips. Narthak did not know if it was one of happiness or worry.
“. . . Morning, Elder Hathus,” grumbled Narthak, still half asleep. He rubbed his hands against his closed eyes as if to flush the tiredness out of him. He grabbed a hot cut of wolf meat from beside the open fire then sat down on a rock beside Hathus. He sunk his teeth into the dry meat.
“Tomorrow we head west. That is where the stars take us,” stated Hathus. He stood up and pulled a haunch of meat out of the fire and placed it with the rest of the cooked meat to cool down. “It came to me in a vision last night – an evil, prophetic dream. In the dream, I saw a dark spire standing alone in a field of snow that was black as pitch. The spire itself was in disrepair, the black metal sheets that covered it were beginning to rust and decay. It was windowless and the only entrance was a tall wooden door, bolted and sealed. I walked through the black snow towards the tower. As I did this, I could hear whispers that were not in any language that exists today. They were directed at me, and got louder and louder as I approached the spire.
“By the time I arrived at the tower’s door, the whispers were pulsating through my head, pounding at my temples, an incoherent rumble trying to burst out of my skull. I reached for the door, struggling to stay conscious, fighting the agonizing beating through my head. I touched the lock on the door, instantly the lock transformed into a blood red serpent that slithered away into the field of black snow. As the serpent slithered away, the tormenting rumble of whispers suddenly stopped. I stood for a long moment in dead silence, then I looked up. The door was open. I was about to enter, but cold, unseen hands wrapped around my sides and yanked me away from the door. I fell back and the deep, black snow engulfed me. I struggled out of the ominous powder as quickly as I could, for I sensed the evil within it. As soon as I emerged from it, I was pushed back down again, deeper this time. I managed to climb out of the black snow, but was pushed back into it again by the cold, nimble hands. A feeling of hopelessness swept over me as I became submerged. I gave up all hope of ever escaping. Some time later, still in the snow, I felt warm and safe, like an infant in the security of his mother’s arms. All of my cares were gone, I found inner peace.
“After what seemed like eons buried deep in the snow, the invisible hands wrapped around me with a cold, loving embrace and pulled me back up to the surface. I felt like a nursing babe deprived of his mother’s milk. Child-like tears poured out of my eyes, I wanted to be back, buried deep within the black snow once again more than anything else in the world. I looked around, the spire was now ablaze and the snow was blood-red. I wept like an infant, feeling deep sorrow as the tower burned. I wanted to save the tower any way I could; I was afraid that if it fell, it would take my life with its own.
“I rushed towards it, ready to try anything to save it. I looked at it again in my mad rush, studying harder this time; I saw that the tower was not being damaged by the inferno, but rather, being strengthened by it. The rust disappeared, the metal became thicker and stronger, and it grew a good three stories. I stopped dead in my tracks and dropped to my knees, now feeling and even more intense fear than before. I could feel the presence of the hands behind me now. They wrapped around my neck and a voice whispered in my ear. It told me in a soothing voice to bring the clan east. It told me that safety lay there . . . riches and safety. Its dark charm almost worked on me, but I detected the wickedness in its loving voice. ‘Wizard, begone! I reject you and your evil ways!’ I shouted. The clammy hands unwrapped from around my neck and a shrill, wicked shriek rang through the whole scene. I woke up immediately afterwards, screaming in terror, cold sweat dripping from my brow.
“That is why we must leave tomorrow morning. Today is enough time for us to get packed and ready for departure.” Hathus finished with a long sigh.
Narthak was so focused on Hathus that he did not take notice to the crowd of people surrounding them – almost the whole clan – listening to Hathus’s tale.
“This is surely a wicked dream. ‘Tis a bad omen to stay here, you are right. West is a good idea, especially if the demons of your dreams told you to walk east. Are you sure that was all? Do you remember any more?” asked Narthak intently.
“I believe that is all that they wanted me to remember, Narthak. It doesn’t matter, I’ve seen enough to last two lifetimes We go west tomorrow.” As Hathus stood up then walked towards his tent, there was a steady murmuring of worry amongst the crowd.
Narthak looked worried. Hathus had never acted this way before; he had had visions before, but none like this. He looked around; the rest of the clan was steadily murmuring amongst themselves as they all went their separate ways. A rough hand fell down on his shoulder and he turned around, somewhat startled.
“The stench of evil is strong around us, even today. . . . I can feel it all around us,” said a short, dwarf-like man with a pudgy face and long beard. Henrik was his name. He wore a horned helmet and chain mail armor.
Henrik was a good man, though he always seemed to be sensing some sort of danger, whether it be a horde of non-existent trolls hiding in a nearby ice cave, or a cult of witches waiting to kidnap the clan’s children and use them for ritual sacrifice. Most of the clan took to disregarding most things he said, and some were humored by it, though Henrik was always serious about every accusation he made. Narthak usually took to politely disagreeing with Henrik rather than insulting him.
“Don’t worry about it, Henrik. If evil was this close to camp then I’m sure we would be marching west this very moment. Trust Hathus, he is our leader, after all,” replied Narthak as he brushed Henrik’s hand off his shoulder.
“I don’t know, Narthak. I can sense it all around us. Keep your eyes sharp, and your wits sharper,” whispered Henrik. He limped away, still healing from a bad wolf bite he suffered some time ago.
Narthak walked through the small crowd, packed snow crunching under his boots. A few of the clan members approached him and expressed their concerns. He told them all the same thing he had told Henrik, there was nothing to worry about.
Narthak had walked one full circle around the encampment when he smelt it. A pungent scent filled his nostrils completely. It was like the rotting stench of decay, but more acrid. His inner nose hairs burned off as he inhaled. His eyes lit up and he scowled in disgust and hatred. It was the putrid reek of magic.
Just then, he heard the shouts of surrounding clansmen.
“Mages! Sorcerers! Magicians! Prepare yourselves for battle!” shouted Henrik at the top of his lungs as he ran towards the edge of camp.
Narthak ran with a group of warriors in the direction the sorcerers were coming from; the east. They were already close and approaching the camp at an alarming rate. Narthak could see their dark robes and long, stringy, grey heir. His heart sank as he saw the otherworldly beasts that accompanied them. Strange demonic hounds ran alongside the sorcerers, slimy green foam frothed around the corners of their mouths and their glossy black eyes glowed like obsidian. They were completely covered in a thick black coat of stringy hair.
He drew his iron claymore from its leather scabbard. He could see the sorcerers clearly now, their demonic eyes pieced his very soul. He tightened his iron grip on his beast of a sword as the creatures entered swinging range.
The things pounced on the front lines of warriors guarding the camp, tearing them to shreds. Narthak backed up, a single hound tried to jump him and he plunged his sword deep into its bulging chest. The creature let out a howl then went limp. Narthak pulled his claymore out of it just in time to intercept a second one. His sword entered the creature through its left eye then shot out the back of the thing’s skull. He pulled the sword up, vertically splitting the beast’s head in half, then turned around and ran into the camp through the chaos surrounding him.
The mages were within firing range now; they stood in a line as they conjured demonic fire in the palms of their hands. They hurled the flames into the camp and soon it was ablaze.
Narthak heard of the time it took to regain magical energy in one’s blood. Spell casters traded some of their own life force in exchange for more magical power. His grandfather, great Jinjo Yorden, son of Nhoktur, had told him many stories of daring adventures and mighty quests during Narthak’s uneventful youth. Many of them had involved sorcerers or other magical beings. That was the extent of Narthak’s knowledge on sorcery; children’s tales.
Presently, he was coughing and gagging as he ran through the camp, barely able to hold his stomach because of the unbearable stench of magic in the air. He guessed that because of the very strong initial assault, the sorcerers soon wouldn’t have anything left. If he could just survive, and get as many other clansmen as he could to do the same, he could easily cut down the mages one by one.
Up ahead, Narthak saw Henrik sprawled out on the snow, blood spurted from a deep hole in his chest that tore right through his chain mail cuirass. Henrik breathed deeply and slowly, but called Narthak over to him. Narthak ran up to Henrik and helped him up.
“I warned you damned fools! I’ve been warning you for years!” Henrik coughed as he stood up. He picked up a longbow from a fallen comrade and nocked an arrow. After careful aiming, he let the arrow fly straight and true. It entered a sorcerer’s head right between the eyes over fifty feet away. The arrow’s exit was grotesque; bits of skull flew out like shrapnel in every direction. The dead magician had a gaping hole in his head and stood still as if nothing had happened for a long moment, then toppled over limply into the blood-red snow around him. Henrik smiled then fell over back into the pool of his own blood, his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
Narthak let out a long yell of fury but used his better judgment and did not charge straight into the inevitable slaughter. He advanced slowly through the chaos, hiding behind dead hellhounds from time to time so he wouldn’t be seen by any of the sorcerers.
All around him was anarchy and destruction, the screams of the vanquished rang in his ears. The highlanders fought with all their might, battling the demonic hounds and dark sorcerers. There was much bloodshed, but it looked like a fairly even battle . . . though that was before the sorcerers began their second synchronized attack.
The dark mages all stopped at once, and purple tainted forcefields engulfed them. Their hands were raised above their heads; purple balls of dark energy grew in their palms. At the sight of this, Narthak, and some other highlanders sprinted away into the burning camp; into safety.
“You cowards! Get back here!” Hathus shouted at the top of his lungs as he battled two of the otherworldly creatures at once. His cuirass was gone, leaving him armorless and vulnerable. There was a deep gash in the side of his forehead, a thin strip of flesh hung off his temple, fresh blood poured out like a river, but still, he kept on fighting. A third hound approached him with lightning quickness, eroding the ground with each step. It swung one massive claw at Hathus’s exposed stomach, easily cleaving through the frail flesh, tearing a large hole in his gut. Viscera rolled out in sloppy heaps then flopped to the ground in a putrid pile. Hathus’s gaze was an emotionless stare as he dropped to his knees. Blood trickled out of his open mouth, then at once, the beasts were on him. They tore his body to shreds, then ripped his cadaver limb from limb. Narthak stopped watching around the moment one of the creatures held Hathus’s severed head up to the sky, posing in a victory stance.
Nausea churned his stomach as he ran through the burning field of charred bodies. He finally came to a small dip in the endless tundra on the other side of the camp. A large blast shook the very earth, Narthak dove for the ground. Shortly after, he was blinded by an unbearably bright purple light. He could feel heat from the blast blow past his bloody face as he lay in the snow.
Narthak lay in the snow for what seemed like an eternity. He could hear the distant battle cries of Joben Valorka, a childhood friend, but his ears were still ringing. With all his willpower he picked himself up and scanned the battlefield. He was shocked to see almost bare nothingness. The camp was all but embers. The only thing left was a few of his brothers taking on a small horde of the hellhounds; the rest of the clan was all dead, piled on top of each other in a sick display.
In the distance he could see the sorcerers, they were weak and tired, taking in deep breaths and coughing out blood with every exhale. Narthak finally let his primal instincts take him over. Rage engulfed him and he lost all control. He charged, gripping his claymore in both hands and letting out a brutal war cry. Bloodlust filled his body and shook his core.
Two of the demonic abominations started towards him as he approached the sorcerers. The bigger of the two charged at him with its jaw extended. With a mighty shout, Narthak twisted around and skewered his sword straight through the creature’s open mouth. It let out a final yelp as the sword exited through the back of its neck. The second beast brought him down before he could pull his sword out of the first one’s mouth. He was disarmed, trying to fight off the evil monstrosity’s relentless assault. Slimy spittle dropped down on his face as the creature attacked. Finally, Narthak gave the creature a hard punch to the side of its hideous face. He could hear a sharp crack and saw blood burst out its opposite ear. It let out a short yelp then fell limp on him. He stayed there, with the dead beast on top of him, while he caught his breath and wiped the foreign blood from his face.
After a long moment, he threw the dead monstrosity off him, regained his sword, and continued his charge on the magicians. As he ran, he thought of all he had lost in such a short amount of time. The whole clan had been practically wiped out; only a few stragglers – including himself – remained. This nearly brought him to tears of anger as he mindlessly charged into battle, shouting incoherent babble that meant nothing except extreme aggression and rage in its purest form.
About twenty feet away, one of the sorcerers began to cycle energy through his palms, preparing a spell. Before the magician could unleash his dark powers, Narthak plunged his claymore into the man’s stomach. He gasped for air, but could not seize any. Blood pumped out the wound in the rhythmatic pulse of his heartbeat. Narthak snarled at the man then ripped the sword out his side, with it came the man’s intestinal tract.
Out of the corner of his eye, Narthak could see a second sorcerer. He turned to the mage and noticed this one was much weaker than the first. He was shaking uncontrollably, barely able to stay standing. Dark blood dripped out of his ears and nose. A convulsion came over him and he vomited blood all over the snow. Narthak charged the man. When he got close enough, he swung his claymore in a wide arc. The mage’s head tore off from his body in a swift motion, his body collapsed in a limp heap.
He dropped his sword and fell to one knee. Scanning the battlefield, he could see it was all over. Everyone around him was either dead or dying. The conjured hellbeasts let out their last sickening moans before collapsing around each other, dozens of arrows littered their sides. The clan all lay in the packed snow – more red than white – with gaping holes in their chests that smoked like a doused flame. The sorcerers all lay in rows, ripped open and mutilated, though some crawled along the ground in desperate attempts to escape. Narthak could hear faint breathing and groaning; he walked through the frozen tundra and systematically put every survivor out of his or her misery, whether they were friend or foe. He was rougher with his enemies than his allies though. He told his friends to be brave and strong before plunging his sword deep into the backs of their heads; he whispered obscenities and curses into the sorcerers’ ears before committing the same deed.
He stepped back, disgusted with himself at the act he just carried out. The combat rage slowly drifted from his eyes and he returned to reality. He still could not fathom the utter destruction of the whole scene; it was now but a barren field littered with bodies and ashes.
Suddenly, he became aware of the intense pain burning in his thigh. He looked down at the spot the hurt was coming from and his eyes widened. There was a deep cut bleeding profusely just above his knee. Inside the wound, there were two hound teeth stuck in the flesh. He pried them both out of his leg then ripped off a piece of his cotton shirt under his cuirass and tied it around the wound.
Narthak started to limp south, towards the closest known standing camp, the camp of the Skelork clan. Barren tundra surrounded him in every direction and ominous white peaks of colossal mountains tore through the sky. He left a light trail of blood behind him as he walked through the knee deep powder, every few minutes he had to stop and catch his breath. As he trudged through the plain, the pain all over his body slowly ceased but he continued to bleed immensely out of his thigh.
Finally, after over an hour of wandering, he could see the smoke of the undisturbed camp up ahead.
It was larger and more populated than his camp once was, before it had gotten completely destroyed less than an hour and a half ago. Nestled in a small valley, the tents were darker and more condensed, a large red banner hung above the central tent and flapped noiselessly in the light wind.
Narthak neared the camp and a tall figure approached him.
“Halt! From where do you hail? You look to be Mastodorian. . . . Which clan are you from, and what business do you have with the Skelork clan?” demanded the figure. He stepped closer and drew his longsword. Narthak could see his gaunt face and steel plated armor. He bore no facial hair, but had a feral, unkempt, black mane.
“Hails, brother! Why must we greet each other with such hostility? We both crawled from the same dirt, you and I. I am from the Nhoktur clan, but . . . it is no more. We were camped about an hour’s march from here. A band of dark wizards raided our camp; they brought demonic beasts from some other world with them. . . . The whole camp was lit ablaze, everyone was wiped
out . . . I am the only survivor,” stated Narthak, solemnly.
“Indeed, we’ve seen the smoke, this is wicked news you bear. I am sorry for the rough welcome, but these are tough times; as you know, bandits and raiders on the lam have been spotted all around the highlands.” The man sheathed his longsword.
“Yes, hard times. I am Narthak by the way.” He held out a bloody hand and the man happily grasped it.
“Though you bear wicked news, you are welcome with the Skelork clan. I am Kanoh.” He looked down at Narthak’s mangled leg. “You are wounded my friend. Please follow me, we can help you.”
“No, I’m quite fine. It’s nothing,” grumbled Narthak stubbornly.
“I insist! We have women with oils and herbs from the forested southern lands of Mefala. You will be good as new in no time. Please, come with me,” said Kanoh, politely. He took Narthak to a small tent that smelt of flowers and fresh tree sap. Strange flasks and beakers stood atop a wide table. A woman with long, flowing brown hair and a heavy green tunic led him to a makeshift cot and told him to lie down; he obeyed. She unwrapped a small vial from a tattered scrap of brown cloth.
“. . . What happened?” Her bottom lip quivered but her gaze was hard.
Narthak returned her gaze, then after a long moment, he answered, “A creature of a kind I’ve not seen before. . . . It bit me with its hideous jaws . . . well . . . one of them did. I did not notice it until after the fact.”
“No . . . never mind,” she whispered, looking down at the vial she held. She popped off the cap and began to rub the contents – thick red oil – onto the deep wound in his thigh. Narthak cringed as his skin started to bubble and steam. The wound slowly began to close up. Eventually, it looked as if it had not been there at all.
“What is this black magic!?” shouted Narthak, sitting up. He cursed as he inspected his leg with careful fingers.
Kanoh, who had been with them in the tent, explained to him that the oil was not a product of black magic, nor anything wicked at all. The clan purchased it from a roving temple peddler last spring.
After Narthak was rested and healed, he and Kanoh took a walk outside. Many clansfolk greeted him, some with open suspicion.
“Look there,” said Kanoh, after some time, “In the distance.” He pointed with an extended finger to the east.
Narthak did, and what he saw amazed him. It was a black spire towering into the heavens, maybe a few miles away, though he could not get a clear glimpse of it from so far away.
“It was erected perhaps yesterday. One minute there was nothing there, the next, it was standing tall as if it had been there for ages,” stammered Kanoh, a hint of fear underlined his usual calm tone.
“By the heavens!” exclaimed Narthak. “That must be the source of the evil that attacked my camp! It is a true wonder your clan was not attacked first!”
“We are leaving tomorrow; the whole clan. We’re packing up and heading as far away from that thing as possible. If it brought as much destruction as you say it did, then there is really no time to waste,” said Kanoh. He looked confident but scared.
“No . . . I have always said that cowardice is truly just, if you survive because of it and are able to do good things in the future. Bravery is a waste if you get slaughtered without making any impact on the world around you. Leaving tomorrow is foolish cowardice. You will surely get slaughtered by these wizards and their demonic pets during your travel. They obviously came here on a mission, and will not rest until that mission is complete. They are trying to wipe out our people, I presume. We cannot just run away and let the other clans get slaughtered because of our cowardice, we must rise and fight. We must go to the tower and destroy these evil sorcerers,” proclaimed Narthak, completely sure of himself.
“. . . Are you a madman?” asked Kanoh, cautiously. He glared at Narthak with suspicion.
“I’ve seen this all first-hand maybe two hours ago. They attacked us without warning or remorse. They won’t stop . . . I know that for a fact. We must end them before they end us. Please . . . they’ve killed everyone I’ve ever known,” explained Narthak, suddenly deeply saddened. A look of inner hurt grazed his icy blue eyes, though he quickly masked it with a hard gaze.
“Well, I think I believe you, sir. Even though we Mastodorians broke off into separate clans long ago, we retained our strong relationship with one another. We are still a great family, and I will gladly follow one of my brothers into certain death, if only for the greater good of the people. We must protect each other in times of need, no matter how much we distance ourselves from one another during the times in between. I will follow you – to the ends of Mefala if I have to – to destroy this common threat.” Kanoh turned around and signaled for Narthak to follow him. “Come with me, I will gather all my greatest warriors and we shall conquer every ungodly being in that spire before nightfall!”
Narthak followed him, surprised at how willing Kanoh was to aid in something he had so little information about. It was just trust, he thought. He also knew that Kanoh could probably smell the magic in the air and sense the evil close by – just as the late Henrik had.
Narthak noticed right away that the Skelork clan was a lot larger than his own late clan, the Nhoktur. It was much more crowded and dense. Small children played in the packed snow and women sat by a warm fire, knitting blankets and clothing. They looked at him knowingly and he nodded in return. The whole camp seemed to be worried and anxious, though they still welcomed the newcomer with open arms.
By high noon they had assembled a ragtag group of warriors; the strongest and fiercest of the clan. Men who claimed to have no fear or any other human emotions. There were nineteen of them. They all had dark piercing eyes and hard faces, they wore armor similar to Narthak’s; cuirasses made of sewn together wolf pelts complimented with chain mail gauntlets, greaves and boots. They were indeed fierce and brave, but Narthak did not know if they were noble enough for such a quest. They reminded him more of an angry group of mercenaries than a band of brothers preparing to set out on a noble quest for the good of the Mastodorian race.
Narthak and Kanoh explained the goals of their mission to the warriors. They seemed delighted at the prospect of killing many things at once. When Narthak explained to them what happened earlier that day – how the dark magicians had slaughtered the whole Nhoktur clan – the morale increased, surprisingly. The men now wanted to wipe out the whole tower as a form of avenging their fallen brothers, they did not seem to realize the extreme danger that this quest promised.
After gathering a modest amount of supplies – mainly healing oils – they headed out into certain doom. They marched single file, as one unit, through the deep snow, no one talking or making any sound; all of them focused on their common goal. Narthak led them up an icy hill perhaps half a mile from the spire. As they reached the summit, the rancid stench of magic entered Narthak’s nostrils. He immediately was reminded of the horrors that took place earlier that day. His stomach lurched in disgust, but he walked on just as he had before.
Finally, after a steady march, they arrived in the vicinity of the black spire. It stood tall and strong, just as Hathus had described it during the fire in his dark dream. A shiver ran down Narthak’s spine.
“You can see wards all over the perimeter of the tower. They look like wards to protect against the magic of the Light . . . if I’m not mistaken . . . though I am certainly no expert,” said Kanoh. He pointed a finger at the obvious purple tint that ran along the black shell of the tower. The energy looked especially concentrated upon the spire’s black pointed top.
After a long stare at the ominous spire, one of the warriors – Borjak was his name – spoke up. “The mages will be drained of most of their power if these wards are as powerful as they look. Remember what we were taught as youngsters: if they focus all their energy on a particular spell, they have little physical energy left to harness and use. It takes time to regain that energy. Since they have used most of their energy to create those wards, I suspect they will be weak. . . . They will be vulnerable. . . . They will be crushed like vermin by my mighty axe!”
The rest of the warriors cheered, but Kanoh quickly silenced them. “If they know we are here, they will have time to pull down the wards and regain energy to use on us, you fools! We must enter the tower and eliminate every single one of them as swiftly and quietly as possible while they are still weak.”
Narthak’s stomach lurched again. “I can sense them . . . there are more than just sorcerers in that tower. Those beasts I told you all about. . . . Those filthy, vile creatures! The things of nightmares and bard’s tales . . . they are in that tower. I can feel it, it’s like the vile stench of magic, only, it manifests in the pit of your stomach.”
“I feel it as well,” said Kanoh, concerned, “I did not know it was that I was feeling, but I feel it.” He looked distraught.
“There is no time to delay, we must go now,” ordered Narthak, after a moment’s pause. He moved forward and motioned with his hand for the rest of the war party to follow. Such dark things had never targeted their clans before; they had no experience fighting any, though Narthak knew there was no other choice; it was for the good of the Mastodorian race.
The approached the dark gates of the spire, Kanoh looked back at the warriors to see if they were ready. He received short nods and grunts in return. “I do not know who – or what – lies inside this tower, but I know this: we shall not fail. We shall wipe out these infernal wizards and bring peace back to the north!” He spoke in a shouted whisper, as not to alarm the things inside.
Narthak wasted no time; his eyes shined like the rays of morning as he kicked down the spire’s door with brutal strength. The party let out shouts of rage as they stormed the keep.
It was a large stone room, a spiral staircase ran up along the walls; it seemed to go on forever. Torches lit the sides and a black alter stood alone in the center of the open room. As the party entered, dark sorcerers turned away from some ungodly practice they were performing on the alter, and prepared for battle with the barbarians.
There were four sorcerers in total in the main chamber; the one closest to the door was chopped in half by Borjak’s mighty axe before he could even react. Borjak ran towards the next mage, almost slipping on the dead one’s gore, and let out a fierce warcry as he caved in his target’s feeble skull.
Narthak hurled his claymore at one of the wizards. It blew a great hole through the man’s chest, separating his ribcage and almost tearing him in half. The man fell limp on the ground in a mangled heap. Narthak let out a breath he had been holding for some time then looked around. The last sorcerer was dead as well, two arrows protruded from his bleeding chest as he lay on the cold stone floor. Narthak turned around and saw Kanoh holding an oak longbow with another arrow already nocked. He walked over to where his claymore had fallen, then picked it up and wiped viscera from the blade.
“We must ascend these steps to the top, crushing everything that stands in our way. The evil of this vile lair lurches the pits of my stomach.” Narthak coughed as if choking on something large but abruptly stopped. He gripped his claymore. “The beasts, they are here!” he shouted as a horde of the vile creatures from the morning ran down the tower’s stairs.
They were more ghastly than the creatures from before; just looking at them was enough for the common man to uncontrollably empty his stomach. As they descended to the main chamber, the men readied their weapons.
Chaos and slaughter followed; an uncontrollable bloodbath. The hellhounds – too many to count – kept pouring down the stairs as Narthak’s party cut them down one by one. Narthak cleaved through the beasts with his claymore two at a time, but it was still too much for him to handle. Kanoh emptied his whole quiver on the first five hounds to run down the stairs and quickly drew his blade to intercept one jumping at him. Piles of the monstrosities soon littered the chamber. Many of the barbarians were overwhelmed by the creatures; they were soon torn to shreds by slimy teeth and sharp claws. The battle raged on for long minutes, many hellhounds were laid to rest, and with them, they took few warriors. Kanoh drove his longsword through the last surviving monstrosity’s distorted face, then breathed a sigh of relief and fell to one knee. Victory. They gathered together and collected themselves; only six of the nineteen warriors Kanoh had gathered were slain.
Kanoh slowly took in a deep breath then let it out all at once. Blood was splattered across his hard face and his cuirass was punctured and torn along the left side. “We will bury our dead later; there is no time right now, we must scale the staircase.”
“I can feel the wards being pulled off as we speak, their power shall be restored soon, we must go now,” stated Borjak. Combat rage still twisted his face; his axe was dripping with blood and entrails. “Now!” he shouted as he began running up the staircase. The rest of the party followed with haste.
They scaled the spiral staircase that ran along the inner perimeter of the tower and soon approached a tall wooden door about halfway up. Before Kanoh could kick down the door, a fiery blast blew a burning hole straight through the wood of the door and into Kanoh’s chest. He was hurled back against the parallel wall, steam flowing freely from a gaping, charred hole in his chest. The rest of the party backed away from the now open door. Borjak blazed with more intense rage than Narthak had ever seen as he ran blindly into the room, screaming in fury.
The room was colder than the main chamber, velvet tapestries covered the walls and another lone alter stood in the middle of the room; a mangled body laid atop it with deep incisions in its sides. Six mages were inside the room, surrounding the body.
Borjak ran in with sadistic intent, his axe drawn and ready to slay. The sorcerers began drawing power, it manifested in their palms as a pale blue light. Borjak caved in a wizard’s skull with his axe, and in the same motion, ripped a second sorcerer in two. The remaining four mages unleashed pale blue bolts of energy at him, but before they could hit him, he hurled his massive axe at the sorcerer standing nearest to the alter. The axe started to rip through the wizard’s chest at about the same time Borjak all but dematerialized from the synchronized spell blasts. His last thoughts were that of regret for not being able to see the spell caster get mutilated by his axe.
The rest of the party stormed the room. The remaining three sorcerers feigned weakness from their recent casting, but as the barbarians approached them, more pale blue bolts were fired. The explosion was catastrophic, blue flames ignited most of the warriors and the few in the front of the line met the same fate as Borjak. Narthak was thrown back with great force.
The smell of burning flesh invaded Narthak’s nostrils as he lie on the ground, trying to pat the flames off his burning cuirass; he had been in the back of the party at the time of the blast. He had managed to stop the flames from completely destroying his easily flammable body armor, but slowly drift into unconsciousness.
Narthak was revived minutes later by another surviving barbarian. As he was helped up, he finally grasped the total destruction all around him. The dead bodies of his comrades littered the stone room, dense smoke rose from their bodies; it reminded him of the aftermath of the morning assault. An incomprehensible amount of lacerated entrails were scattered across the floor, gobbets of burnt flesh were stuck to the walls. Only two other men besides him and the man who had revived him survived, but they weren’t in any shape to get up and fight. Narthak emptied his stomach on the stone floor, then he looked up at the man who had brought him back into consciousness. Stelnor was his name, he remembered.
“Are you okay, can you walk? Then get up, we aren’t done yet,” said Stelnor. His voice sounded as if he had just gurgled boiling oil. He brushed back his blood-splattered beard then handed Narthak his claymore.
Narthak stood up and cracked his back. “Let us go now. I have not felt bloodlust like this in years.” His voice sounded metallic and sloppy, as blood covered the roof of his mouth in a thin layer.
Stelnor nodded his head and they both started for the door; it led back to the spiral staircase. They followed it up to an iron-locked door at the top of the tower. Mystical lines, glowing bright purple, ran along the door like veins on the back of an old man’s hand. Stelnor prepared to kick down the door with a booted foot, but the door swung open in front of them before he could follow through with the action. In an instant, they were pulled into the room by an unseen force, the door slammed behind them.
The chamber was black as pitch except for a bright purple sphere hovering in the center. Electricity ran up and down the outer circumference of the sphere, it glowed with an evil light.
Narthak tried to back up but he felt frozen in place.
After what seemed like an eternity, the sphere spoke. “Welcome . . . highlanders,” it boomed. Its voice sounded synthesized, but deep and god-like. “I am sure you’ve heard of me.”
Stelnor spoke in a whispered murmur. “The Black Wizard himself. . . .”
“Who?” asked Narthak, half looking over at Stelnor, while still keeping his attention on the ominous purple sphere.
“The Black Wizard . . . ruler of the darkness. . . . Ruler of everything vile and evil on this
world. . . . You’ve never heard the stories?” Stelnor looked completely detached as he stared in wonder and fear at the sphere.
“I have not,” said Narthak. He had heard the stories, but he had never heard the term ‘Black Wizard’ ever used. His clan had always simply called him – or it – the Lord of Darkness.
“Incorrect, Stelnor. I am not the Black Wizard himself; I am merely a projection of him. As you can see, I do not take on a human appearance, I am merely a projection of his mind, but I hold nearly all power he, himself bears.” The booming, god-like voice vibrated the floors.
“Why have you attacked us?” asked Stelnor, “What do you want?” Stelnor was stuck in place. Invisible, cold, nimble hands held him in place.
“What do I want? What does He want?” Vile laughter filled the chamber, making Narthak’s ears ring and teeth grind. “Well children . . . He wants you. Yes, you both; the strongest and most worthy of the Mastodorians. . . . You’ve proved it by completing my challenge and making it to this very room. You both live for the kill; that is why He wants you. You would both be great assets to His grand army; you could both become Children of The Dark.”
“I refuse this vile offer,” barked Stelnor, “That is all that was? A . . . challenge? You slaughtered a whole camp to find the ones who would survive, so you could recruit them as tools of destruction?”
“Yes. I knew that Narthak would survive, I even helped him a little.” Narthak looked sick at that last statement. “I knew he would come to your camp and recruit the finest of you to assault my spire, conveniently located so near to your encampment. If you accept my offer, willingly, you shall become more than human, total grasp on black magic shall be yours. You shall be rulers of kingdoms – eventually the world – and you will bow to no one but Him.
“I deny you, filthy scum!” shouted Stelnor. As he spoke, the invisible hands weakened their grasp around his ankles. “I shall never bow to you!”
“If you do not serve Him in life, you shall serve him in death,” said the purple sphere.
“Feel the pain of sharpened steel, cur!” screamed Stelnor as he ran towards the sphere, twin shortswords drawn. Before he could move two steps, a purple blast erupted from the sphere, it entered Stelnor and he fell down, limp. A ghostly energy rose out of his mouth then got sucked into the sphere. It looked as though the purple orb had sucked out his soul. Stelnor looked dry as a raisin and completely motionless. Suddenly, he disappeared, as if dematerialized.
“You, I hope, will not choose the same fate as your friend. I think you will make the smart choice and join Him in life, rather than in death, like your friend,” said the sphere.
I deny him, I deny him, I deny him, thought Narthak I will not be his puppet, I will not be his tool of destruction, I will not join him in life or death . . . but how . . . how do I escape?
“What say you, barbarian? Do you join Him willingly? Or must I use force? You are worthy of Him, He wants you and He will not stop until you are His.” The sphere sounded as if it was getting impatient.
Suddenly, Narthak could feel magic pulsing in his gut, it was his own, and it did not make him feel sick or ill at all, but rather, peaceful and calm. He concentrated as hard as he could on trying to channel the energy he now possessed. He could feel it creep up through his veins then down into his arm. When it reached his hand, a faint yellow light pulsed around his palm. Without thinking any more, he threw up his arms, icy blue fire shot out of his hands. “I DENY YOU!” he shouted, as the fire came into contact with the purple sphere. It shattered like stressed glass then the whole room erupted in flames. A light as pure and bright as the sun formed in the center of the room where the purple sphere had been. It grew bigger and bigger, soon it engulfed Narthak and he lost his grip on consciousness.
He awoke on a circular platform of earth. It was barren and seemed to drop off at the edges. Milk white clouds floated across the bright blue sky. It felt . . . wrong, somehow, like a twisted version of reality. The air seemed thinner and he felt light as a feather. He stood up and walked to the edge, he gasped as he looked down. The platform was floating. He could not believe it. He was standing on a floating platform of dirt and stone, soaring high above the earth. He turned back; Stelnor was standing in the center of the platform – though he was not there before – fully armed and armored, just as he was.
“Brother, what is this strange place?” asked Narthak, “Where are we?” He approached Stelnor and saw his eyes; they were as white and blank as the clouds floating overhead.
In an instant, Stelnor was running towards Narthak, drawing his twin shortswords. He let out a feral scream as he swung the shortswords at Narthak. Narthak was barely able to bring his claymore up to intercept the blow. Sparks flew and Narthak staggered back. Stelnor’s white eyes burned with a fiery light. Narthak brought his claymore down on Stelnor with an overhead swing, but Stelnor parried the blow with his left shortsword then sunk his right shortsword deep into Narthak’s leg. He let out a short yelp as Stelnor yanked the shortsword out. Narthak staggered back.
“Brother . . . what are you doing? What madness has overtaken you?” stammered Narthak as he saw fresh blood pour out of his leg.
“Join us,” whispered Stelnor, hoarsely, “Join Him.” He looked sick; his skin took on a greenish hue and his hair was falling off in limp strands.
“What . . . happened to you, Stelnor?” asked Narthak, shakily. He took another step back, both hands white knuckle gripping his claymore in an iron lock.
Stelnor did not answer, instead, he charged towards Narthak, letting out another spine-tingling shriek, shortswords raised in the air. Narthak swung at his exposed gut but Stelnor intercepted the blow with lightning quick reflexes. In one swift motion, he swung both shortswords at Narthak’s neck, but he ducked just in time and plunged his claymore into Stelnor’s solar plexus. As the blade sunk deeper and deeper, Stelnor coughed up thick, viscous blood. The blade eventually exited through Stelnor’s back, but he still stood strong, as if not feeling any pain. Narthak snarled and brought the blade out Stelnor’s side. He was now almost half torn in two, but he still stood as if nothing had happened. Narthak’s eyes widened in disbelief as he watched Stelnor’s side begin to close. In less than five seconds, Stelnor’s body was completely healed as if the claymore had never touched it at all.
“You cannot win . . . I am one with Him, now. Join Him, Narthak, join Him and you shall never suffer again.” Stelnor’s voice quivered as if he had not spoken in years. “Life or death . . . the choice is yours.”
Stelnor swung his shortswords around in a blur of motion. They struck Narthak’s claymore with such force that he was instantly disarmed. The claymore flew through the air and was lost over the edge of the infernal platform. Narthak looked fierce, his eyes blazed with rage as he stared death straight in the eye.
“No, I deny you, I deny the Black Wizard. I deny the Lord of Darkness, and I shall not be his puppet!” shouted Narthak. He could fell the energy there again, pulsing through his veins. He concentrated, and brought up to his palms once more. Instantly, another blinding white blast of pure energy shot out of his hands. Everything around him went white and he fell into a state of unconsciousness.
He awoke lying on a pile of snow, back on the highland plain. The wound in his leg was gone. He stood up and looked around, confused; everything that happened in the last twenty minutes was hazy, as if part of a fading dream seen through stained glass. He was presently standing in the center of a dark, circular imprint in the snow. This is where the tower had been, he thought, but where did it go? He suddenly remembered the magic pulsing through his veins, manifesting itself in his palms. He remembered the whole party getting slaughtered. He remembered Stelnor, and everything seemed to come back to him at once. Stelnor . . . serving the Black Wizard? No, no, no, what has happened?
He looked around at the vast tundra surrounding him, then started walking south, with the setting sun by his side. The Black Wizard would never find him. Never.

The End

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.06.2010

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