By Rusty Priske A tale of Larisnar
Rustiq Umbala stared at the war-ravaged Corinth from the edge of the forest. He chuckled softly as he read the inscription above the now-sealed main gates: KNOWLEDGE COMES, BUT WISDOM LINGERS.
Rustiq raised his left hand and beckoned to the shadows of the forest, the flames enveloping him the only thing that broke the darkness. He never took his eyes from the city. Absinthe darted from the darkness to stand at the dead Narawati's side. "Yes, Master Umbala?"
"Are our wizards in place?"
"They are. Are you sure our wizards will be able to overpower the ones holding the shield?"
Rustiq waved his hand dismissively. "Leave the thinking to me. Just make sure you keep pressure on the defenses. If you fail, you will pay the price."
Absinthe swallowed hard, before she answered, "Yes, sir. The barrier will fall."
Edouard carefully wove the counterspell that would allow him to bypass the first set of runes in the corridor. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow as he stepped past to face the next challenge. As he did so, he repeated the lecture he received the last time he tried this. "The first runes will only put you to sleep and raise a general alarm. The next ones are much worse."
He exhaled slowly and took four steps, in precise spots, avoiding the triggers he knew to be there. Gesturing as he mumbled another spell, misty symbols appeared in the air, with connecting lines between them. A second incantation pushed the symbols to one side, letting Edouard dart past.
The runes were dangerous but there were some things that were worth the risk. Smiling as he passed the last traps, Edouard opened the kitchen door.
Edouard would do just about anything for a fresh apple right after the spire's wizards teleported in new shipment of fruit.
Edouard walked jauntily into the kitchen but stopped suddenly. Several dozen pieces of fruit were flying through the air. They careened about, without striking anything and Edouard noticed patterns that were not immediately apparent. Past the flying fruit, Edouard could see a man in a tattered brown robe perched on a countertop. He had tousled hair and a big grin to go with eyes that sparkled in the lamplight. He was waving his hands, as if conducting an orchestra. The fruit was clearly responding to his gestures, and in time with the song he was singing. Yet more incredibly, the fruit was singing harmony.
When the world is cold and done, Apples, peaches, pears and plums, Still will be the son of suns, Apples, peaches, pears and plums. The master, the dragon won, Apples, peaches, pears and plums, The son's father comes undone, Apples, peaches, pears and plums. My fruit friends dance on air, Apples, peaches, plums and pears. But it is Darso that put them there, Apples, peaches, plums and pears. I bearded the wizards in their lair, Apples, peaches, plums and pears. Only to say that they must beware, Apples, peaches, plums and pears.
It wasn't the song or the odd nature of this man that caused Edouard to stare at him with amazement. It was the fact that he was here at all. Since the fall of Corinth, Gaston Bonhomme carefully controlled and monitored the access to the Arak Spire. Edouard knew everyone in the tower, but he did not know this man.
"Uh, hullo."
The stranger jumped from his perch, startled. The fruit fell to the floor, landing not as the fresh food it was, but as old, pungent, rotting fruit.
Gaston Bonhomme pushed his pince-nez up his long nose, peering through the glasses at reports from the spire's magisters. As he read the pages, he dictated to an animated quill that jotted his every word into a large journal. "The students' progress has been remarkable. As I suspected, it seems that I was right about outside influences being detrimental to the learning process. When we cut the Spire off from Corinth, by necessity rather than design, the students started paying better attention to their studies."
He waved his hand and the journal closed. A second gesture sent the quill to a blank parchment on an easel nearby. As he continued speaking, the quill followed accordingly. "Attention all magisters. I have read your reports and believe that the students need to be pushed a little further. Nothing will be served by molly-coddling them and..."
A gentle rapping on the door interrupted Gaston's thoughts. He gruffly called out, "Who is it?" The quill dutifully continued copying down his words.
The door opened and Edouard poked his head into his father's study. "Uh, Father?"
"What is it, boy? If you have finished your studies, start on your chores."
"Uh, I met someone, Father. I think you should meet him."
"What are you...?" Gaston's voice trailed off as Edouard opened the door wider and the stranger wandered in, paying the Chatelain no mind. Gaston re-gathered his wits quickly. "Who is this?" Gaston finally noticed that the quill was still recording everything he was saying and he waved brusquely at it. The quill fell lifeless.
"I think his name is Darso. I found him in the kitchens. He'd managed to walk through a hallway full of exploding eyeball runes."
Darso examined the books on Gaston's shelves, paying no apparent attention to Gaston or Edouard, but the when the half-nothrog mentioned his name, he started on another song.
When an island is a tower, Filled with mighty men of power, With a master grim and dour, It's a ball.
While singing, Darso pulled a book from the shelf and tossed it, open, onto Gaston's desk.
In the ivory shell - a crack, And a warning bell they lack, Still self-interest is a knack, Cities fall.
Gaston sputtered at the treatment of his tome as Darso ended his song. The odd man stared intently at the elder wizard and said, "What happened to my apples?" like it was the most serious question possible.
"Stop this nonsense! How did you gain entry to the spire? Answer me at once!"
This only sent Darso into another round of song, this one discussing the merits if fresh fruit. While this was happening, Edouard looked at the book Darso had dropped on the desk, planning to replace it for his father.
"Father?"
Gaston snapped at his son, "What?" Edouard did not answer, but pointed at the open pages of the book. Gaston looked at where the boy pointed and froze. For a moment, the only sound was Darso's song, then Gaston sprang into action.
"Edouard! Bring that one to the antechamber off the great hall! Now!" Gaston bolted from the room and Edouard shooed Darso after him.
The book remained on the desk. It was open to a treatise on 'Countering Mass-Castings'.
Abram waved at the sentry guarding the break in the wall. The young scavenger picked through his satchel, mulling over the minor treasures he had recovered outside the walls. It was getting harder to find anything out there, but it was still better than sitting around inside.
"Hello, Abram." The boy looked up from his satchel to see Anyah approaching him. Anyah was pretty, and Abram, like most of the male scavengers, had a bit of a crush on her. Of course, Anyah was a little old for him. She was nearly eighteen.
"Hi Annie. I found some cool things outside. Do you wanna see?"
"Maybe later, Abram. I was just looking for Lash. Have you seen him?"
Abram frowned but quickly smiled, hoping she didn't see it. "No, I... what?" Anyah's face had gone completely white as she looked past Abram towards the wall.
An army of rotting men poured through the opening, easily dispatching the sentries. In other spots, they clambered over the wall, or occasionally through the unrepaired gaps. To Abram's eyes, there was an endless stream of horrific creatures coming straight at them.
Anyah grabbed Abram by the shoulder and pushed him ahead of her towards the closest building, a former flower shop. "Go! Go!" They entered about three steps ahead of two other refugees, also looking for cover.
Lash, the tall, good-looking youth that Anyah had been looking for, and his buddy, Mart, urged them forward. Lash found a storage closet in the back of the shop. "In here! Quickly!"
The four huddled in the darkness, making no sounds. Anyah could feel Abram trembling as they heard people enter the shop. She held her breath and prayed for what seemed like eternity. The door of the closet flung open, revealing an elf with a terrible gash along his throat and blood-stains on his bonemail. Lash rushed forward and bowled the dead thing over, only to find that the elf was not alone. Six ghoul soldiers charged into the shop, and before Lash could regain his footing, four feet of steel pierced his back and emerged from his chest.
Anyah pulled Abram to her side and waited. Surprisingly, death did not come. Instead, the elf pushed the three of them out of the shop and into the streets. All about them, Abram could see the dead charging through homes and shoppes, forcing Corinth's few survivors out into the open. The approaching enemy had flooded the streets, pressing ever onward and deeper into the city.
Anyah pointed to the tower in the city's center, and the trio ran.
When Anyah, Abram and Mart entered the bazaar, they spotted a group of refugees setting up an ambush for the oncoming army. They were not enough to contend with sheer numbers in the dead forces. Still, there was an appeal in fighting. Abram could see it in Mart's eyes as well. Mart glanced away from Anyah and said, "I have to…" Anyah nodded. Mart ran to the other refugees and one of them gave him a sword.
Anyah took the Abram by the hand and fled to the opposite end of the bazaar, where she could watch what happened. They hid behind a tattered banner, proclaiming the Mid-Summer Festival of nearly four years ago, the one that never came.
"The Highway."
"What?" Anayh looked quizzically at him.
"We have to get to the Pyre."
"Come on, then. Run!"
The two ran parallel to the army's front, rather than away from it; Abram knew they could not risk the ghoul hordes outflanking them before they could reach the Pyre, a pile of burned wreckage and ashes that the Corinthians avoided. It was where the burned their dead, to keep the bodies from the elves. Abram was a good runner, and reached it a good ten yards ahead of Anyah. The smell alone nearly overwhelmed Abram.
Anyah ran to the edge of the Pyre, and pulled aside an old oaken door, blackened from the fire but still intact."Come on! Down there!" Abram and Anyah dropped into the hole and she pulled the door back over, moments before the lines of the dead reached the area.
Abram urged Anayh down the sloping tunnel, until they dropped into a larger passage, with water knee-deep at the bottom. "What is this?" Anyah asked.
"The Highway. This is where supplies get smuggled into the city." Abram frowned. Lash had shown it to him.
"Where does it go?"
"We can follow it right out, past the walls and the forest." Abram met Anyah's gaze. "I'm going back."
"What? Are you crazy?" Anyah asked.
"I can't just leave everyone else. I have to see what I can do. Just follow this tunnel. It will take you out."
"But-"
"I'm sorry, Anyah. I can't leave just yet." With that, Abram turned and went back up the slope to the Pyre. "We have to know what's going on. We have to tell."
When Abram returned to the streets of Corinth, the dead army had already passed. He followed their trail, sticking to the shadows. From all sides now, the refugees had herded themselves toward Arak Spire. Even from this distance, and over the incoherent mumbling of the zombie lines, Abram could hear the incoherent wails of despair. With the invisible shield blocking their entrance, and the undead army stopping their flight, the Corinthians had nowhere to go.
Standing at the rear of the invading army was a dark-skinned man holding a glowing sword. Flames ran along his sword blade and up his arms, burning a corona around his head. His robes were white, fading to transparency where they neared the ground. The man stood apart from the army as the dead charged the humans surrounding the tower.
Inside, a magister ran to Gaston, who, along with most of the other mages, used his magic to support the invisible shield. "Chatelain!"
Gaston did not release his part of the spell, but diverted enough attention to respond. "What is it, Gilles?"
"The Corinthians are being slaughtered! Blood is flowing in the streets of Corinth again! They have been backed into our shield and have nowhere to turn!"
Gaston rubbed his eyes and then clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly. "When the elves attacked, I let my concern for the Spire outweigh my concern for the people who live in the city. As they died, we stayed in our tower, safe in our cocoon. We abandoned them once. Never again. We must do what we can for them, even at the expense of our home. Drop the shield! All wizards to defensive positions and prepare for breach!"
The dead army surged forward as the Corinthans scattered into the halls of the Arak Spire. Fire and lightning flashed as the mages attempted to defend their home, but the shambling corpses outnumbered them by more than twenty to one. They would not be able to hold.
The burning man laughed.
Abram, tears streaming down his cheeks, ran back to the Pyre, to follow Anyah.
Rustiq strode into the Great Hall, his sword still glowing through the blood. A dozen bodies littered the floor and many of Rustiq's undead soldiers awaited his commands. "I haven't seen Cyldragen or Bonhomme! They are in charge here, are they not?"
Absinthe entered the hall from behind Rustiq. She dragged Edouard with her. "The human wizards fought, but as you said, they were weakened from trying to hold the shield up. They have all fallen, but I haven't seen either of the two you were asking about." She pushed Edouard out in front of her. "I found this one in a hidden chamber. There was another with him - babbling some nonsense about being the master of the master - but he vanished before I could grab him."
Rustiq snarled, "If that was one of the two in charge, your life will pay for it." He turned to the albino. "A nothrog half-breed in the Arak Spire? Who are you?"
"Stop." The voice came from one of the zombies in the hall. The word had barely issued from its lips and its features flowed. In a moment, the transformation was complete and Gaston Bonhomme revealed his true face. "I am the one you seek. Leave the boy alone."
Rustiq laughed. "Your trickery would have succeeded. You would have left this spire a free man, and I would have killed her," he cocked his thumb at Absinthe, "in your place. You sacrificed yourself for another. How heroic. How stupid."
"Just let him go."
"I will let him go, as long as you answer my questions." Rustiq smirked. "I give you my word."
Gaston walked forward and stood in front of the undead master. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
"Which are you? Cyldragen or Bonhomme? And where is the other one?"
Gaston held his head high and spoke with pride. "I am Gaston Bonhomme, Chatelain of Arak Spire. Master Anton Cyldragen has not been here in quite some time. It appears your intelligence is faulty, mon ami." Gaston allowed himself a smirk as Rustiq's own fell away.
"Then your use to me is at an end." Rustiq shoved Mkono-Djarat through the chatelain's body and yanked it back out.
"FATHER!" Edouard cried out in anguish.
Gaston slumped to his knees as he gasped out, "Ne t'en fait pas mon garçon, va en paix. Tant que les vivants combattront, ces créatures ne pourront triompher." The life left his eyes and he fell on his side.
"Should I kill this one?" Absinthe roughly pushed Edouard forward.
"But you promised!" the grief stricken boy gasped out.
Rustiq leaned in, towering over Edouard and his voice dripped with sarcasm as he responded, "Of course I promised, and I would never break my word." Absinthe chuckled as Rustiq continued. "I never was going to kill you, whelp, promise or no." He grabbed Edouard roughly by his jaw and ran the tip of Mkono-Djarat across his cheek, leaving a trail of blood behind. "You get the privilege of living and telling your story. Do you understand? Tell anyone and everyone you can find that every living soul in Corinth was killed and that the Arak Spire was pulled down so no stone was left on stone. And make sure you tell them who did it.
"Tell them that Rustiq Umbala is just getting started."