A cold chill spread through her body, like water from an underground stream meeting a creek. She whirled and stared down the street. Walking without escort was a lone man shrouded in black robes. The cowl of his cloak hid much of his face.
“Come, brother,” one of the elves said. “It is the one who protected them from our arrows.”
The other nodded, took up his sword, and charged. His brother was not far behind. Felewen joined them, for she too had watched as the black shield had knocked aside their arrows and then shattered their bows.
Aurelia did not move. Her eyes were frozen on this strange man. Power rolled off him. He was strong, and even more so, he was terrifying. She had no doubt of this man’s identity; he was the nameless necromancer, one of the few who could best Scoutmaster Dieredon in combat.
“Stop, you cannot defeat him,” she shouted. None listened. “Felewen, please!”
Felewen glanced back to her, and that small pause saved her life.
The man in black had made no threatening move as the other two charged. They were almost upon him when he cast aside his hood to reveal his ever-changing face, his deep red eyes, and his horrible smile. His hands lunged forward, the floodgates opened, and all his power came rushing forth. A wall of black magic rolled like a tidal wave conjured from his fingertips. The elven brothers tumbled through and vanished. Felewen leapt back when she saw the attack coming. She rolled behind a house and tucked her head.
The wave continued down the street, straight for Aurelia.
“I do not fear you,” she hissed through clenched teeth. A wall of water swirled about her, flowing from the otherwise dry dirt street. She sent it forward, just as tall and high as Velixar’s. The two met in a thunderous roar, intermixing in a maelstrom of darkness, water, and air. Then they both dissolved, their magic spent.
Aurelia held back tears. Velixar’s magic had peeled the flesh from the elves’ bodies. Blood leaked through muscle and tendon, and their innards spilled from their abdomens. She hoped they died instantly, but she knew better. They had suffered tremendously.
“You monster,” she shouted. “What meaning does this battle hold to you?”
“Everything,” Velixar shouted, hurling a flaming ball of fire from each hand. “I desire panic and bloodshed all across the east!”
Aurelia summoned a magical shield about her body. The fireballs thudded three feet from her body and detonated. The two nearest buildings crumpled, their walls and roofs blown back by the power. The elf winced, nearly knocked to her knees by the force.
“What madness gives you such a desire?” she asked, sending forth the strongest spells she knew. Several lances of ice flew down the street, followed by a ball of magma. The ball rolled behind the lances, covering the ground in flame. Velixar laughed.
A wave of his hand created a similar shield as Aurelia’s, but instead of keeping it close to his body, he shoved it forward. The lances shattered into shards when slammed against it. The ball of magma halted when touching the barrier and then reversed direction. The elf glared, detonating the attack with a thought. Molten rock covered the street, splattering across both Velixar’s and Aurelia’s shields before sliding to the dirt.
“How long can you keep this up?” the necromancer asked. He took out a bag of bones and scattered more than thirty pieces. “How long before you break?”
One by one, the bone pieces shot straight at Aurelia.
The elf dropped to one knee, words of magic streaming out her mouth as fast as she could speak them. Her magical shield could halt attacks of pure magical essence, such as the conjured fire, but animated objects were a different matter. The magic projecting them would die at her shield but the pieces would retain their momentum.
The dirt before her rumbled, cracked, and then ascended in a great physical wall. On the other side, pieces of bone thumped against it, one after another.
“Cute,” Velixar said, “but pointless.”
An invisible blast of pure force shattered the wall. Aurelia crossed her arms before her face as chunks of earth slammed into her slender form. She rolled with the blows, her mouth casting before she halted. Ice spread from house to house, walling Velixar off on the other side.
“From dirt to ice?” Velixar asked. “The end is just the same!”
The center of the wall exploded inward, but this time Aurelia was prepared. A rolling thunder of sound shoved all the broken shards forward, sending even the remaining chunks of the wall down the street in a chaotic assault. Velixar grinned. Clever girl.
The wave of sound and ice slammed his body. He flew backward, ice tearing his skin, but no blood came forth from those wounds. The larger pieces smashed his body from side to side, which turned limply with each blow. When the wave passed, Aurelia leaned on one knee, gasping for air as she stared at the man in black, now a crumpled mess of robes in the center of the street. The body suddenly convulsed, the chest heaving in quick, jerky spasms. When the sound reached her, Aurelia knew her doom. Velixar was laughing.
He stood, brushed off pieces of ice clinging to his robes, and then glared at her from afar.
“Not good enough,” he said.
Wild anger contorted his face. Black lightning thicker than a man’s arm tore down the street. Aurelia gasped as all her power flowed into her shield. The collision sent her flying, her magical barrier shattered into nothingness. The lightning continued, swirling about her body. Every nerve in her body shrieked with pain. She landed hard, unable to brace for the fall. The air blasted out of her lungs, and for one agonizing second they refused to draw in another breath. Slowly the black magic seeped out of her, the pain faded, and then she sucked the dusty air into her lungs.
“You are a powerful sorceress,” Velixar said, his anger gone as quickly as it had arrived. “But I have fought the founders of the Council of Mages. I have killed men who thought themselves gods. I have died but once, to Ashhur himself. There is no shame in your defeat.”
Aurelia struggled to her feet. The well of magic inside her was dry. In time, her strength would return, but she doubted the necromancer would give her a day to rest. She used a bit of the magic she did have left to summon her staff. If she were to die, she would die fighting any way she knew how.
The man in black paused, extended his hands, and began to cast. He would give her no chance to strike.
A blade stabbed his side. Velixar whirled, his speed far beyond any mortal. He stepped past Felewen’s slash and slammed a hand against her chest. Dark magic poured in. Her arms and legs arched backward, her sword fell from her hand, and her mouth opened in a single, aching shriek. Bits of darkness flared from her mouth, her eyes, and her nostrils.
Done, Velixar shoved her smoking body back into the alley and left her to die. When he turned, he snarled. Aurelia was gone.
“You have delayed me my kill,” he said to Felewen’s body. “Pray you are dead before I return.”
He placed his hood back over his head, pulled it down to cover his features, and then began his search for the sorceress.
15
One after another the deft strokes came in, and one after another Antonil batted them away using the methodical style that had helped him rise to his place at the top of the Neldaren army. His opponent, a young elf whose swordplay was raw compared to most of his brethren, tried to give him no reprieve. The guard captain didn’t falter in the slightest.
“You sacrifice planning and thought for sheer speed and reflexes,” he said, his breathing steady and practiced. He assumed the elf spoke the human tongue, and the sudden killing lunge proved him correct.
Antonil pulled his head back, the point stopping just shy of drawing blood. An upward cut took the blade from the elf’s hand. Antonil’s sword looped around, thrust forward, and buried deep inside flesh. The elf fell, gasping for air from the fatal wound. Blood pooled below him. Antonil pulled his sword free and saluted him with the blade.
“Well fought,” he said. An arrow clanged against his sword and ricocheted off.
“A warning for your honor,” said a camouflaged elf as he stepped out from behind a door. A second arrow followed the first, thudding against Antonil’s shield. “A second out of respect.” He drew a third. The guard captain charged, his shield leading. While his upper body was covered, nothing stopped the arrow from flying underneath and piercing through the metal greaves protecting his shins. Antonil stumbled, pain flaring up his right leg. He forced himself to continue running. If he could close the gap, the bow would prove no match for his longsword.
Another arrow struck an inch from his left foot. His leg was aflame, yet he continued to charge, pulling back his shield so his sword could lash out. But the elf was not close enough, and he was more skilled with a bow than in just firing arrows. He snapped the wood up, cracking Antonil across the bottom of his hand, which held firm to his blade.
Undaunted, the elf stepped closer, ducked underneath the guard captain’s return swing, and then kicked at the arrow still lodged in his shin, finally making Antonil drop his blade.
The elf stood, drawing an arrow as he did. Antonil, now lying on the ground, struggled to bring his shield over his chest. Part of it caught beneath his side and would not come. He would not be able to block in time.
A loud wooden crash stole away the elf’s focus. The door to the home behind him exploded into splinters as a huge projectile shot through it. The elf spun, his eyes widening as he saw what had shattered the door: a massacred elven body. He readied his bow and released an arrow at the next sign of movement.
Unfortunately, it was another elven body, curiously missing its left arm and leg. An enormous half-orc in black armor followed, soaked in blood and roaring in mindless fury. He spotted Antonil’s attacker, screamed an incomprehensible challenge, and then charged. The elf fired another arrow but was horrified to see it sail high. Behind him, Antonil delivered another kick, this time aiming for the elf’s knee instead of his bow.
The elf had to dodge the kick, and that dodge was all it took. The half-orc swung his glowing black blades, cutting his bow, and his body, in twain. As the blood poured free, he roared, looked about, and then ran off toward the sound of combat. A frail form in rags followed from inside the house, a mirror image in looks but for the paler skin and lack of muscle.
“You saw nothing,” this second half-orc said to him before following the warrior.
Antonil struggled to his feet, shaking his head all the while.
“It keeps getting stranger,” he muttered. He took a step and immediately regretted it. As his leg throbbed, he yanked the arrow out. His armor had kept it from penetrating too deeply, the barbs unable to latch onto any soft flesh. Of course it still hurt like the abyss, but he could deal with that. What he could not deal with, however, was how few in number his soldiers had become. More than four of his own men lay dead around him, joined by three dead elves, five if he counted the two the half-orc had thrown through the doorway. A good ratio considering the skill of the elves, but not good enough. Men he had trained were dying, and for what?
“I have honored your will, my lord,” he said. “But it is time I honor my men.”
From his belt, he took a white horn bearing the symbol of Neldar. He put this ancient horn to his lips and blew. All throughout Woodhaven rumbled the signal to retreat. He gave the signal two more times before clipping the horn back to his belt and hobbling north.