"Oh, our goals align, do they?" Tuera repeated, eyes fixed on the ghost towering over them. "That seems entirely too convenient, colonizer." She practically spat out the word. "How could you possibly know what our goals could be?"
Tuera could hear grips against weapons tighten and several boots slide against the sandy stones in anticipation of imminent violence; she sharply gestured with the hand holding the dagger at her companions to stay behind her. She didn't know exactly what sort of ghost this was, and it's possible a blade untreated by magic would simply pass through... but no sense dropping her guard. Best to play it cautiously for the moment.
The ghost of The Archivist stood still in the doorframe, silently scanning the room. His cape fluttered soundlessly behind him, despite the lack of wind.
"If you have made it this far into The Capital, humans..." The word was dripping with vitriol, much like Tuera's earlier bark of disgust. "...then you can only be here for one purpose: to seek a way to remove the Bonding Bracelets, and break the curse confining your kind within the ghost fence." He swept his gaze back and forth, staring at each of the assembled mercenaries in front of him in turn, before eventually returning to scrutinize Tuera. "Am I wrong?"
The room fell silent. The Archivist made a grand, beckoning gesture with a large hand, and turned on his heel.
"Come," the ghost bellowed, his commanding tone echoing around the throne room. "There is only one chance of success to break the curse, and a slim one at that... but there is a chance. Follow me, humans. I shall lead you to the Map Room in the heart of my sanctum, and explain what you must do."
As soon as The Archivist started to walk away, Tuera's eyes darted to the side, briefly glancing over her shoulder; Monty was still completely silent. His absence, despite his physical presence still strapped to her back, was absolutely infuriating.
The group followed this ghost for some time in relative silence. As the shimmering, mostly transparent form of The Archivist led them deeper and deeper into the palace, torch sconces set in the pillars burst into blue flame, bathing their number in an eerie, unsettling light. The piles of snakes, slithering inside the channels running along the edge of the floor, scattered instantly at their approach, hissing and spitting and vanishing into unseen cracks when they were exposed to this supernatural illumination.
"I do not like this," Obsun whispered to Tuera, sidling up beside her with his axe resting on his shoulder. "Something... smells wrong..." She nodded in agreement, though she also did her best to stifle a laugh. Apparently, he meant that literally, as she could easily hear him loudly sniffing the air.
"Oh, I agree. However, I suspected something like this would happen," Tuera whispered back. Obsun raised one of his bushy eyebrows, and she shrugged. "These sorts of adventures are rarely easy, and never pleasant. And, my curiosity is currently outweighing my sense of caution. For the moment, I want to see where this leads."
Suddenly, The Archivist came to a stop. They had reached the end of this particular hallway, standing before a set of large double doors that had been wedged open just wide enough for a human to squeeze through. The doors and pillars flanking them were decorated in intricate metal reliefs and pictograms, mostly obscured by cobwebs. The most striking feature, however... was what appeared to be a large pile of rubble blocking the entrance. There were no torches here, leaving the indistinct mass cast in shadow, backlit by the crack in the door.
"Apep," The Archivist said, apparently addressing the rubble. "Leave us. I have need of the Map Room."
A single, massive eye – bright yellow, and with a hastily contracting slit for a pupil – cracked open and stared directly at Tuera from within the darkness.
"Hell's teeth!" Jamila hissed out, backing up with her saber drawn. The rough shape shrouded in darkness suddenly uncoiled itself, and the colossal form of a truly titanic snake slithered into the light. Every movement of this giant beast, pliant scales sliding across cold stone, shook the very earth with its immense bulk. The snake paused briefly to gaze at the group of mercenaries, yellow eyes gleaming with malice and hunger out of a triangular head easily bigger than a horse. Its forked tongue darted in and out of its mouth several times, snapping in the air like a whip, before the monstrous creature finally turned and slithered away.
Everyone couldn't help but stare in stunned silence at the giant snake as it passed. Even Tuera watched it disappear around a pillar, presumably into an even deeper spot in the palace, with her mouth agape. At least, until she caught herself. She had certainly seen bigger giant snakes in the past, but... she just hadn't been expecting to see one now.
"Do not fear my pet," the ghost of The Archivist said, waving one his large hands dismissively. "His will is bound to my own. So long as I wish it, you are safe within these halls." He turned on his heel, and passed through the door. Quite literally: he was too wide to fit through the crack, but he phased through the solid object, leaving several small curls of blue gas in his wake and a thin coat of shimmering slime on the doors.
One by one, the group passed through the opening, down the ramp, and inside. The Map Room was a vast circular space, with shelves of scrolls and manuscripts lining the walls. In the center of the ceiling was a hole, producing a prominent shaft of light illuminating every speck of dust and errant droplet of rain falling down inside it. And in the very center of the room, directly beneath the portal in the ceiling, was an incredibly detailed scale model (easily 20 feet in diameter) of some very familiar looking terrain. Tuera instantly homed in on the walls of the city, the winding river and a tiny pair of statues barely two inches tall, clearly a representation the twin colossi she'd encountered on her first day. This was obviously the Exiled Lands... and yet, she couldn't help but notice something incredibly strange:
There was far too much green on this map.
As Tuera began committing every detail she could to memory, Ioanna spoke up:
"Wait..." she said, cautiously making her way to the edge of the map to get a closer look. "Is this... this is the Exiled Lands, isn't it?" she asked, stating the obvious. The Archivist nodded, and Ioanna held a hand to her mouth, muttering under her breath: "Oh, Mitra, we'll never get out of here..."
"You are correct, Bonded One," the ghost bellowed. "Before you is the extent of my people's domain, at the very apex of our power, just before the fall. All that you see before you lies within the ghost fence. In ages past, this was the most fertile land in our Empire, until..." The Archivist paused, shaking his head. "But I get ahead of myself." The Archivist looked up, staring directly at Tuera and locking her with an icy cold gaze. "If you are to break the curse of the Bonding Bracelets, then you must assemble the items of power that were present at the enchantment's creation, all those aeons ago."
"So, it's a treasure hunt," Shevatas grunted out with a shrug. "Seems simple enough..."
"The Diadem of the Giant-Kings," The Archivist continued, ignoring Shevatas and waving a hand over the map; a veil of shimmering mist coalesced in the sunbeam, drawing together into the shape of a jagged crown, with spikes sticking out of the top the size and shape of long fingerbones. "Worn upon the brow of my brother on the Triumvirate, The Priestking. In the waning days of the war, he went into the northern battlefields to meet his son, Tyros the Deathbringer... and did not return." The Archivist pointed down at the map, and a bright beacon of light illuminated a spot due north of the Capital, just before the green hills gave way to jagged white mountains. "He was the most passionate and volatile among us. Though he fell in battle, I fear his downfall will not have been a simple matter."
"The Mask of the Witch Queen," The Archivist waved his hand again, and the image of the diadem shifted, turning into the top half of a face that would've almost looked human, were it not for the two large tusks and the crown of spikes ringing the top. "The Witch Queen of Lemuria was our great enemy, in the dying days of our race. Her people initially came to us as refugees, but even as they took our succor, they plotted our downfall. She was present at the creation of the bracelets, lending her power to ours, and-"
"Why?" Tuera asked suddenly, and The Archivist paused, genuinely taken aback.
"What?"
"If she was your enemy, why was she present at ritual?" Something doesn't add up, she did not say aloud. She could feel the two pinpricks of light that were his ghostly eyes boring into her skull.
"Because the original purpose of the Bonding Bracelets was a different sort of binding, human. It was meant as a means to bind our races through communication. When your kind first arrived after the world was shattered, they could not speak our language. This was the method I devised, with the aid of the Witch Queen, to correct that problem. Further, the ghost fence itself was not originally a 'fence' at all, but a means of amplifying the magic of the spell, tapping into the leylines snaking through our lands. And for a thousand years, there was peace and trade among our peoples. It was only later, once the first blow of war was struck against us, that I was forced to alter the spell, to bind the prisoners of war to do our bidding, and prevent your kind from escaping to join the enemy." He sighed heavily and hung his head. "But... that was an aeon ago..."
"Hmm..." Tuera muttered softly under her breath. He was lying – or, at the very least, not telling them the whole truth. But calling attention to that right now would gain her nothing. So she remained silent, and let him continue.
"The ultimate fate of the Witch Queen is unknown to me," The Archivist continued. "However, she always ruled from Xel-ha, her city in the swamplands to the east." He pointed at the map, and, as before, a shimmering beacon of light appeared above a collection of gray stone-like structures, surrounded by the sickly blue-green color of marshes.
"The Tears of Two Races." The hovering image above the map shifted again, and became little more than a simple teardrop. "When we performed the ritual, these were simple to obtain. We simply took our tears, and combined them with those of the humans. But who is left to weep for both races? After the death of The Warmaker, there is now only one..." He pointed at the map, and another beacon lit up, some ways east of the first, at a point above the snow line, almost exactly halfway between the Capital and... what could only be described as the caldera of an immense volcano. "Tyros, the Deathbringer. The half-blood child of The Priestking and... a human slave. I never inquired if his birth was natural, or aided by sorcery. However, he was born of both races, our blood mingled with that of your kind. Perhaps his tears could be enough to fulfill the requirement. Although... obtaining them would be quite the feat."
"So..." Samar muttered, scratching his beard thoughtfully as he spoke. "Is this... literal? We need to find him, and get him to cry?"
"The Star of the Champion, a gem of unsurpassed beauty." It wasn't clear if The Archivist was ignoring Samar, or if he merely didn't hear him. The hovering image morphed into a vaguely triangular gemstone, while a beacon on the map lit up, and Tuera couldn't help but double take: she saw a spot that was quite clearly the halfway exploded mountain of The Summoning Place, and the beacon on the map was coming out of a pit directly north of that. "The Star was originally awarded to Tyros, when he became Champion, and I remember well the day he left it behind. In his final battle, he was to fight The Warmaker's pet, a magnificent dragon of enormous stature and strength. Tyros defeated the beast, but in his victory, he saw the death of something noble and wept. He pinned the Star to the corpse of the creature, and the mighty beast was buried right there, beneath the sands of the Arena."
"Maybe that's how we get him to cry?" Jamila said, attempting to nudge Jakkad in the ribs. The one-eyed Stygian merely grumbled in annoyance, waving her off with a harsh "Shh!" before refolding his arms across his chest. Like Tuera, he was carefully studying the map as The Archivist spoke.
"The Heart of the Sands is the next artefact of power you must find," he continued, waving his giant hand again. The image above the map shifted into another gemstone, but a slightly different shape... which then proceeded to break into three pieces. "The Priestking used it in many rituals in ages past, and eventually used its power to create a weapon... The Sandstorm."
"Wait, what?" Shevatas spoke up suddenly, with a surprised expression on his face. "You mean... The Sandstorm... it truly is magic?" The Archivist nodded.
"You had doubts that it was?" Tuera asked incredulously.
"Yes, The Sandstorm is magic," The Archivist said simply, ignoring Tuera. "By the end of the war, when it was clear we could not win by conventional means, The Priestking came to the Warkmaker with a plan: a powerful magic to scour the landscape, and drive the humans from our lands. He swore it would be our salvation, giving it to The Warmaker to unleash upon our enemies, where it was taken to a temple in the east, near the border of the Witch Queen's swamps." He pointed down at the map, and a spot on the map lit up, almost due east of the twin statues on the banks of the river. "He unleashed the magic that created The Sandstorm, and lost control of it, the fool. With that one desperate act to try and save ourselves, we were condemned to a slow, dwindling doom, and the heart of our domain – the most fertile lands of our Empire – was reduced to this blasted hellscape you now know." The Archivist let out a heavy sigh, and shook his head. "As far as I am aware, The Heart was destroyed in the ritual. But perhaps the pieces still remain in the temple."
The Archivist waved his hands, and the image in the mist shifted into a third gemstone... but this was entirely different. Even though the image was little more than a crude representation, it was clear that something was not entirely right. The longer one gazed upon it, the more it became apparent that the angles of the stones edges did not quite match up with one another the way they looked like they were supposed to. The gemstone was sitting in the middle of an ornate alien box, decorated on the outside with tentacles and eyes and... teeth. Even this false image was giving those assembled who tried to look at it a mild headache, forcing them to look away... except for Tuera.
"The Shining Trapezohedron," The Archivist said, in a surprisingly hushed tone. "Even I do not know its true origin. Like my kind, it is not of this world. It was treasured and placed in its curious box by the crinoid things of the frozen wastes, beyond the southern oceans, in an effort to contain its terrible energy. It is an artefact of immense power, a window into all of space and time... but just as one gazes into the depths of the Outer Dark, so too do the powers beyond gaze back." He pointed at the map, and this time, the shining beacon lit up in the snowy mountains in the north... right in the middle of the volcano's caldera. "In the final days of the war, it was locked away, buried out of reach, and out of sight. Hidden inside the ruins within The Volcano."
The Archivist waved his hand again. The image above the map vanished, and was not replaced with another.
"So..." Jamila spoke up curiously, after a moment of silence. "Is that it? Are there any more?"
"There is one more... but you will not recover it, so long as you are trapped in this Empire. It has passed beyond our borders, and beyond my sight: The Serpent Ring of Set." The Archivist sighed again. "For many centuries, The Warmaker stood vigil within The Capital. The last living member of my kind, alone in the dark. And then, one day, a human entered our city. I do not know what went through the mind of The Warmaker in that initial meeting, but... I suspect loneliness had gotten the better of him. Perhaps he simply longed for conversation, after centuries alone. He taught this man our speech, gave him the words and signs of power... and spoke of our most treasured artefact, buried in a tomb, far below this very city. This man then passed through every ward and trap we had put in place, and stole the Serpent Ring for himself."
"But it was not enough," The Archivist continued, with surprising venom in his voice. "No, it was not enough to desecrate our tombs and steal both our property and our secrets. Once the Serpent Ring was in his possession, this man returned to The Warmaker... and he rewarded the kindness shown to him with treachery." The Archivist jabbed a bony, ghostly finger at Tuera. "This... man... who called himself Thoth-Amon, slid that dagger into the neck of my brother, and left him to rot in the throne room, where you found him. With his dying breath, so too did the last of my people die out. Soon after, your kind returned to these lands, bound by the enchantment of the curse wall and disturbing the dead. If you wonder why you all wear the bracelets, wonder no more."
Nearly everyone assembled looked down at their bracelets curiously. All except Tuera, who merely continued to scrutinize The Archivist as he spoke. After all, that was a feasible explanation for how everyone else got here... but it still didn't explain how she got stuck here...
"This is why I fear I have set you on an impossible task, humans," The Archivist continued, his anger melting away into exhaustion. "Without the Serpent Ring, the ritual may not work. But... I do not know for certain. Perhaps... perhaps it will be enough."
"So what do we do with these artefacts, once we recover all that we can find?" Tuera asked. "I assume it's not enough to merely keep them in the same room, yes?"
"Correct," The Archivist nodded. "Once you have recovered the artefacts, you must deposit them upon the Altar of Chaosmouth, north of here." He pointed to a spot on the map, at what looked to be some manner of wall built into a cliff, near an aqueduct, and it lit up with the same green glow as the gemstones. "Place the artefacts of power within the receptacle, and once the vessel is filled, it will create the Keystone. All one need do then is touch the Keystone with one of the Bonding Bracelets, and the entire enchantment shall be unwoven."
"Seems simple enough..." Hunter Ophelia grunted out softly, nodding their masked head.
"You say that now," The Archivist retorted back, with a dismissive snort. "But you are not the first to reach this Map Room. I doubt you will be the last. There was another group of humans who found their way here, not so long ago..." The Archivist turned his gaze back to Tuera, and his eyes gleamed. "Curiously enough, they were also led by a woman. However, her bearing was far more regal than yours, and she vowed to break the curse with a conviction I have not seen from your kind in centuries." He waved his hand, and another image appeared in the mist. It was the face of a human woman, with long hair falling down the right side of her face; on the left, her hair was collected in a pair of braids that wound behind her head, held in place by metal clasps. A prominent scar could be seen on her left cheek: a diagonal slash resting on her cheekbone.
Tuera did not recognize the face, but could take an educated guess as to who this was based on her earlier conversation with Jakkad. She looked over to him, and saw that he was staring up at this image, his one good eye wide open and his mouth agape.
"Razma..." he breathed out, taking an involuntary step forward, his eye never leaving the image. "She's... she's alive?"
"She was..." The Archivist said, waving his hand; the image in the mist vanished, dissolving in the wind. "But that was many moons ago. If you are here, seeking a way to break the curse, then she must have failed. Otherwise, we would all be free, and would not be speaking." The Archivist chuckled darkly. "No doubt, another group of humans will arrive later on this same quest, inquiring as to your whereabouts..."
The room fell silent for several moments. And then:
"Why are you helping us?" Tuera spoke up, eyes narrowed at The Archivist in suspicion. "Call it a hunch, but I don't think you've given us this information, dumping all this exposition on our heads, simply out of the kindness of your heart, colonizer. What's your angle here? What are you getting out of this?"
The Archivist started to softly chuckle.
"How perceptive of you, human," the ghost replied, mimicking the tone of her subtle insult with a snarl. "You are, indeed, correct. I have my own reasons for giving you aid."
"Let me guess: revenge?" Tuera asked with an almost bored look on her face. "You want to help us escape to stick it to the man who murdered your brother. Am I close?"
"Do not be ridiculous," The Archivist scoffed dismissively. "The Warmaker sealed his own fate when he failed to learn from my mistakes with his misplaced trust. You think I wish to 'avenge' the death of that fool who already paid for his idiocy out of... what? Spite? No, that would be pointless." Tuera furrowed her brow, one of his words sticking in her mind.
"Wait, your mistakes?" she asked. The ghost nodded.
"Near the end of the war, I was summoned to a place called the Circle of Swords. By then, even I knew my people were going to lose, and I was contacted by the Witch Queen. She offered to discuss the terms of our surrender, while calling it... 'peace.' The Circle of Swords was a holy site – neutral ground – with enchantments meant to prevent violence. So I went to meet her in good faith, in the hopes of finding a way to avoid the genocide of my people. But it was a trap. They sabotaged the magic with their strange sciences, and cut me down before I could flee. For my error in judgment, my bones were left to rot, scraped clean by the desolate winds... but, as you can see, death was not the end."
"When I cast the enchantment creating the bracelets and the curse wall, all those centuries ago, there was a..." he paused briefly, screwing up his transparent face, before he continued. "... a side effect that I did not intend. It would seem my spirit is inextricably linked to the Bonding Bracelets. I am just as much a prisoner in this wretched place as all of you. When I was murdered, my spirit remained tethered to this world, and I was anchored here for many years. But when the last of our slaves shackled by the bracelets eventually died, I was finally released. My spirit was allowed to pass on, plunging into the darkness of sweet oblivion. However, I was unexpectedly ripped from my slumber by Thoth-Amon's treachery. So here I am. And here have I remained, imprisoned halfway between the land of the living and the dead."
"I do not care for your fate, humans," The Archivist snarled. "You will almost certainly fail. You will probably die. More of your kind will come eventually, after your failure. And I will send any and all who make it this far on this impossible quest as well, in the vain hope that one of you eventually succeeds. I care not. All I wish is to return to my eternal rest. To once again drink the heady, intoxicating ambrosia of oblivion."
Most of the assembled group started giving each other questioning, worried looks. Tuera, on the other hand, merely laughed softly to herself and stepped forward.
"Well, at least you're honest about this much," she said, her red eyes twinkling. "Perhaps that means you can be honest about something else I had on my mind." The Archivist tilted his head to the side, clearly confused.
"I've already told you all that you require, human. There is nothing else of relevance I can impart to aid in your quest, nor anything else you need to know." he said, with obvious disdain. But Tuera was not dissuaded.
"And that is where you're wrong, colonizer," she said, holding up her left arm and pointing to the gemstone in the bracelet. "The anti-magic woven into the enchantment of these bracelets, preventing me from casting any of my spells: what is it, specifically? Is it a general-purpose, local anti-magic field, or is it more specialized? Are there any exceptions written into the code that allow it to be bypassed? If I know what it is, I'll know how to work around it, and that will make my victory all the more certain... allowing you to return to the oblivion you desire."
The ghost of The Archivist stared at her in confusion, very clearly taken aback.
"How is this possible?" the ghost muttered softly, the gaze of his glowing eyes never leaving Tuera. "A mortal with knowledge of nullification sorcery? Even the heretical daemon-sorcerers of the Witch Queen, the most learned of your kind in aeons past, had no knowledge of such things..."
It was at that specific moment Tuera finally ran out of patience. She raised her left hand high above her head, and snapped her fingers. The sound echoed throughout the cavernous map room... and her companions were left confused. After all, from their perspective, nothing happened. But for The Archivist – his spirit bound to the magic of the bracelets, and able to see what others could not – it was a completely different story.
In the space between worlds, Tuera appeared for The Archivist as if she was alight with a raging inferno, burning brighter and more furious than the sun. It was like staring directly into the maw of a ravenous, murderous beast, frothing at the mouth as it desperately tried to claw its way out of the abyss. Her soul exuded an unfathomable pressure in a raging, torrential flood of indescribable violence. Battering on the walls of reality with an unrelenting force greater than a hurricane, craving any excuse to be unleashed, searching for any crack in the barrier to release the deluge. He had never before been witness to a spell of such raw fury, such anger, such rage, only barely kept in check by the thin membranes between dimensions and compressed by the nullification magic of the bracelet.
The ghost of The Archivist stood there in shock for several moments. This... woman... no, she was no mere mortal. She was not a lowly human. This was a creature who had killed gods before.
"What... are you?" the ghost asked as he stared, wide-eyed at Tuera, paralyzed in abject terror.
Tuera smiled wickedly, her sharpened canines glinting in the light.
"Well, I suppose this excursion wasn't a total loss..." Tuera said as the group made their way to the fog wall at the entrance of the palace.
"Wait... loss?" Ioanna seemed confused. "But... we learned what we need to do to escape, didn't we? Wasn't... I mean, wasn't that the whole reason we came here?" Tuera shrugged.
"True enough, we did. But I was talking about this," she scoffed, pointing at her bracelet. "According to that bloody ghost, the only explicit exceptions written in this damn thing are for Divine Magic, and that's completely useless to me!" she sighed. "Still, even though I figured that much out on my own, it's always useful to confirm the truth."
"So, what now?" Shevatas asked, as the group began to walk into the fog wall. "Back to Sepermeru to plan our next move?"
"Yes, and it would seem we're going to be here for far longer than I was hoping," Tuera said with obvious annoyance in her voice. She started straining her eyes to try and see through the thick fog, to no avail. "But, like the old saying goes, hope for the best, prepare for the worst. I anticipated an eventuality like this, and arranged for more permanent lodgings than our rooms in that caravanserai before we left. Assuming, of course, that all of you still wish to -"
Tuera didn't get the chance to finish her thought. At that moment, she stepped through the fog wall and was face to face with a pair of burning orange eyes, staring at her from within darkened, bony eye sockets. The skeletal beast roared, baring a mouth full of razor sharp fangs.
"AMBUSH!" she yelled without a second's hesitation. Her sword was out of its sling and in her hand in a flash, slashing through the air on instinct alone. The blade cleaved through the bones of a neck far too long and slender to belong to a human, and the bulbous head toppled one way as the brutish form of the skeletal beast fell in pieces to the other.
She only needed a fraction of a second to take stock of her surroundings. The stone landing just outside the fog wall was occupied by several of these skeletal monsters, most of whom were milling about in the falling rain. These were clearly the same ones she'd seen off in the distance before, fighting with the human skeletons right before the wights descended upon them both. Now that she was close enough, she was able to notice all kinds of details she hadn't been able to see from a distance, such as their almost comically oversized forearm bones, along with a tail and legs strangely reminiscent of a Deinonychus or a Utahraptor. Their eyes burned with that same orange glow as the first one, implying that the magic of these undead was somehow different than the other human skeletons, the wights, or even the ghost of The Archivist.
These creatures definitely reminded her of something... lizardmen, perhaps? Definitely some manner of humanoid reptile, like a saurian, or a... And then, she remembered. It was just a phrase, one of those Arcos had said when she first arrived, and it was as if a crucial puzzle piece had smacked her square in the face:
Valusian Serpent-Men.
She didn't have time to ponder this revelation. The instant passed, and the gathered skeletons turned to face her, each of them moving to attack with a roar. All of them drew weapons: some were armed with short swords and round shields, others armed with over-sized cleavers the length of two-handed greatswords.
She rushed the closest one, shoulder checking it right in the sternum; there was a crack of bone, and the monster was violently thrown backward from the impact, flying off the edge of the landing. She caught the greatsword in the air before it followed the beast over the edge: the rusted, cleaver-like blade was easily as long as she was tall, but she handled the comically unbalanced blade with ease. She took a broad swing with the huge weapon, smashing through two more skeletons in one swipe, practically turning them to dust from the impact. Tuera glanced down, over the edge of the landing, as most of the remaining undead tried to converge on her position and surround her; she saw dozens upon dozens more of these Serpent-Men skeletons charging their way up the stairs, no doubt drawn by the noise. Positioned as she was, it was certain that she would face the brunt of their assault, but there were so many of these undead coming to join the fight, it was physically impossible to deal with all of them herself.
On the plus side, while these undead Serpent-Men might have been bigger (the shortest was easily several feet taller than Tuera), bulkier, and generally more intimidating than a human skeleton, they were still reanimated skeletons, and shared the same weakness:
"Go for the joints!" Tuera yelled, sweeping her sword low and breaking both kneecaps of the closest skeleton with a sharp crack.
By now, the rest of the group had passed through the fog wall, and had their weapons drawn. The first to strike was Samar: grabbing hold of the curved sword on his hip, he rushed forward in a flash of whistling steel, as if carried forward on the wind. In a single, calculated strike, three of the skeletons found themselves cut in half horizontally at the spine. He returned the blade to its sheath with an audible click, and his foes collapsed into a loud pile of clattering bones.
Next into the melee was Jamila. One of the skeletons rushed her with a blade held over its head, brandishing the sword like a cudgel. She used her saber to parry the strike with a clatter of steel, and then: CRACK! She belted the skeleton across the snout with a solid left hook of her bandaged fist, following up with a heavy kick right in the shield before it could rally. The skeleton was sent tumbling off the edge, smashing into pieces on impact.
One of the skeletons charged at Jakkad, who deftly sidestepped the swipe. In response, he thrust his khopesh forward and slid it underneath the round shield on its arm, hooking the inside curve of the blade against the shield edge. With a hard yank and the sound of snapping bone, the shield (and most of the Serpent-Man's arm) fell away, leaving the skeleton wide open.
"Obsun!" Jakkad yelled, getting further out of the way. With a bellowing battle cry, the heavily muscled barbarian charged with his axe held over his head, and brought it down with all his strength. The axe head smashed into the skull, practically turning it to dust from the blow, and breaking its long neck and most of the rib cage on its way down.
Several small explosions erupted in a series of bright flashes, loud pops, and a gout of harsh smoke against another one of the skeletons. Hunter Ophelia had thrown a handful of snapdragons to knock the closest undead beast off balance, and while it was momentarily stunned by the small fireworks, Shevatas came forward and drew the sword hanging off his waist. Shevatas struck from one side, and Hunter Ophelia attacked from the other, a pair of curved daggers in each of their hands; the two of them aimed for the joints, and after a brief but concentrated attack, the skeleton quickly fell apart.
Even Ioanna managed to join in the fight. One of the skeletons turned on her, snarling loudly with sword in hand; Ioanna stood her ground near the fog wall, holding her spear at the ready with white-knuckle intensity. It reared back with the sword, and its eyes glowed with a menacing orange fire. With a shriek of a warcry, she thrust the spear forward with all her strength, directly into the beasts eye socket. The magical flame shattered like glass beneath the steel speartip, and the whole skeleton shuddered violently as the magic holding it together evaporated, and it broke apart completely.
The melee continued for several moments, and by the time the first wave of undead had been exhausted, so were they. Rain continued to pelt the platform in heavy droplets, and a crack of thunder boomed loudly overhead. Piles of broken bones littered every corner of the stone platform, lying in scummy pools of rainwater mixed with grime and bone dust.
"Is everyone alright?" Shevatas asked, trying his best to disguise just how out of breath he was.
"For the moment, it would seem," Obsun replied with a tired grunt, letting his axe hang loosely at his side.
"Not for much longer," Tuera said from her spot at the top of the stairs, surrounded by piles and piles of broken bones. "More are already on the way. A lot more." She casually tossed the rusted and oversized greatsword in her hand off the edge, and turned to look at Jakkad. "We won't survive another assault like that if we stick around here." Jakkad nodded sharply, understanding her intent immediately.
"The wall," he said, picking up one of the discarded round shields littering the ground and handing it to Ioanna; she accepted it with a soft surprised yelp. "They won't follow us beyond the walls of the city."
"Mad dash for the exit, eh?" Jamila said with a grim chuckle. "Not the worst plan I've ever heard..."
"They're almost here..." Tuera said, gripping her sword tightly and looking over the edge with a touch of urgency in her voice.
"Follow me!" Jakkad shouted, immediately breaking into a run and leading them down a path off the platform, away from the stairs. By the time the next wave of Serpent-Men arrived, Tuera and her companions were long gone.
Their exit from the city was far more hectic and nerve racking than their entrance. As they frantically ran through the ruins of the city, they could hear the rattling, clattering sounds of uncounted undead monsters closing in all around them, getting louder and louder with every minute. While Jakkad was leading the group from the front, Tuera was acting as a sort of impromptu rear-guard, swiftly dealing with any skeletons getting too close. Thankfully, they still hadn't run into any wights yet (she didn't know if her sword would even affect them...) but they had come perilously close to some of the armored human skeletons, and they seemed to be giving chase now, too.
"How much further?!" Jamila shouted, trying to be heard over the thunderous clatter of bones against rock, the dull thudding of rain, and the sound of warhorns bellowing off in the distance. As they rounded the corner, however, Tuera's sharp ears noticed something: almost immediately after the horns were blown, the sound of skeletal footsteps started to... get farther away?
"We're nearly there!" Jakkad shouted back, leading them into a vast space underneath a massive stone walkway, easily a hundred feet high, and held in place by columns. "Just keep going a bit more, and-"
THUD.
Jakkad came skidding to a halt, holding out his arms to try and stop everyone else. A huge scaly foot, ending in four massive black talons, appeared out of thin air, a great distance ahead of them out of the darkness. A deep, guttural growl sent shock waves through the rock, and caused cascades of sand and rock to fall from the walkway overhead. A pair of orange eyes emerged, burning with malice and hunger, attached to a truly titanic reptilian snout, framed by a pair of equally massive black horns covered in dangerous looking barbs. The wide, grinning mouth of this beast was hanging open to display a maw full of razor-sharp teeth, each ivory spike easily as big as a man.
"DRAGON!" Jakkad yelled, his shout practically a whisper compared to the bellowing roar of this gargantuan beast. For a single, agonizing moment, it looked like they were doomed, with nowhere to go, as the gigantic reptile walking on all fours with the gait of a monitor lizard started to slowly advance on them, each footfall shaking the earth. Several of their number, like Obsun, pulled out their weapons, preparing to square off against this ancient monster in a hopeless last stand...
But at the back of the group, Tuera reached into one of the leather satchels hanging off her hip. She grabbed a small glass phial, and pulled her arm far back behind her head.
"GET DOWN!" Tuera shouted, drawing everyone's attention. She threw the glass ball, sending it flying over everyone's head on an arrow-straight trajectory, right at the dragon's open maw; as it passed overhead, Ioanna caught a glint of a very familiar bright green color inside the glass, and her blood went as cold as ice.
Ironic, considering what happened next.
There was an overwhelming, blinding flash of green light that erupted as the glass broke against the dragon's snout. A shock wave and a tremendous blast of heat hit half a second after detonation, knocking over almost everyone, sending them crashing to the ground. Green flames blossomed in every direction, arcs of lightning exploded outwards from the point of impact, and comets of super heated plasma corkscrewed through the air leaving dirty clouds of ash and sparks in their wake. The dragon reared back on its hind legs, bellowing and roaring in agony, desperately shaking its massive head to try and throw off the flames, but the magical green fire was clinging directly to the scales, and refused to let go.
The dragon thrashed and howled in pain, clawing at its face to try and put out the flames (and only making it that much worse) It threw its body onto the stone below and against the pillars surrounding it in a blind fury, sending shock wave after shock wave through the rock, all while the magical green flame just kept burning brighter and hotter, stubbornly refusing to be put out. While the beast was so occupied, Tuera helped everyone get back on their feet, and they all managed to slip away unnoticed and escape.
By the time the group finally returned to camp, the rain had stopped... or, perhaps, it had only been raining within the city walls, as the horses seemed relatively dry and unbothered. As expected, they had not been pursued by any of the skeletons beyond the walls, and the general atmosphere was calm and quiet, mercifully free of the constant rattling of bones. The adrenaline of their hectic escape had evaporated, and most of them were using the welcome respite to get off their feet and catch their collective breath.
The only one not tired or out of breath was, of course, Tuera. She stood at the edge of the camp, hand resting on the hilt of her sword, surveying the assembled group. The events of this excursion were swimming about in her mind, and she was using this moment of peace to compile everything she'd learned, to plan her next move...
"Well, that wasn't such a chore, now, was it?" Monty spoke up unexpectedly, breaking the silence. Everyone turned to look at the snake staff strapped to Tuera's back; most of them had forgotten he was even there. Tuera's gaze snapped to him immediately, a look of fury in her red eyes.
"YOU!" she shouted with indignation. "And just where in the hell have you been?!"