Shadows seemed to coalesce around the dim figure. Even in the crowded port city, the people gave the man a wide berth. Power seemed to emanate from the stranger in waves. He was dressed in ornate black body armor, all steel plates and spikes that jutted menacingly from the shoulders. A bone-white kris dagger hung openly from a leather belt. The sinister curved blade seemed to glow, illuminating the man's pale face and white-blond hair. Darkness followed in his wake, leaving the bright lights of Lut Gholein noticeably dimmer as he passed.
So it seemed to Chantelle as the necromancer walked to the appointed meeting place, a large tavern called the Oasis. The Oasis was remarkably clean for an alehouse. The food was not as greasy, and the drinks seemed more exotic and refreshing. For this, the owner charged exorbitant prices, well above the adventurers' price range. It was why the two were sitting gloomily in a corner, hungry and thirsty, vainly trying to ignore dirty glances from the barkeep. "Finally," the barbarian grouched as the other man made his way to their table. "What took you so long?"
The dark sorcerer seemed just as irritated with the warrior's presence. "Cain did not mention a savage was to be among us. At any rate, certain matters…have kept me from our meeting."
"Desecrating another corpse maybe," Tiras suggested darkly.
Anger blazed in the necromancer's dark eyes. "You attempt to mock me, but you barbarians are no better, stripping the dead of any items of value, robbing loot and plunder alike, just like the scavenger vultures out there in the desert. You're a shame to that dead king of yours, Bul-Kathos," he said mockingly.
The muscular fighter took so much offense with this comment that Chantelle was afraid he'd attack the magic-user, effectively ending the journey before it had begun. To prevent further dispute, she quickly interjected, "I am Chantelle, and he is Tiras." She pointed at the warrior. "What is your name?"
"I am called Vladimir," the man said, visibly losing some hostility.
He wasn't so bad, Chantelle thought. He's just like any other person.
"Where should we go first?" she wondered aloud. "I must confess I have no knowledge of the desert regions."
Vladimir answered dryly, "The legend of Duriel's confinement is as long and convoluted as the passages rumored to lead to his cell, and I have neither the patience nor inclination to relate it to you; so to shorten the tale, we must simply acquire a Horadric Staff and unlock the tomb in the Canyon of the Magi. Through the locals, I have learned of the key to opening Tal Rasha's tomb. We must secure one of the hidden Horadric staves. Ancient legends say one of these can be found in the ruined city of Cabalrah. In its time, Cabalrah was said to hoard fabulous riches and many treasures. Cabalrah was one of the most prosperous cities in Sanctuary, rumored to rival the greatest of the Western kingdoms.
But one greedy official was seduced by evil. A demon bestowed him with hellish powers, which he used to open a gateway to Hell. This demon was Duriel, the Prince of Pain, and one of the Lesser Evils. It rewarded the man's betrayal by forcing him to become eternal guardian of a demonic portal. Countless minions of evil swarmed through the portal, led by Duriel, and destroyed the city. The demon left to wreak his will upon other places. Since then, many adventurers have tried to locate the lost city and come back with the fabled wealth of Cabalrah, but none have ever returned. We may be sure they now reside with there as undead to prey on unwary travelers. This is where we must go."
"You didn't find out all this from the locals. The citizens surely cannot know all this legendry," Tiras glowered suspiciously.
Vladimir caustically explained, "There is a keeper of lore here named Drognan. He has ancient histories at his disposal, from which I researched this information. Now if you are done trying to redeem yourself in the eyes of our companion," his tone turning sarcastic, "we should make ready to leave."
Blood rushed to the barbarian's face in mounting anger. He stepped forward, lifting one long sword in a threatening gesture. At the sight of the cold steel and the giant's flashing eyes, most opponents would back down or at least hesitate. But the necromancer only stared back at Tiras coldly. Chantelle imposed herself between the two. "Stop this!"
The big man growled, "We do not need him, Chantelle. Let me do the world a favor and remove this spawn of evil." The girl was unexpectedly reminded of her deep aversion to physical violence. Vladimir merely smiled, a predatory smirk.
"Calm down, both of you. How will we fight the demon if we kill each other before we can even get to him?"
Tiras looked away, ashamed. The dark sorcerer met her eyes coolly, seeming to devour her in his gaze. His eyes were dark, mirror-like orbs. They drank in light and gave back only darkness. Suddenly, Vladimir's eyes seemed to flare and fill with flickering fire. Startled, Chantelle took a step back, and the flames were gone, leaving only smoke in its place. Was the man actually a minion of Hell? Maybe she had imagined it. She shivered slightly, from vague fear and a strange curiosity. Something about him drew and repelled her at the same time. The sorceress flushed, realizing she had been staring.
Tiras disturbed the awkward silence, his voice a low rumble. "So how do we get to this Cabalrah of yours?"
Vladimir glanced disgustedly at him. "Walk."
The three walked beneath a burning sun. The sky was cloudless, offering no solace from the scorching heat. Thin squiggles of heat squirmed their way out of the hot ground, airborne at last. Little insects scurried hot-footed across the sands, unwillingly to burn their only means of transportation. But there was no other sign of life, except for the cactus here and there. Hostile eyes watched the only living things that foolishly sought to defy this rule.
Face dripping with unrestrained sweat, Tiras fared the best of the three. Squinting his eyes against the steady torrent of exuding liquid, he mopped away the pool of body fluid gathered on the slope of his forehead. Though he was long accustomed to harsh climates, and reveled in the feel of the heat gracing his bare skin, this heat was decidedly unnatural. It was palpable, almost a physical presence that embraced one and all with its overwhelming love. No wind came to alleviate the manifestation of the desert. When Chantelle ventured to protest the possibility of being sunburned, he scoffed unconvincingly, bragging that the warriors in his village practiced the technique of resistance, the ability to shrug off the harsher elements of nature. Staying conscious for days in violent mountain storms, meditating through a blinding dust storm in the heart of another desert…those times seemed long ago, the warrior thought. What was so different about this desert?
Vladimir on the other hand, kept to himself, seeming to have lost his powers of speech. The blond-haired man wore a dark hood over his head that obscured his features. He looked distinctly like an executioner. With matching, form-fitting sable armor, he must have felt like a baking oven, but still he spoke no word of complaint. Chantelle suffered the most. Though the Zann Esu lived in humid jungles, they were always under shaded, sheltering canopies. The direct sunlight of Aranoch scorched Chantelle's already tan skin and charred her dark, billowing hair, so she wrapped a white silk cloth around her head, forming a veil, and gingerly tried to walk in Tiras' large shadow.
Tiras grinned widely when he noticed the necromancer's discomfiture, but his look changed to concern when he saw Chantelle staggering along. "We should stop and rest a moment," he told her softly, though he had driven the trio relentlessly along all that morning and into the late afternoon. He had walked so quickly, taken such large strides, that it seemed almost that he was running from something. Remembering this, the sorceress nodded wordlessly, too fatigued to answer. She took a deep breath, and as she did so, caught the fighter eyeing her rising chest appreciatively and blushed when he whispered, "I like your… eyes."
Uncharacteristically, he almost shyly turned away and called, "Hey gravedigger!
How are you holding up? Let's stop a while!" Vladimir made no effort to reply, already making use of the time to drink from his canteen. Chantelle sat on a blanket the barbarian had thoughtfully laid out for her, smiling at him in gratitude. This was a clan quilt, she realized, noting the stylized image of the celebrated warrior-king, Bul-Kathos,
skillfully embroidered in red and black against a russet background. The figure was the dominant persona on the coverlet, portrayed performing a host of heroic actions that seemed inconceivable for a lone man.
The dark sorcerer stood aloof, keeping a watchful lookout. Scarcely a moment had passed before he noticed small shapes in the distance beneath the sinking sun, and he hissed a warning, startling the others. "Gorebellies! A group of them are headed our way! They must've been tracking us, waiting for us to get tired. Interesting how none of us noticed them."
Tiras cursed, "For honor's sake, we didn't even get a chance to rest yet! This could be tough." He scanned the horizon with bravado, sizing up the rapidly closing figures. "Time to prove your worth in battle, necro."
"Better watch your own back. You wouldn't be worth raising from the dead."
Chantelle's heart pounded crazily. Her fast breathing echoed in her own throbbing ears. Nervously her eyes wandered, and her mind was as blank as a clean slate. "How could they both be so calm?" she wondered, studying her companions' faces. They were veterans, the girl realized. They have both killed before. Battles to the death were nothing new, even routine. Small wonder that they felt sure of themselves. By contrast, this would be her first real battle… and possibly last. No more casting spells at painted targets or in a specially guarded practice area, no more using magic unseen behind a cactus as she did for Tiras. How would she do? She felt wholly inexperienced and unprepared.
The monstrous creatures advanced with astonishing speed. Each was fully 9 feet in height, dwarfing even the massive barbarian. They resembled Tiras in many ways. Each was a hulk of bulging muscles, with tattoos and scars covering their bodies and only a ragged hide for clothing. All bore gigantic clubs, studded with metal spikes. The giants seemed primordial savages, arising from the dawns of time to hunt their prey. They might have been distant kin to the barbarians, for their many similarities in appearance. How had these creatures ever been created? Chantelle decided she definitely liked Tiras more than the grotesque humanoids.
The girl focused her concentration inward, recalling her arsenal of magicks and mumbling absently to herself as she decided which spells to use. Meanwhile, Tiras glared across the desert at the charging monsters, tightly clenching the grips of his weapons, working himself into a fury. By the time they reached him, he would reach a near berserk stage. At that point, he would be as dangerous to friend as to enemy. Of the three companions, only Vladimir seemed relaxed. He appeared not to pay attention to the hulking creatures, idly gazing off into the distance. The sorceress tried to remain vigilant, fighting the urge to shake the necromancer out of his apparent daydream.
As the first of the Gorebellies reached the trio, the girl performed a swift series of ancient power symbols with her dexterous fingers, which released a widening ring of frost over her companions' heads. The ice froze limbs and numbed hands, slowing the giants' progress. Clubs dropped from nerveless fingers. A layer of frost rimed metal adornments, drawing screams of pain from the angry giants. Some of them had worn rings on sensitive parts of their bodies. Laughing uproariously with a maniacal gleam in his blood-tinged eyes, Tiras leapt on the lead creature, shouting a roar of defiance that shook the air.
The barbarian's right blade darted in and impaled the ice-covered monster, while his left reached up to slit its throat. Gorebellies converged on him while he was recovering from his lethal attack, shaking off the clinging ice, but they suddenly switched targets to assault one of their own. The beleaguered humanoid fended off a few strikes, but a traitorous friend crept up behind it and delivered a powerful blow that crushed its skull. The last facial expression of hurt betrayal and surprise, frozen in death, was surprisingly human. Looking for the source of this miracle, Tiras spotted Vladimir chanting in a strange language. It was like no language he had ever heard before, and the whispered words sent chills up his spine.
While the second collapsed under its fellows' onslaught, another rushed at the necromancer. It was intercepted before coming anywhere near him. The fallen Gorebelly had loomed up before its former comrade and bashed it solidly aside, as if angry at its companion's duplicity. Tiras gaped in surprise. This was power of a magnitude he had never seen before. What would it be like to control the very forces of nature, to hold dominion over death? The warrior wondered how Chantelle was faring with the heavy meelee assault and was astonished to see her standing off to a side, eyes closed and fingers tracing strange symbols as a voice that was not her own uttered peculiar words. He shook his head and joined the fray once more, fatigue weighing heavily on his muscular body.
The sky grew dark as the battle raged on. Murky clouds blocked all light but a few jagged crimson veins. The fighting ebbed as unnatural night fell. Apprehension filled the air, the charged atmosphere before a coming calamity. The monsters stared up at the sky in a mixture of dread and horror, aware in their primitive minds that a primeval cataclysm was pending. As one, they began to flee into safer areas, scattering in panic. But it was too late. A weird roar filled the air as a coal-black silhouette appeared in the heavens, wreathed by vengeful flames. The shape grew larger until it seemed the only object in the sky. The only visible light now came from the approaching apocalypse, a scar ripped into the night as a sanguine wound dripping with scarlet blood.
"On the ground!" Tiras bellowed, praying to Bul-Kathos that they would die instantly, without much suffering. He braced for the impact, hoping for a happy afterlife involving Chantelle. The sorceress could do nothing but obey, though she barely registered his words in her enervated mind. She collapsed in a shivering heap on the baked sands, half-dead with decrepitude. Her eyes rolled back, body shaking with epileptic seizures. Vladimir's undead creature carefully covered his body with its own.
The meteor struck with an earth-shaking blast, incinerating and crushing the giants immediately. Its concussive force threw the huddled group from the ground. Sand erupted, whipping exposed skin into raw and bloody tatters. Chantelle stared at the ground in detached fascination. What will it feel like when I hit…? The musky scent of freshly dug-up earth filled her nostrils, and a pair of warm, strong arms wrapped around her, stopping her descent a few feet off the ground.
Almost but not quite resigned to his fate, Tiras had still been lucky enough to anticipate the moment the meteor would strike, and he had leapt up seconds before. Unfortunately, the momentum propelled him farther than he liked. An enormous fist shot up after him, plucking him out of the air. Deprived of his guardians, Vladimir was hurled far away, striking the unforgiving sands with mind-numbing speed. He heard something crack in his ribs, and merciful darkness stole his sight and robbed away the pain.
The golem dissolved without its creator's mind to guide it, and Chantelle was unceremoniously dropped on the ground. The barbarian too had been spared from injury by the risen Gorebelly, which set him down and marched over to its master. The two cognizant members of the group stood close, watching the carnage in awe. Almost no trace remained of the assailants. Only blood splatters and strewn limbs showed evidence of the creatures. Smoke rose in thick clouds as fire still rained from the sky to sputter harmlessly into the sands. In a few weeks, even the meteor itself would vanish into the deserts, swallowed by the sands of time.
Tears filled Chantelle's eyes, and thick smoke was not the only cause. The attack had lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed hours to her. It shocked her to see that she could destroy the humanoids so utterly. For some reason unknown to her, killing them was different from slaying the insect demons to save Tiras. And it had been a fire spell…spells she had always had trouble with. Was something affecting her spellcasting? She hadn't realized she had this kind of power. In fact, she had never even practiced this one before. And it seemed one of the highest order of magicks, on that took many years to learn and even more to control, for fire was a notably imprecise element. And yet she had cast it with pinpoint accuracy. The thoughts in her head were bitter. What cruel fate would finally allow her a fire spell, and yet not enable her with knowledge of the magic? The words to the incantation had just seemed to flow into her lips. The young sorceress lay down, unmindful of the debris strewn across the sand, exhausted from casting a spell she didn't know.
The late afternoon stayed dark, the sun having fled the skies to rule over an easier portion of the heavens. Masses of grey clouds mournfully patrolled the area of the bright orb's passing, averting their gaze from its pitiless killer. The few stars left in the firmament were further away than usual, haughtily denouncing their brethren's chosen fate. And slowly, the land turned cold, as if the meteor had sucked all its life and blood, leaving but an empty carcass. The fallen star sat cruelly smug at the core of its self-appointed throne.
Tiras' blue eyes regarded the girl intently, shame on his face for being attracted to such a cold being. The conduct of the magi seemed more mysterious to him than ever. To bring down a star from the heavens? That was a deity's power, not man's. It was as his instructor had always told him. Magic was a force too often abused for power. It was best to rely on the weapon, the way of the true warrior. Fighting with honor was a way of life for the people of his village. At least that way the killing had a challenge, a meaning to the deaths of the fallen. But to strike down an enemy whom had no chance, no defense against magical powers was too much like slaughter…murder. All of a sudden, Chantelle didn't seem so innocent and in need of protection.
So it seemed to Chantelle as the necromancer walked to the appointed meeting place, a large tavern called the Oasis. The Oasis was remarkably clean for an alehouse. The food was not as greasy, and the drinks seemed more exotic and refreshing. For this, the owner charged exorbitant prices, well above the adventurers' price range. It was why the two were sitting gloomily in a corner, hungry and thirsty, vainly trying to ignore dirty glances from the barkeep. "Finally," the barbarian grouched as the other man made his way to their table. "What took you so long?"
The dark sorcerer seemed just as irritated with the warrior's presence. "Cain did not mention a savage was to be among us. At any rate, certain matters…have kept me from our meeting."
"Desecrating another corpse maybe," Tiras suggested darkly.
Anger blazed in the necromancer's dark eyes. "You attempt to mock me, but you barbarians are no better, stripping the dead of any items of value, robbing loot and plunder alike, just like the scavenger vultures out there in the desert. You're a shame to that dead king of yours, Bul-Kathos," he said mockingly.
The muscular fighter took so much offense with this comment that Chantelle was afraid he'd attack the magic-user, effectively ending the journey before it had begun. To prevent further dispute, she quickly interjected, "I am Chantelle, and he is Tiras." She pointed at the warrior. "What is your name?"
"I am called Vladimir," the man said, visibly losing some hostility.
He wasn't so bad, Chantelle thought. He's just like any other person.
"Where should we go first?" she wondered aloud. "I must confess I have no knowledge of the desert regions."
Vladimir answered dryly, "The legend of Duriel's confinement is as long and convoluted as the passages rumored to lead to his cell, and I have neither the patience nor inclination to relate it to you; so to shorten the tale, we must simply acquire a Horadric Staff and unlock the tomb in the Canyon of the Magi. Through the locals, I have learned of the key to opening Tal Rasha's tomb. We must secure one of the hidden Horadric staves. Ancient legends say one of these can be found in the ruined city of Cabalrah. In its time, Cabalrah was said to hoard fabulous riches and many treasures. Cabalrah was one of the most prosperous cities in Sanctuary, rumored to rival the greatest of the Western kingdoms.
But one greedy official was seduced by evil. A demon bestowed him with hellish powers, which he used to open a gateway to Hell. This demon was Duriel, the Prince of Pain, and one of the Lesser Evils. It rewarded the man's betrayal by forcing him to become eternal guardian of a demonic portal. Countless minions of evil swarmed through the portal, led by Duriel, and destroyed the city. The demon left to wreak his will upon other places. Since then, many adventurers have tried to locate the lost city and come back with the fabled wealth of Cabalrah, but none have ever returned. We may be sure they now reside with there as undead to prey on unwary travelers. This is where we must go."
"You didn't find out all this from the locals. The citizens surely cannot know all this legendry," Tiras glowered suspiciously.
Vladimir caustically explained, "There is a keeper of lore here named Drognan. He has ancient histories at his disposal, from which I researched this information. Now if you are done trying to redeem yourself in the eyes of our companion," his tone turning sarcastic, "we should make ready to leave."
Blood rushed to the barbarian's face in mounting anger. He stepped forward, lifting one long sword in a threatening gesture. At the sight of the cold steel and the giant's flashing eyes, most opponents would back down or at least hesitate. But the necromancer only stared back at Tiras coldly. Chantelle imposed herself between the two. "Stop this!"
The big man growled, "We do not need him, Chantelle. Let me do the world a favor and remove this spawn of evil." The girl was unexpectedly reminded of her deep aversion to physical violence. Vladimir merely smiled, a predatory smirk.
"Calm down, both of you. How will we fight the demon if we kill each other before we can even get to him?"
Tiras looked away, ashamed. The dark sorcerer met her eyes coolly, seeming to devour her in his gaze. His eyes were dark, mirror-like orbs. They drank in light and gave back only darkness. Suddenly, Vladimir's eyes seemed to flare and fill with flickering fire. Startled, Chantelle took a step back, and the flames were gone, leaving only smoke in its place. Was the man actually a minion of Hell? Maybe she had imagined it. She shivered slightly, from vague fear and a strange curiosity. Something about him drew and repelled her at the same time. The sorceress flushed, realizing she had been staring.
Tiras disturbed the awkward silence, his voice a low rumble. "So how do we get to this Cabalrah of yours?"
Vladimir glanced disgustedly at him. "Walk."
The three walked beneath a burning sun. The sky was cloudless, offering no solace from the scorching heat. Thin squiggles of heat squirmed their way out of the hot ground, airborne at last. Little insects scurried hot-footed across the sands, unwillingly to burn their only means of transportation. But there was no other sign of life, except for the cactus here and there. Hostile eyes watched the only living things that foolishly sought to defy this rule.
Face dripping with unrestrained sweat, Tiras fared the best of the three. Squinting his eyes against the steady torrent of exuding liquid, he mopped away the pool of body fluid gathered on the slope of his forehead. Though he was long accustomed to harsh climates, and reveled in the feel of the heat gracing his bare skin, this heat was decidedly unnatural. It was palpable, almost a physical presence that embraced one and all with its overwhelming love. No wind came to alleviate the manifestation of the desert. When Chantelle ventured to protest the possibility of being sunburned, he scoffed unconvincingly, bragging that the warriors in his village practiced the technique of resistance, the ability to shrug off the harsher elements of nature. Staying conscious for days in violent mountain storms, meditating through a blinding dust storm in the heart of another desert…those times seemed long ago, the warrior thought. What was so different about this desert?
Vladimir on the other hand, kept to himself, seeming to have lost his powers of speech. The blond-haired man wore a dark hood over his head that obscured his features. He looked distinctly like an executioner. With matching, form-fitting sable armor, he must have felt like a baking oven, but still he spoke no word of complaint. Chantelle suffered the most. Though the Zann Esu lived in humid jungles, they were always under shaded, sheltering canopies. The direct sunlight of Aranoch scorched Chantelle's already tan skin and charred her dark, billowing hair, so she wrapped a white silk cloth around her head, forming a veil, and gingerly tried to walk in Tiras' large shadow.
Tiras grinned widely when he noticed the necromancer's discomfiture, but his look changed to concern when he saw Chantelle staggering along. "We should stop and rest a moment," he told her softly, though he had driven the trio relentlessly along all that morning and into the late afternoon. He had walked so quickly, taken such large strides, that it seemed almost that he was running from something. Remembering this, the sorceress nodded wordlessly, too fatigued to answer. She took a deep breath, and as she did so, caught the fighter eyeing her rising chest appreciatively and blushed when he whispered, "I like your… eyes."
Uncharacteristically, he almost shyly turned away and called, "Hey gravedigger!
How are you holding up? Let's stop a while!" Vladimir made no effort to reply, already making use of the time to drink from his canteen. Chantelle sat on a blanket the barbarian had thoughtfully laid out for her, smiling at him in gratitude. This was a clan quilt, she realized, noting the stylized image of the celebrated warrior-king, Bul-Kathos,
skillfully embroidered in red and black against a russet background. The figure was the dominant persona on the coverlet, portrayed performing a host of heroic actions that seemed inconceivable for a lone man.
The dark sorcerer stood aloof, keeping a watchful lookout. Scarcely a moment had passed before he noticed small shapes in the distance beneath the sinking sun, and he hissed a warning, startling the others. "Gorebellies! A group of them are headed our way! They must've been tracking us, waiting for us to get tired. Interesting how none of us noticed them."
Tiras cursed, "For honor's sake, we didn't even get a chance to rest yet! This could be tough." He scanned the horizon with bravado, sizing up the rapidly closing figures. "Time to prove your worth in battle, necro."
"Better watch your own back. You wouldn't be worth raising from the dead."
Chantelle's heart pounded crazily. Her fast breathing echoed in her own throbbing ears. Nervously her eyes wandered, and her mind was as blank as a clean slate. "How could they both be so calm?" she wondered, studying her companions' faces. They were veterans, the girl realized. They have both killed before. Battles to the death were nothing new, even routine. Small wonder that they felt sure of themselves. By contrast, this would be her first real battle… and possibly last. No more casting spells at painted targets or in a specially guarded practice area, no more using magic unseen behind a cactus as she did for Tiras. How would she do? She felt wholly inexperienced and unprepared.
The monstrous creatures advanced with astonishing speed. Each was fully 9 feet in height, dwarfing even the massive barbarian. They resembled Tiras in many ways. Each was a hulk of bulging muscles, with tattoos and scars covering their bodies and only a ragged hide for clothing. All bore gigantic clubs, studded with metal spikes. The giants seemed primordial savages, arising from the dawns of time to hunt their prey. They might have been distant kin to the barbarians, for their many similarities in appearance. How had these creatures ever been created? Chantelle decided she definitely liked Tiras more than the grotesque humanoids.
The girl focused her concentration inward, recalling her arsenal of magicks and mumbling absently to herself as she decided which spells to use. Meanwhile, Tiras glared across the desert at the charging monsters, tightly clenching the grips of his weapons, working himself into a fury. By the time they reached him, he would reach a near berserk stage. At that point, he would be as dangerous to friend as to enemy. Of the three companions, only Vladimir seemed relaxed. He appeared not to pay attention to the hulking creatures, idly gazing off into the distance. The sorceress tried to remain vigilant, fighting the urge to shake the necromancer out of his apparent daydream.
As the first of the Gorebellies reached the trio, the girl performed a swift series of ancient power symbols with her dexterous fingers, which released a widening ring of frost over her companions' heads. The ice froze limbs and numbed hands, slowing the giants' progress. Clubs dropped from nerveless fingers. A layer of frost rimed metal adornments, drawing screams of pain from the angry giants. Some of them had worn rings on sensitive parts of their bodies. Laughing uproariously with a maniacal gleam in his blood-tinged eyes, Tiras leapt on the lead creature, shouting a roar of defiance that shook the air.
The barbarian's right blade darted in and impaled the ice-covered monster, while his left reached up to slit its throat. Gorebellies converged on him while he was recovering from his lethal attack, shaking off the clinging ice, but they suddenly switched targets to assault one of their own. The beleaguered humanoid fended off a few strikes, but a traitorous friend crept up behind it and delivered a powerful blow that crushed its skull. The last facial expression of hurt betrayal and surprise, frozen in death, was surprisingly human. Looking for the source of this miracle, Tiras spotted Vladimir chanting in a strange language. It was like no language he had ever heard before, and the whispered words sent chills up his spine.
While the second collapsed under its fellows' onslaught, another rushed at the necromancer. It was intercepted before coming anywhere near him. The fallen Gorebelly had loomed up before its former comrade and bashed it solidly aside, as if angry at its companion's duplicity. Tiras gaped in surprise. This was power of a magnitude he had never seen before. What would it be like to control the very forces of nature, to hold dominion over death? The warrior wondered how Chantelle was faring with the heavy meelee assault and was astonished to see her standing off to a side, eyes closed and fingers tracing strange symbols as a voice that was not her own uttered peculiar words. He shook his head and joined the fray once more, fatigue weighing heavily on his muscular body.
The sky grew dark as the battle raged on. Murky clouds blocked all light but a few jagged crimson veins. The fighting ebbed as unnatural night fell. Apprehension filled the air, the charged atmosphere before a coming calamity. The monsters stared up at the sky in a mixture of dread and horror, aware in their primitive minds that a primeval cataclysm was pending. As one, they began to flee into safer areas, scattering in panic. But it was too late. A weird roar filled the air as a coal-black silhouette appeared in the heavens, wreathed by vengeful flames. The shape grew larger until it seemed the only object in the sky. The only visible light now came from the approaching apocalypse, a scar ripped into the night as a sanguine wound dripping with scarlet blood.
"On the ground!" Tiras bellowed, praying to Bul-Kathos that they would die instantly, without much suffering. He braced for the impact, hoping for a happy afterlife involving Chantelle. The sorceress could do nothing but obey, though she barely registered his words in her enervated mind. She collapsed in a shivering heap on the baked sands, half-dead with decrepitude. Her eyes rolled back, body shaking with epileptic seizures. Vladimir's undead creature carefully covered his body with its own.
The meteor struck with an earth-shaking blast, incinerating and crushing the giants immediately. Its concussive force threw the huddled group from the ground. Sand erupted, whipping exposed skin into raw and bloody tatters. Chantelle stared at the ground in detached fascination. What will it feel like when I hit…? The musky scent of freshly dug-up earth filled her nostrils, and a pair of warm, strong arms wrapped around her, stopping her descent a few feet off the ground.
Almost but not quite resigned to his fate, Tiras had still been lucky enough to anticipate the moment the meteor would strike, and he had leapt up seconds before. Unfortunately, the momentum propelled him farther than he liked. An enormous fist shot up after him, plucking him out of the air. Deprived of his guardians, Vladimir was hurled far away, striking the unforgiving sands with mind-numbing speed. He heard something crack in his ribs, and merciful darkness stole his sight and robbed away the pain.
The golem dissolved without its creator's mind to guide it, and Chantelle was unceremoniously dropped on the ground. The barbarian too had been spared from injury by the risen Gorebelly, which set him down and marched over to its master. The two cognizant members of the group stood close, watching the carnage in awe. Almost no trace remained of the assailants. Only blood splatters and strewn limbs showed evidence of the creatures. Smoke rose in thick clouds as fire still rained from the sky to sputter harmlessly into the sands. In a few weeks, even the meteor itself would vanish into the deserts, swallowed by the sands of time.
Tears filled Chantelle's eyes, and thick smoke was not the only cause. The attack had lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed hours to her. It shocked her to see that she could destroy the humanoids so utterly. For some reason unknown to her, killing them was different from slaying the insect demons to save Tiras. And it had been a fire spell…spells she had always had trouble with. Was something affecting her spellcasting? She hadn't realized she had this kind of power. In fact, she had never even practiced this one before. And it seemed one of the highest order of magicks, on that took many years to learn and even more to control, for fire was a notably imprecise element. And yet she had cast it with pinpoint accuracy. The thoughts in her head were bitter. What cruel fate would finally allow her a fire spell, and yet not enable her with knowledge of the magic? The words to the incantation had just seemed to flow into her lips. The young sorceress lay down, unmindful of the debris strewn across the sand, exhausted from casting a spell she didn't know.
The late afternoon stayed dark, the sun having fled the skies to rule over an easier portion of the heavens. Masses of grey clouds mournfully patrolled the area of the bright orb's passing, averting their gaze from its pitiless killer. The few stars left in the firmament were further away than usual, haughtily denouncing their brethren's chosen fate. And slowly, the land turned cold, as if the meteor had sucked all its life and blood, leaving but an empty carcass. The fallen star sat cruelly smug at the core of its self-appointed throne.
Tiras' blue eyes regarded the girl intently, shame on his face for being attracted to such a cold being. The conduct of the magi seemed more mysterious to him than ever. To bring down a star from the heavens? That was a deity's power, not man's. It was as his instructor had always told him. Magic was a force too often abused for power. It was best to rely on the weapon, the way of the true warrior. Fighting with honor was a way of life for the people of his village. At least that way the killing had a challenge, a meaning to the deaths of the fallen. But to strike down an enemy whom had no chance, no defense against magical powers was too much like slaughter…murder. All of a sudden, Chantelle didn't seem so innocent and in need of protection.