Chapter Seventeen: Fall of Ullek
By the time the Qarat managed to get troops onto the north wall, it was too late. The horde from the north, led by the three-faced demon Balfrug-Kreeyath, Thammaron's lieutenant, had already arrived.
Jerrod had not been able to see what meager defense the Qarat tried to throw up, but the deafening string of explosions, followed by the unmistakable sound of tumbling stone, suggested that it was unsuccessful. The northern wall had definitely fallen.
"The walls have been breached," Farrah murmured, hearing the sound as well. "We are out of time."
"Why weren't there any backup troops stationed along the north wall to begin with?" Jerrod asked, his tactician's mind nearly bursting with incredulity. "Did they not take into account that the Zamorackians would attack from more than one direction? What kind of incompetents do you Menaphites have running your armies?"
"Our army is not the Centralian Army," Farrah shrugged, leading Jerrod down another twisting back alley. "It is not a unified force…more like several small armies, each from a different city. We have never needed to mobilize all our Empire's strength into one giant force before."
"Until now," Jerrod said. "And now, it is too late. The northern reaches of the Empire are gone, Ullek is now gone, and Uzer is next. Very soon, the Menaphites will be very hard-pressed to find a home, let alone muster an army."
"We still have Sophanem in the south," Farrah sighed. "The demons will be hard-pressed to reach that city—it has the personal protection of Tumeken and Icthlarin, two of our most revered Gods."
Jerrod subtly rolled his eyes, but did not make any other sound. He knew that Farrah vested great faith in the Gods of the Desert, and although Jerrod was not himself an overly religious and certainly not a reverent man—he was still trying to convince Saradomin to play a game of rummy with him—he was not disrespectful of the faith of others. If Farrah felt that Sophanem would be protected…well, then, Jerrod hoped with all his heart that he was right.
"You have an escape plan, old friend?" Jerrod finally asked after Farrah led him onto another street that ran through what appeared to be a slum. "I'd sleep better at night knowing you had a chance of getting out of here."
"Don't you worry about me, Jerrod," Farrah chuckled. "I'm taking the orphans and getting out through the sewers. They connect to ancient magma tunnels that run straight to Sophanem. We'll be fine. You're the one we need to worry about."
"Is the boy at the place where you are taking me?" Jerrod asked next.
"Yes; I would not dream of delaying you in such a way," Farrah assured the Cleric. The old Menaphite hurried further down the road until it broke into a fork. He took Jerrod down the left-hand road and followed it until he arrived at his defunct antique shop.
"We're here," Farrah said, striding through the entrance space.
"Doesn't look like you get much business," Jerrod observed, glancing at the cobwebs that covered the shelves and trinkets inside the store.
"This part of Ullek has been deserted for many years," Farrah explained, opening up the hidden hatch in the back of the shop that led down to the basement. "I've never made money from the store—that is just a front. For years, now, I have sheltered orphans…but I need them as much as they need me. I provide them with a safe haven, and in return they keep me fed and clothed."
"They go out and steal, you mean?" Jerrod raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think you were the thieving type."
"We all do what we can to survive here," Farrah shrugged. "I do not extort the orphans; I require only enough food so that everyone is able to eat at least two good meals per day. The orphans are free to do whatever they want with anything else they…pick up."
"Sounds like an interesting life," Jerrod had to admit.
"Moral arguments aside," Farrah continued to speak even as he climbed down the ladder to his basement, gesturing for the Cleric to follow, "the real reason I've hidden away out here is because of the boy. The one from the Prophecy—I'm assuming Saradomin's already told you about him."
"He has," Jerrod nodded.
"I'm the one who found him in the desert a decade ago. The boy had been an infant, then… I raised him as my own until Saradomin himself visited me in my dreams. The things the God of Light told me... I'm glad Saradomin sent you, of all people, to train him."
Jerrod followed the old Menaphite down the ladder, leaving the hatch open. Farrah, before explaining anything else to Jerrod, hurried into the dormitory, where the orphans had gone to sleep.
"Up! Up! Everyone up!" the old man shouted, rousing Jafa, Lessa, and the dozen or so other children in the room. "Pack anything you can carry!"
The orphans grumbled and muttered under their breaths as they rolled out of the cots. "What's going on?" a bleary-eyed Jafa asked. "Is the Qarat going on another conscription run?"
"The Qarat is the least of our worries," Farrah replied. "The northern wall has been breached. Ullek has fallen; we have mere minutes to get out of here before Zamorak's filth comes tearing through our midst!"
"The monsters are here? In the city?" the sixteen-year-old orphan sounded shocked. No one had ever for a moment thought that Ullek would actually fall… Now that it was happening, the only reaction was pure shock.
"Unless you all want to get turned into cold-cuts for the werewolves, I would suggest you get a move on," Jerrod kindly recommended from the next room.
The orphans sprang into action, gathering any of their possessions into their bags and sacks. Jerrod tapped his foot impatiently as they packed everything up. While they did this, Farrah came back out into the main room. He spoke quietly with Jafa for a minute, then returned to Jerrod, leaving the orphans in the hands of the older teenagers.
"Where is he?" the Cleric asked, his patience starting to wear thin. "Where is the boy from the Prophecy?"
"In here," Farrah pushed open the door to the other outlying room, which turned out to be some sort of kitchen. Jerrod stepped into the kitchen, trying to ignore the unmistakable howls of nearing werewolves.
In the corner of the kitchen was another makeshift cot. A boy was lying on it, unmoving. Jerrod stepped closer to get a good look at the child. He couldn't have been any older than eleven years old. His skin was ghostly pale. He was wearing ragged shorts and a torn, unbuttoned black cloth vest. A bandage was wrapped around his chest, which was just barely moving. Jerrod also noticed that there were iron bands clamped around the boy's wrists. Those were shackles…but the chain that held them together had been severed and disposed of, somehow.
Jerrod gave an imperceptible nod. This was definitely the boy he had seen in his vision, the one Saradomin had sent him here to recover. The boy who he was supposed to train before Zamorak burned the rest of the world. "What's his name?" Jerrod asked.
"Avinius."
"What's wrong with him?" Jerrod queried his old friend, scrutinizing the bandages.
"He was shot in the chest with an arrow," Farrah replied, pulling the covers back and giving Jerrod a nod. "I fixed up his lung and arteries, but the rest still needs to heal. Be semi-gentle with him, alright?"
"Right," Jerrod said. He slid his arms under the unconscious boy's back and lifted him up, slinging him over his shoulder. The Cleric regained his balance, then followed Farrah back out the door. "Mind telling me how a kid like this gets shot with an arrow?"
"He was conscripted by the Qarat two days ago," Farrah said, heading out of the kitchen and into the main room. The orphans were already gone. They had ducked into the passage that Farrah had built that led straight into the Ullek sewer system. It had been concealed behind a bookcase, which had been pushed aside, revealing the hole in the wall.
Even as he walked towards the secret exit, Farrah kept talking. "I have no idea what happened since then, but earlier today my two oldest orphans were out in the alleys, and they said he just came out of nowhere, limping down the street with an arrow in his chest… I'm sure you would find out more if you asked him yourself, when he wakes."
Farrah reached his passageway and hesitated, almost unwilling to abandon his homestead. "I…I suppose this is goodbye, old friend," the old Menaphite said.
"I suppose it is," Jerrod agreed. "Odds are we shall never see each other again."
"Mm…" Farrah hummed in agreement. He stood silent for a second, then reached into one of his robe pockets. "Here," the old Menaphite took out his prized Badb pipe, holding it out to Jerrod. "Take it. You'll need it more than me in the coming days."
"No…no, I can't take that from you," Jerrod held up his hands, but the Cleric already knew it was no use. If Farrah wanted to give him the pipe, then he was definitely getting the pipe. The old Menaphite never took 'no' for an answer.
"Please, Jerrod. Take it. For an old friend, if that makes you feel any better."
"Very well…" the Cleric accepted the pipe, slipping it into the folds of his black cloak.
"The pipeweed is enchanted," Farrah explained. "It regenerates after every use."
Jerrod extended a hand to Farrah. "Thank you," he said. "You've been a good friend to me, and I won't forget you."
Farrah pushed Jerrod's hand aside and pulled him into a tight embrace. He held it briefly, then released the Cleric, stepping back into the passageway. "He's a good boy, Jerrod," Farrah said, gesturing to Avis, who was still draped over Jerrod's shoulder. "Keep him alive for me."
With that, the old Menaphite turned on his heel and strode off into the darkness, sealing the tunnel behind him, leaving Jerrod alone in the basement.
"Looks like it's just you and me, boy," Jerrod murmured to the boy. He didn't get an answer. That was alright, though; he hadn't been expecting one.
The Cleric hurried across the room and climbed up the ladder into the antique shop above. He pushed his way through the shelves and glass, stepping out into the street, where he was promptly greeted with a well-aimed arrow heading right for his face.
Jerrod pounded the base of his staff into the ground. The orb flashed white and a strong gust of wind burst forth from around the Cleric, knocking the arrow aside before it came too close.
A goblin archer was hopping along the rooftops across the street. It had been the one who had fired at the Cleric. Meanwhile, a dozen or so werewolves were bounding down the street, heading right for the shop. When they spotted Jerrod, they all gave long, bloodcurdling howls. One of them broke off from the group and sprinted back, probably to notify its leaders.
Jerrod had to leave. Now.
The Cleric picked up an arrow from the ground, lay it on his arm, and closed his eyes, letting the elemental energy of Air flow through his arm. A small column of wind enveloped the arrow, causing it to spin on its central axis. It spun faster and faster, hovering over Jerrod's forearm. The Cleric opened his eyes and stared right at one of the goblin archers, which was nocking its bow for another shot.
Jerrod flexed his arm and released the magic. The arrow—which was now spinning so fast that it looked like a brown blur—leaped forward, jetting through the air and thucking right between the goblin's eyes. The creature didn't even have time to make a sound; it simply slid forward and fell off the roof.
This removed any ranged threats from the fight, buying Jerrod enough time to pick up the Menaphite rug which he had taken in Iunu and imbibed with an enlarged helping of life force, turning it into what most people knew as a 'magic carpet'.
Jerrod lay the rug down flat in the middle of the street, and then let the boy slide off of his shoulder and onto the carpet before standing his ground and turning to face the ten werewolves bounding towards him. He rolled his neck and shoulders, easing out the kinks, cracked his knuckles, and waited.
The moment the leading werewolf leaped, Jerrod struck. He stabbed his staff forward, and a jet of flame burst out of the orb, lancing right through the werewolf's open mouth and out the back of its head. The smell of burnt flesh permeated through the air and the creature thudded to the ground.
Jerrod then reinforced his stance and lowered his center of gravity. He used his hands in conjunction with his staff and invoked the element of Earth. He struck the street with his staff and kicked up a large chunk of stone, sending it crushing into a group of three werewolves. One managed to twist away, but the other two were instantly pulped. Jerrod concentrated on the street itself and gave a raw-throated roar.
He wasn't shouting just for the sake of shouting—it was a psychological technique. Earth Magic required the user to be stubborn and unyielding—just like the element itself. Yelling in such a manner helped the mage channel and release his energy. It was hard to explain in conventional terms…it just simply worked.
A band of the street started to bubble and melt. Jerrod had transmuted the stone into quicksand. The charging werewolves plowed right through it and were tripped up as a consequence. One was caught completely in the quicksand, slowly sinking below the surface. Air bubbles from their breath could be seen for a few seconds after it completely vanished.
Another werewolf which had managed to evade the quicksand leaped at the Cleric, but Jerrod sidestepped the attack and jabbed his staff up and under, striking the creature in its underbelly. The smell of burnt flesh grew even more pungent as the staff's orb flared crimson and the werewolf screamed in agony before slumping to the ground, its underbelly charred completely black. Father Jerrod had pretty much roasted all of its internal organs.
The Cleric finished off another pair of werewolves the same way he had killed the goblin archer—using wind to aim, spin, and fire a pair of fallen arrows, sending them thudding into their hearts.
The three remaining werewolves attacked at the same time. Jerrod did his best to defend himself, but he couldn't watch all parts of his body at the same time. One of the wolves managed to score a hit across Jerrod's left side.
The Cleric swore loudly, falling to one knee, clasping a hand to the bright red lacerations. He shattered the front paw of one of the attacking werewolves, driving the three creatures back a few paces. That was all the space Jerrod needed.
It was always easier for Jerrod to use magic while under extreme stress—it came as naturally to him as breathing or blinking at times like these. He took several deep, powerful breaths, fueling the burning elemental energy that was coursing through him via his staff.
He released the energy in one great heave, resulting in a searing-hot ring of flame that exploded out from around him. It was not a concentrated attack, more of an outburst of raw power. As such, the roaring flames did not last very long, nor did they kill any of the remaining werewolves. Instead, they singed all three of them, sending them yelping away down the street.
Jerrod broke off and hurried back over to the carpet. The boy was still lying where Jerrod had placed him. The Cleric sat cross-legged in the back of the rug, keeping the boy in front of him. Jerrod tapped into the artificial life force of the rug which he had created and began manipulating the winds via that energy.
The magic carpet jumped, rising twenty or thirty feet into the air. At Jerrod's behest, the carpet started drifting forward, eventually accelerating to a reasonable speed.
Jerrod soared over Ullek on the carpet, watching with retrained horror at the destruction taking place. Monsters were running rampant through the city streets, burning and tearing down everything they saw. Blood ran down the roads as freely as rivers and corpses—or fragments of them—littered the burning alleys.
Screams and cries of agony were painfully audible as people fled from the monsters, but were caught or cornered by the creatures. None were spared. In some places, Qarat soldiers tried to make a stand, but any resistance did not last longer than a full minute. Everyone had been absolutely slaughtered.
Jerrod also spotted hundreds of people fleeing into the sewers, following Farrah's example. The Cleric silently wished them all a safe journey, though in his heart he knew that not many would make it to Sophanem.
Jerrod swung the carpet around and headed south, gradually increasing his altitude to over a hundred feet. After a minute, he was over Ullek's southern wall and whizzing over the Qarat's battlements. He looked down, able to see hordes of death knights and werewolves breaking through the wooden defenses as the Qarat soldiers desperately tried—and failed—to fend them off. There were hundreds of savaged human corpses down there, bleeding in the sand. Penal battalions, no doubt.
The Cleric risked a glance back and instantly swore again. Ullek was wreathed in flames. Smoke billowed into the air in great columns. Had the sun not already been setting, it would have been blotted out. The sound of tens of thousands of monsters roaring and howling filled the sky.
But what made Jerrod swear were the seven winged vampyres flying out of the smoke in hot pursuit of him. Vyrewatch. They were much faster than the carpet, but Jerrod had a good amount of distance on them. He just hoped it was enough for him to get past the coast of the desert.
It wasn't; not quite. Jerrod had made it within spitting distance of the southern beaches when the vyrewatch caught up with him. The seven advanced vampyres surrounded him, leveling their black spears.
The Cleric stood up, balancing effortlessly on the carpet. He did not stop the carpet completely, though; he just kept it moving at an extremely slow rate…too slow for the vyrewatch to notice. He couldn't teleport out of the desert...but if he managed to cross over the coastline, he would no longer be in the desert...
The lead vampyre sneered right in Jerrod's face, adjusting her grip on her spear. "You have something my masters want," she hissed, prodding the pale-skinned boy with her spear.
Jerrod promptly lashed out at the weapon. His staff flashed and the tip of the lead vyrewatch's spear was sliced off. The other vampyres all hissed and pressed their spears in closer.
"Give us the boy," the lead vyrewatch demanded, casting away her broken weapon.
"I've got a counterproposal for you," Jerrod said in reply, straightening himself up and calmly smoothing out a wrinkle in his cloak. "I'm giving you all a chance to turn back and forget you ever saw me. I'm being generous; I don't usually offer this to scum like you. And I certainly won't offer it twice."
"Human filth…" the lead vyrewatch spat. "You cannot possibly take on all of us. If you give us the boy without a struggle, maybe we shall spare you."
"Spare me…" Jerrod echoed. Suddenly the Cleric started laughing. "Yeah, right; your definition of 'spare me' would probably be to lock me in a cell so you can harvest my blood for the rest of my life. Thank you, but no. And you're right; I cannot defeat all seven of you. However…you are more intelligent than most of the vermin I kill on a daily basis. I know that none of you want to die. If you attack, however…some of you will die. Which of you is willing to take that risk?"
As he spoke, the Cleric cast an inconspicuous glance over the edge of the carpet. He gave a faint grin when he saw that he had passed the coast and was now hovering over the water.
"Enough talk," the lead vyrewatch snapped. "Take him."
The other six vampyres thrust their spears forward, but a bright flash of light temporarily blinded them. When their eyes cleared, they found that their spears had stabbed through nothing but empty air. The Cleric and the boy were gone.
Even before Avis opened his eyes, he knew that he was no longer in the desert. The air was much too moist and the temperature too low for it to be any part of the Menaphite Desert.
The pale-skinned boy cracked open his eyes and sat up, tentatively looking around. He was in a dark room—no, a hut—that had all the accommodations of a normal house. One of the walls had a clay oven and a carved stone washbasin. There was a bed lining another wall. In the center of the hut was a simple, round table with two chairs.
Where was he? How had he gotten here?
Avis's mind flashed back to the last things he remembered before losing consciousness. The vivid image of a bloody arrow embedded in his chest suddenly sprang into his mind and he gasped, looking down at his chest.
When all he saw was a bandage, he let loose a sigh of relief. He remembered having been carried right before he lost consciousness...it must have been Jafa and Lessa, or someone else he knew—no one else went into that slum anymore. They would have taken him to Farrah…who seemed to have healed him. Avis recognized the bandages.
That still did not answer his question, though. Where the hell was he?
Avis swung his legs over the edge of the bed he had been lying in. He felt faint for a few seconds when he stood up, but quickly recovered his balance. He started to walk, taking small, questing steps.
He trudged across the small hut to the entrance, which was a thick door made of oak wood resting on wooden hinges. The door swung outward and Avis stumbled outside. He rubbed his eyes and took in his surroundings with equal parts shock and wonder.
He was in a swamp. Or rather, on an island in the swamp. Lush plants and trees were everywhere, so thick that it was difficult to see the sky. When he looked off in the distance, he could see the lake in which the island was located stretching out to its banks, beyond which all he could see were trees.
Everything was so green. For someone who had spent his entire life in a dusty desert city…the sudden transition of environments was nearly mind-numbing. There were no buildings for him to climb up and run over, no kiosks for him to thieve from…
This hut seemed to be the one piece of civilization in the entire swamp. It was obviously the owner of that swamp who was responsible for his being here.
On the one end of the island was a well-tended garden…that was probably the main source of the hut-owner's food out here. Perhaps he also specialized in herbs.
Suddenly, Avis spotted movement on the other side of the lake. An older-looking man in a black traveler's cloak had appeared out of the underbrush. The boy quickly stole back across the islet and climbed up the nearest tree, hiding himself away in the leafy branches. The man didn't appear to have spotted him.
Avis's eyes widened as he watched the man step onto the water. Wherever his feet touched the water, the surface froze over, turning into a path of ice. This man was a mage. As he drew near to the islet, Avis got a semi-good look at him. Short, dark-gray hair, closely-trimmed beard and mustache, stormy gray eyes…this was a powerful man. Avis could sense that somehow from just a single glance.
The man bore an armful of herbs. When he set foot on the island, the path of ice melted away, returning to the water from whence it came. The older man ducked into the hut, dropping the herbs off, and then came back outside. He shed his traveler's cloak, hanging it up by the door, revealing a simple brown tunic underneath.
The older man ran a hand over his short facial hair and sat down cross-legged at the edge of the island, where the earth turned briefly to sand before falling beneath the water. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He seemed so attuned to the environment around him…almost like he was a part of it.
He then surprised Avis by speaking. "I am not going to have a conversation with a boy who is up in a tree," the older man said. "You can stay up there all day and night, if you so desire… If it is answers you seek, however, I would suggest coming down and joining me."
Avis sensed no hostility in the man's voice…and besides, if the man had wanted to hurt him, he could have done so long ago. And Avis did want answers, so he promptly slid down the trunk of the tree and walked over to where the man was meditating.
"Who are you?" Avis started blurting out. "Where have you-" Suddenly, Avis choked on his words. Though his mouth was moving, no sound was coming out, almost as if someone had just turned off his voice as simply as flipping a switch.
"I can see that respect is but one more thing you shall have to learn from me," the older man sighed, opening his eyes. He nodded over to the ground next to him. "Sit," he said. "And don't speak out of turn again unless you want me to take away your voice for the rest of the day."
Avis did as he was told and sat cross-legged next to the older man, semi-patiently waiting for his answers. He already had a feeling that this man would not reveal a thing until he was ready to. There would be no getting information out of him prematurely.
"Beautiful, is it not?" the older man asked the boy, gesturing to the swamp. "Unlike anything you've ever seen, no doubt. I prefer it over the desert anyday…but that is just personal opinion."
Avis found that he could speak again, but wisely decided to keep his mouth shut this time.
The man did not say anything for what must have been an hour. Avis had decided to play his game. He straightened up and closed his eyes as well. He was surprised to find that this swamp was as full of energy as Ullek had been. Even more so, actually, because of the sheer volume of natural flora and fauna. The Anima Mundi was simply everywhere…and in different textures. It was beautiful.
Avis had always pitied his friends in the orphan shelter run by Farrah. They had never been able to sense the Anima Mundi like him. Farrah had said that his ability to sense life energy in such a manner was a sign of being a mage.
"You know what patience is," the man said suddenly, shaking Avis out of his deep thought. "I suppose you're not a total loss…" the older man paused for a yawn, and then kicked out his feet, stretching the cramped muscles. He then lay back on the ground, saying, "I guess you'd like to know who I am, wouldn't you?"
"I would," Avis nodded.
"My name is Jerrod," the older man introduced himself. "I am a Cleric of the God Saradomin, and one of the most powerful mages you'll ever meet. That's all you need to know. Whenever you address me, however, you shall address me as 'master'. I am to be your teacher."
"What happened to me? How did I-"
"Farrah patched you up," Jerrod cut the boy off. "I arrived after you were wounded and got you out of the city before…" the older man hesitated, realizing that Avis did not know that Ullek was gone. "I…uh…I don't really know how to say this, kid, so I'm just gonna say it. Your home, Ullek; it's gone. The monsters broke through the northern wall and burned the whole place."
A lump rose in Avis's throat. The boy did not move, but Jerrod noted the subtle hunching of the shoulders, hardening of the jaw, and clenching of the fists. The boy was deeply disturbed by this turn of events.
The Cleric sighed inwardly, but he knew it was better the boy found out everything now rather than a few months later when he needed to concentrate the most. "Those monsters were in the service of Zamorak. They were looking for you, and you have seen what they're capable of."
The boy did not answer, but Jerrod knew he had to be listening.
"They've ravaged over half of the Menaphite Empire in the name of the Dark God. Do you want more cities and more people to suffer the same fate? Getting butchered because a false God wants more power?"
Slowly, Avis shook his head. Hard as he tried to stop it, a single tear ran down his cheek. He knew in his heart that Farrah and the others were safe…but Ullek had been his home. It had been the only place he had ever known or loved…and now he was being told that it was nothing more than a cinder.
"You have the makings of a great mage, boy," Jerrod said to Avis. "You have a powerful inner energy…an energy the likes of which I've never seen in a Human before. By order of the God Saradomin, I am going to train you in the four elements…and you will become an even stronger mage than me. You have a great destiny ahead of you, boy…"
"So I've heard…" Avis murmured.
Jerrod stood up and walked back over to his hut, ducking inside once again. When he came back out, he carried two long, thick sticks of wood. He tossed one at the feet of Avis. "I do not know how long your training shall take. It will take several years for me to introduce you to all the elements. I can train you in Air and Water here…for Earth we must travel northwest to the Avarrockan Hills, and for Fire we must travel to the Northern Menaphite Empire. For now, though…we remain in the swamp."
Avis picked up the wooden stick, swinging it up and around experimentally, getting a feel for its weight. "When do we start training?"
Jerrod smiled wolfishly. "Right now," he said. Then he struck.