John Forrester - Fire Mage

“Worry about that when the time comes.” Mara lay next to him, pulling his blanket over her, and stared at the stars. Twin meteors shot across the black sky, sending a pulsing thrill shooting through his body. Mara was really here with him… For the first time since leaving on the trip, hope blossomed in his heart.

After three grueling days north through the desert, Talis stared out across the stormy horizon, wishing they’d leave this bleak place. How far was it to the northlands? Jarvis was sullen and quiet, refusing to answer his questions. They’d stopped to rest in a gully underneath a massive sand dune.

Rikar was entertaining the soldiers-again, at Talis’s expense-telling stories about Xhan, Talis’s older brother, and what a tremendous fighter Xhan was (as opposed to Talis). It didn’t matter that Talis had beat him in the Blood Dagger competition, Rikar always chose to tell stories about older fights in which Talis lost. Rikar whispered something in a younger soldier’s ear, and they both scoffed and shook their heads at Talis.

This was the worst expedition possible. Talis wished he’d gotten to know his father’s men better, as they seemed to have the same challenging attitude towards him that his father had had for all these years. Especially the younger ones.

Mara kept quiet, keeping her face covered in disguise; she wasn’t about to get escorted back to Naru by one of the soldiers. Talis caught her gripping her dagger as Rikar was deep in ridiculing Talis. This wasn’t easy for her either.

Talis opened a pack and withdrew more dried meat from his dwindling supplies. He was getting sick of dried pork and dried beef. With the wind and storm as strong as it was, they didn’t even attempt to start a fire. He knew he couldn’t expect much in the way of variety on the expedition, especially the farther they went north and the colder it got. But still he missed the ovens of Naru filled with sweet bread and pies, dumpling soup from Fiskar’s Market, and most of all, his mother’s cooking.

But after an hour or so of waiting out the storm, the wind slowed and the clouds dissipated. An eerie calm possessed the desert as the soldiers stared around in wonder. Then one of the soldiers let out a shrill whistle, and Talis turned and noticed that the others behind him were staring at the western horizon.

“Raiders,” shouted Jarvis.

Talis squinted. Far away, a dust cloud swirled towards them.

“Prepare to ride!” Jarvis yelled, charging around his men. They gathered their gear and mounted up. “Battle formation, but keep it loose and fast, I’d rather not engage whoever is out there.”

Talis scrambled onto his horse, and rode after them, the wind stinging his face as they sped north. The horses of Naru were famous across the western world. Bred for speed and endurance, the thoroughbreds selected for the expedition were among the finest champions of Naru. But as Talis glanced back, whoever was chasing them rode like demons…

An inky-black sandstorm swirled behind the group chasing them, the fringes of which reached up to the zenith. The storm rose higher and higher as they gained on them, until it seemed that darkness would blot out the sky. White uniforms against the blackness. Jiserians.

The enemy soldiers on horseback didn’t travel alone. A hundred feet in the air behind them flew three figures in blood-red cloaks. Shadow tendrils lapped at their legs, shrouding their feet. Outstretched hands creating the power of the storm. Talis watched as the figure on the left dove from the sky and brought a spiraling arm down, a black lance of shadow and sand. The storm aimed directly at their party.

Talis stopped and gaped. His horse reared, spooked by the fury of the elemental assault. They would die out here. Or be captured and taken as slaves. Or worse, tortured for information. How could the Jiserians know they were out here?

A few seconds before the spiraling arm struck, it curved inwards and away, sending a blast of cold, sulfuric air washing over them. Talis froze, clearly seeing the Jiserian soldiers now. They weren’t human. At least not anymore. The soldiers and horses were all bone and rotting flesh. Swirling red and gold orbs blazed in their eye sockets. Talis glanced up at the figures in the sky.

Necromancers.

Talis gripped his short sword, feeling heat burning up his arm and racing down his spine.

Jarvis rode to the front, as if he could stop the overwhelming force. “Stay back!” Jarvis brandished his two-handed great sword.

The undead soldiers raised their swords and axes and halberds as they charged them, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. They rode in a twin blade formation, splitting before they reached the party. Circling, the undead soldiers paused, leering at them.

The lead necromancer flew down from the sky and landed twenty feet away. A pool of shadows swirled in her webbed hand. “You will surrender.” She extended her palm towards Jarvis. Talis had never seen such a terror before. Waves of shadowy mist billowed from her figure and light spilled in from above and illuminated the mist. Her eyes were radiant and cruel, yet her face appeared like a child.

“Go to hell,” shouted Jarvis, and raised his sword.

The woman chuckled and brought her hands together, sending a wave of shadows and light speeding at Jarvis. The force slammed into him, knocking him fifty feet back.

“Surrender…or die,” the woman said. A devilish smirk appeared on her lips.

“What do you want with us?” shouted a soldier. “We’re a simple scouting party-”

“You lie,” the woman hissed, and set her face into a twisted scowl. Now, she seemed a thousand years old, spidery veins on her neck, pulsing and black.

Another necromancer with a shaved head landed to the right. “Hand over the boy with the map case.”

“I sense the power.” The woman strode forward until she was inches from the soldier’s face. Her palm twitched. “I sense a powerful relic is near.”

Talis shrank back behind the soldiers, wanting to find a hole and disappear forever. They were looking for him.

Some strange power came over Rikar and he marched up and stood next to the soldier. The woman had gazed at him as he approached, as if her eyes searched his soul.

“You know of magic.” She frowned. “Yet you are not the one.”

“Deal with me, not the young ones.” The soldier stepped in front of Rikar.

“This one talks too much,” the bald necromancer said, and released a flood of demonic faces at the soldier.

He grabbed his throat, his face turning ashen, neck bulging and throbbing, and dropped to his knees, face planting into the sand.

“Now the map, and the boy, if you please.” The woman eyed the other soldiers.

“I have a better idea, let’s kill them one by one-”

“Patience, Oren, patience…”

“Talis,” Rikar said, “you might as well show yourself.”

As Talis stepped out, furious at Rikar for giving him away, he caught the woman’s gaze and the feeling of power grew from the sword in his hand. It built up into an uncontrollable rage, which he fought to suppress with all his power.

“This is the one.” The woman flew forward to where Talis stood.

Talis withdrew the map case and displayed it to the woman. “Is this what you are looking for?” he said. He used the moment’s distraction, stepped forward, and plunged the sword into her heart.

A wailing and hissing sound was heard as she vanished, her body melting into ash. The blood-red cloak wrapped around her floated to the ground.

Half the undead soldiers and horses collapsed around them. Bones clacked against bones, wilting on the sand. The sky cleared. Sunlight rained down on the dark army.

Talis fell to his knees, dizzy from the exertion, blinded by the sudden outpouring of light.