Over the course of an hour, the realms of my thoughts had transformed drasticaslly. They had gone from bored meditations, self-pity, and sad whines about school to the dream of living long enough to grieve for the dead. "There’s nothing else I can do," I said. "Everybody remaning in the school was fleeing toward the safety of the keep." I looked at Roy, his face red with a mix of anger and excitement. "Why did you come here?" I asked him.
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What innocent blue eyes he pressed on me. "Because it's consecrated, of course!"
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The little zealot. "What if someone… or something tries to get through?"
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"We are the stone to the flood," Serrina declared. That fierce look in her eyes was new. They burned with fierce resolve. "Whosoever comes through those doors with heretical malice shall be wreathed and cast down in ravenous, holy fire.”
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All eyes fell on the resolute priestess. Though it sounded like bravado, she was not alone. The chanters of Cinderfall’s chapel stood present, and though I had never seen it for myself, the stories of the clergy are filled with immense and unbelievable magic. The chapel couldn’t be safer unless The Trinity themselves came down. But what was the plan? Would we wait to be saved until the guardsmen lost their nerve? And what exactly were we hiding from? If nothing but skeletons waited outside, surely, Priestess Serrina herself could have dealt with them.
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Thoom.
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The church doors nearly burst from a sudden, violent collision. The end would come sooner than expected. As the doors began to crack, every guard drew his weapon.
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"Brothers and sisters," cried the head priest, "let us sing the Verse of the Bulwark…
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“Smite the trespassers who would soil this sacred ground!” Jaider, I beseech thee, watch over thy flock in this dark hour."
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The clergy arrayed themselves like a choir, near the podium, facing the entrance without so much as a wince. Surrounded by stained-glass saints, they began their recitation of scripture, as harmonious as any gospel in any mass of any place I had seen or known. Neither fear nor hesitation tinged their voices.
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"Do you believe they can keep those monsters at bay?" a girl muttered. She was as sweaty as when I had arrived except longer in the fetal position.
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"Of course, they can!" said Roy. "My mother told me all about the Choir." The Choir. "When they come together and sing their divine songs, they are unstoppable. And they can—” The crack of crushed hinges interrupted him.
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"They're coming through!"
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Chaos fell as the chapel doors caved inward and crashed. A tide of armored bones—armored skeletons rushed into the hall. Metal clashed against metal in sudden fright. It was steel on steel clanks as Cinderfall’s guards stood their ground, armed with swords, holy spells, and inexplicable courage. There was a moment of doubt that lowered me into a place of extreme fear, especially when I believed the undead would break through. Balls lurched in my throat, sweat tricked down to the base of my sleeves, and the cloth between my fingers was extremely ruffled. And yet, the violent charge stopped.
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A resounding gasp broke the silence. I had failed to realize that I was holding onto Roy.
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Fortunately, the clerics were chanting the Verse of the Bulwark. Every enemy blade that would have hit its mark suddenly rebounded off invisible force. Said force surrounded the guards and shielded them as they shielded us, a kind of divine that made every man stouter. Their feet were rooted into the ground; they didn’t move despite the mob of bones coming down on them. It was holy magic.
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Undaunted, the choir sang. They sang their heavenly song. At the flicker of a candle, the head priest changed his verse, which in turn changed the nature of the spell. His new chant bathed the men in light. Something changed about their demeanor after that. They fought hardily, unshaken. If music could alter morale, the chant could offer miracles. It was my first time witnessing it in a life-or-death situation. At once, I understood why the music of magic is synonymous with battle.
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The fighting broke when the wicked skeletons suddenly backed away. Many of them had crumbled to piles and ash, leaving armor and rags scattered in a heaping mess. Still, it was unnerving to watch the skeletons stand there expressionless and motionless. To believe truly dead things were capable of inflicting more death... As it turned out, they were waiting for something. It was a shadow at the light of the entrance, a person standing at the end of the skeletal move.
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… A man… a dark mage.
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By the time the chorus had ended, the mage all robed in dark greys and literally shrouded in mist stepped past the undead rabble erect at the entrance. They were like statues but less lifelike... It was wholly strange and uncomfortably silent as he strolled past the corpses and ash now carpeting the sanctum. Who is he supposed to be? I thought. Was he the necromancer? He had not uttered a single word, yet I could already tell that I hated him.
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Warren partially hindered my view, so I was more anxious. I was anxious because I knew that man was nothing less than pure evil on two feet… So, I looked over to Sister Serrina and the choir. They were alert yet undaunted, confident enough to give the dubious stranger the floor. Maybe they were too lenient? But I suppose priests are known for uncanny patience. Was they wise, however? In my heart of hearts, I saw nothing but incoming catastrophe.
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Lowering his hood, the dark man carried the floor with his maniacal aura. "Thank you kindly for the respite,” he started. “Children of the Three, I am a messenger of the Death Wielder, and I have stepped amid the fray for the sake of parley. Heark my humble instruction: none need die if thou but remain where thou art.” He grumbled further in his eloquent yet forboding manner. It went along with his worrisom confidence. Still, his voice was softer than expected. The dark chain around his neck shone laces of silver that twirled into an unrecognizable symbol. All the while, his peculiar eyeshadow dripped down to his cheekbones like archaic heathens in old stories.
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"It is a villain or a fool who makes entreaties after battle is joined,” exclaimed the head priest. “Stay thy hand and flee, foul aggressor, for this is a consecrated house. Sully it no further, flee, and we shall stand our ground. Seek repentance for thy sin this day, while still able, and the Trinity might find the deepest recess with room for forgiveness."
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"Demands that follow hollow possibilities, I’m afraid. Heark, I am but a harbinger of the inevitable, priest. This sanctuary is nothing but a bastion of false confidence.”
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“What do you want?”
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“Nothing. What is being done must be done and will end, and should you be reasonable, there will be no further bloodshed. My plea is that you do nothing.”
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"Truly, thou doth expect our faith in thy deliverance? In the midst of thine heinous desecration of our academy, a sacred place of learning and exchange?"
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The dark mage intoned harshly, "There is no other option, son of Kryden."
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"It if is thy credo to defend the faith ‘til death, does your faith mandate the death of students? Or will you merely expidite their graduation into sacrificial lambs?" The black mage oozed with condescension and a dreary droop in his voice. Was he as smart as he was confident? Maybe. Dangerous? Absolutely.
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"It is a matter of thy hands and ours," Serrina interjected. "We cannot forsake our charge when thou art the enemy laid bare, one who deigns to mutilate an academy. And thus, there is but limited recourse for the wicked!"
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Legs shoulder-width apart, the sinister man assumed a mage’s ready stance, lower to the ground, and introduced the hand signs for his incoming incantation.
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Meanwhile, the Choir's chant began echoing once again throughout the church. Their tones trebled high and low, around the painted ceiling and dilapidated doorway. My heart pounded with anticipation. I didn't think a magister could outmatch a choir, yet I remained nervous.
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My hands couldn’t stop shaking.
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That dark mage's confidence brought omens. And as his mouth parted, I could hear nothing. However, I could hear the choir as they recommenced their chant in defiance. Onward, the dark mage sang against them, and the skeletal warriors resumed marching forward.
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It's really happening right now.
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Crack.
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A flash of light illuminated the sanctum, loud like a thunder strike. A sound of metal on metal before the black mage disappeared under a blast that all but smashed the chapel entrance in the blink of an eye, along with the damnable minions. It was as awesome as a natural disaster yet unnatural all the while.
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What just happened? For moments thereafter, I stood frozen, too frightened to lift my head and see what had happened. Eventually, excitement slowly started to course in me. Electric sensations gently tingled through my fingers with my every twitch. When I finally bothered to look, I could see the dust billow where the doors lay decimated. From the incoming breeze, I could sense magical energy.
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I don’t think I was the only one left stupefied in the smoky aftermath. I looked at the choir and Priestess Serrina. By the fraught confusion on their faces, it wasn't them. Had I not blinked, I might have seen everything as it happened. There was no warning but a shockwave that left the front of the chapel in shambles.
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A billow of dust built up our anticipation. But as soon as the dust settled, the answer to our questions came.
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Stave in his vice grip, Maister Rorke stepped forth over rubble and charred bones, until he was standing direcdtly over the dark mage messenger, a flat, suffocating man no longer full of confidence. It happened so fast. Our teacher set one foot forward, forming a hand sign as arcane energy rippled over the fine wood of his staff.
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The rogue mage, now struggling to lift the heavy debris off his robe, attempted an incantation just before the tip of Rorke’s stave impaled his chest. It landed with a surge of bright electricity that shredded the mage’s cloak. The enemy managed to interlock his hands and absorb the blow with an arcane field. It was like watching a storm inside of a pocket. Maister Rorke stared him down until the stave’s energy ripped through his magical ward and into his body.
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The messenger seizured menacingly as the ripples did their work throughout his robes and flesh, ripping both until he was no longer a mage nor even a man but ash... Like that, his head collapsed into dust. It was death by magic, death by maister.
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And that's how a surprise attack works...
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.