“Your Majesty, it is time.” Ath'asho cleared his throat, eyes averted as he stood a respectful distance away.
“Have there been any other signs something is happening down there?” Er’it indulged himself in one last caress of Endi’s cheek before he fell into step beside Ath'asho, tucking the thick glove into his belt.
“Still silent as the grave. There’s damage to a section on the west hall, looks as if part of the roof has caved in.”
“Think it’s too much to ask that we have a friend in there?”
“Never ask a deity for a favor. You won’t like their offer,” Ath'asho said with a grunt, the last three fingers of his left hand touched to his brow to ward off evil.
Taking a deep breath, Er’it prepared himself. Seeking that space inside of him where his magic churned and twisted, a vicious roar within that never quieted. Reaching out with that sense, he touched on the shimmering colors blazing in the night that were the other mages in his command. Soft blue, dusty green, sun dipped yellow. Sliding his thumb across the blade slung on his belt, his power surged through him as the first sticky droplets of blood smeared over the metal. Of all his mages, only he had chosen this path, the vivid crimson of his power crackling through his veins.
“Now,” Er’it hissed into the blistering wind beginning to swirl around him, the command carried through the ranks.
The first wave trampled Otaso’s protection into the ground. Six mages against the old spells were more than they could withstand. Exploding into a fiery spray that arced through the night sky to illuminate the hordes of black armored men charging through the dusty fields toward Er’it and his people.
They met the same end.
Er’it couldn’t just feel the blood soaked deep into the barren land. The energy cried his name and reached for him. Surging through the darkness, powering through his shields to delve straight into his soul. Threatened to rip him apart until he expended much of it in a glorious wave of fire that overtook the castle walls with a deafening roar. Killing yet more of the armored maggots while Er’it’s mages yelled orders to save those fleeing the inferno. Glimmering orbs of swirling blues and greens battled the liquid flames leeching over stone and wood that scorched it to crumbling dust with a magnitude of power that made Er’it’s blood sing.
Inside of the fortress was not much different. Screaming servants, or perhaps slaves, clinging to one another as they bolted past Er’it and his army. By some act of the Hat’or or will alone, the damned place didn’t burn down around them as he continued to use the bastard’s own magic against him. No longer fighting the filthy strands of it, he grabbed them up. Twisted them in his hands and soaked up their power to send it hurtling through the wide halls.
Deafened to his own voice, he charged through the rooms, pulling on those slimy threads, seeking their owner. Drawing closer to Otaso with every purposeful stride until Er’it found himself at the blasted door leading into a ruin of a temple.
A glance showed him it wasn’t a temple at all. A sacrificial shrine, permanent and rooted deep into the ground. It was only its recent destruction that had leeched so much power into the land. The bite of something cold and fresh on his tongue warning Er’it that Otaso had no hand in it.
“Take her.” Quavering and raspy, the voice came from the far corner.
Er’it stopped short, boot trying to skid over the loose rubble littering the floor. Facing off with his enemy for the first time, he took in the measure of the man who had held such promise of being a worthy foe. Ignoring the words spilling from the bloody shambles of the Black Mage’s mouth, Er’it sneered at the creature huddled in a chair. Remnants of power gave the illusion of health and vigor, sporadic and failing as Otaso quit wasting what little clung to him. A man not so far past his prime, gray peppering inky hair and deep lines etching his features, he wasn’t as old as Er’it might have guessed. Strength aplenty in the arms that trembled as Otaso pulled himself to stand by handholds on a shattered table.
Then Er’it realized what the man was saying.
“Take her, have all the power you wish,” Otaso said, hanging on to the broken wood. “Do whatever you wish with her.”
“Take who,” Er’it asked, lip curling at the very idea he was conversing with the Black Mage and not taking his victory there and then.
“The girl, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? So take her.”
“I know of no girl.”
“Pah! Lies. Filthy… witch… bugger.” Otaso fumbled for the chair, landing hard enough the entire thing groaned and cracked, threatening to spill the wheezing mage to the floor.
Er’it grunted, refusing to rise to the bait of the insult as he began picking his way through the room. Enormous chunks of rock littered the floor, their crumbled remains scattered everywhere. Tables lay in pieces, some little more than kindling now. Whatever happened here, it had been a mighty battle. Enough so that Otaso appeared stripped to the very dregs of his power. Perhaps fending off someone else that came to claim this girl, maybe even the one who created such an intense show two days prior. Though it made no sense for the Black Mage to offer the prize if that was the case.
Then came the altar itself. Shattered in two, split right down the middle in a jagged line, the edges melted and scorched as if by lightening. Mages like Otaso spent decades perfecting them, imbuing the impervious rock laden with residual energy with yet
