Chapter Three – The Horrors of the White Citadel

Ishkinil had started to turn from the corpse upon the throne, now severed of its unnatural life, ready to return Dirgesinger to its scabbard, when a whispered noise came to her. Faint at first it started but slowly it gathered intensity. It came from all around, from the vortex of energies above. Tendrils of it began to lash about, an almost frantic edge to them, whipping through the air, seeking to ground themselves.

The corpse upon the throne fell apart before her, the sorcerous energies that had once held it there and sustained it no more. It fell into dust and ash upon the throne. A stirring wind in the chamber, driven by the arcane energies, tugged at them, spilling them across the marble floor.

Where once had sat a corpse now remained a spectral figure, its features more distinct, of a proud and handsome looking man, his features now suffused in agonised pain. Still the golden spikes held him in place, holding his spectral form there as they had done with his desiccated body. Now that the physical body was no more, Ishkinil could make out the nature of the golden spikes better, and upon them were etched sorcerous runes that glowed red, words of dark power and binding, enough to hammer the spectral body to the throne, to prevent its release into Enkurgil’s embrace.

The spectre of he who had once been Nakhurena’s general struggled against the bindings, seeking to break free of his restraints, but it availed him not, for they bound him tight with shackles unbreakable, forged of the darkest sorceries. It threw back its head in despair and let out a silent roar. No sound emanated from its mouth though there was a force behind it still. It struck Ishkinil with an invisible hand, one that buffeted at her and sent her shadowed cloak rippling behind her, rocking her back on her feet. She felt its touch wash over her, a cloying tainted touch that set her skin to itching and crawling.

Light erupted from the spectral figure’s eyes and mouth, corrupted green in colour, snapping tendrils of arcane energy that lashed through the air, leaving glowing after-effects in their wake. Frenzied strikes crashed upon the floor and the walls about, and where they hit sparks leapt and the stone was left scored, molten and bubbling along the edges, near white-hot in intensity.

One tendril whipped towards Ishkinil, cracking through the air, forcing her to dive aside to avoid its deadly caress. She rolled smoothly across the floor and back to her feet in one easy motion, poised low on the balls of her feet, watching the whip of the sorcerous tendrils, making ready to move at a moment. Another tendril arced towards her, snaking through the air as if it was scenting her out, seeking her as it came. She darted behind one of the broad white marble columns of the hall as it lashed towards her. It struck the column, and the corpse nailed to it. Sparks leapt and the smell of burnt flesh rose in the as he corpse was cut in half. Molten stone dripped to the floor and flames began to smoulder as the corpse started to burn.

As abrupt as the sorcerous attacks had come they were then gone again, tendrils snapping back into the spectral form. As cautious as any wild cornered animal, Ishkinil edged out from behind the column, away from the smouldering corpse, wary that the attacks had not yet ended, only paused.

Well was she to think so, for one more sickly energy erupt from the spectral figure, more intense and numerous, a multitude of smaller flailing tendrils. They came not for her, but rather arced and jumped through the air, grounding themselves upon the corpses nailed to the walls and columns of the throne room. The arcane energy burrowed into them, and as it did, they began to shudder and jerk. The nails that bound them melted away and all around her, corpses began to fall to the ground, even the one aflame. First one, then another, rose to its feet, motions jarring and unsteady. They began to shamble in her direction, a wall of the dead that walked, from their eyes glowing an insidious, sickly green light.

Ishkinil turned about, watching as they came on at her from all parts of the room, a ring of them closing in, lurching towards her, arms reaching out, ready to grasp and rend.

They were numerous, too many for her to face down, not alone and surrounded as she was. To fight was to die, and there, in that place, she could not do so.

With swift step she dashed for the entrance, charging the approaching mass of walking corpses, shadows growing thick about her. Dirgesinger flashed with bright white-blue flame and crooned as it sung through the air. The blade arced down upon the nearest of the reanimated, and the blow clove it asunder, cutting clear through from shoulder to emerge on the other side of the body.

A flailing blow came at her as she kicked passed the falling, sundered corpse, and she ducked swiftly beneath it, lashing out with Dirgesinger, taking the legs out from beneath another, cutting a path clear through the encircling foe. On she ran, long legged stride swiftly outpacing her shambling pursuers. They could not catch her, not while strength remained in her limbs.

Yet even as she ran, headed for the exit of the throne room and the corridors that led out of the White Citadel and back into the city, she caught a glimpse of more of the arcing tendrils of sorcerous might. These struck not the corpses in the room but passed through the very walls of it, heading to parts unseen.

There would be other bodies out there, perhaps in parts of the White Citadel she had not as yet explored, or in Iskor Yar itself, and these too would be brought back to unnatural life. The dead would walk, and with it seek to bring forth a tide of suffering and pain.

Down long darkened corridors of the citadel Ishkinil ran, though not yet at full strength. Dim light lit her way, the flickering flames from her touch and the dull glow of Dirgesinger as the white-blue flames ran along it. If the torch should go out, she feared that she would be trapped in the dark with the deceased, uncertain as to the direction to take to get out. Fear, too, there was of stumbling on some unseen impediment or crashing into one in her haste.

From a side room, a corpse lurched out and only her near instinctive reactions saved her from a collision. Dirgesinger sung and cut and the body crumpled backwards into the room it had emerged from, head cleaved asunder.

She leapt onwards, long legs stretching out, the desecrated murals of the corridor flashing by her while flickering torchlight played across them.

From ahead, a light began to take hold, dim still, the light of the night, yet still distinct from the utter dark that lay heavy within the citadel. The exit loomed and she dashed through it, out into the night atop the hill, the stairs leading down before her. The city was laid out beneath her, its towers and buildings silvered by the pale moonlight.

Then flashed across the skies a winged shadow, circling above. It crossed before the silvered moon, the silhouette of a winged-ape. Once more it flew above the city. Beneath it, the silence that had rested upon the city was no more. Faint screams and cries and howls echoed throughout it, coming from distant parts. Darkness was at work within the city, seeking out those who had lain low and silent.

Ishkinil knew she could not stop there, for those within the citadel still followed, while on the plaza below she could see movement in the moonlight, of shambling figures converging towards the base of the steps. A few had even reached it already and were beginning their unsteady assent.

Ishkinil stared down the steps, judging her opportunities. It remained her only means of escape, for the sheer sides of the rocky hill upon which the citadel had been built could not be climbed, and too far it was to jump down, not without serious injury. The steps remained her only option.

Down it she began to go, in shadows veiled, Dirgesinger crooning its eager song, the torch still flickering. She swept it before her, using the flames to try and keep the dead at bay yet they pushed on, ignoring it, even as it struck and flames began to take. Dirgesinger followed, a sudden strike, followed by a reversed swing as a second corpse lunged for her, cutting down one then a second. The bodies fell and began to tumble down the stairs, taking the legs out of another climbing corpse.

Ishkinil ran and leapt over it, coming to land on the ground of the plaza. She flung the torch at another approaching horror, knocking it backwards, then cut off at an angle to the left, away from her intended route, hoping to draw the slower moving corpses away.

A fallen column lay across the plaza before her and she leapt up onto it, running lightly along the length of it. A snatched grasp came at her and she jumped over it, continuing to run down the column. Reaching the end, she made a running jump, launching herself from it, above the head of another approaching corpse. Clearing it, she landed, righted herself and took off at a sprint, around the edge of the plaza, dodging through gardens and columns. All thoughts were focused on escape from the city. Only then, when she was free and clear, would she have time enough to consider what to do next, for the blight being unleashed from the city could not be allowed, but alone in the city should do little against so relentless and numerous a foe.

A feathered whisper through the air caught her hearing and she looked up, seeing not the winged-ape but a raven, blacker than the night, swooping in, its claws raking across the face of a corpse, distracting it enough to cause it to stumble, arms flailing unsteadily to try and batter aside the swooping bird. Ishkinil struck as she ran on by, Dirgesinger cleaving clean through its torso, causing the corpse to collapse in two parts.

“Trouble,” croaked the raven.

“Aye, that there is,” Ishkinil replied, half breathless from her run. “Was wondering where you had got to.”

“Watching, observing,” was all that the bird would say.

Ishkinil could do little more than to grunt a response, too occupied by her run, of keeping a wary eye out for the dead all around to do more than that.

Ishkinil’s circuit brought her around to the exit from the plaza, where it joined the street that ran down the length of the city to the distant city gates. There she slowed her pace, for the way ahead was blocked, a number of the shambling corpses there, milling about. Not all were the ancient, desiccated corpses she had seen before; a number appeared newly slain, no decay upon them, their clothes marred by fresh blood. Already the killing had started, the numbers of the dead growing.

She stopped, turning to look back to where she had come from, to the White Citadel. A steady flow of corpses still stumbled from the citadel, lurching down the stairs with uneven gait, to join with those emerging from other parts, from buildings around the plaza and streets that led deeper into the city.

Her way was blocked, requiring another means of escape, else she would be trapped and swarmed over, her skills and the might of Dirgesinger no match for such numbers as were gathering.

“What can you see?” she asked of the raven.

“The dead that walk, a coming tide of darkness,” said he, “The way is shut.”

Grim was the look on her face in reply, eyes cold and hard, set with determination in the face of her foe. Her fingers curled tight around the hilt of her white bone sword. “If this be the hour that I shall once more walk in Enkurgil’s presence, then it shall be so. No few of them shall I take with me, yet not enough, for as long as this source of darkness remains more shall rise still, and ever will the darkness feed and grow stronger.”

Thus saying, she began a remorseless march forward, towards the exit from the plaza, ready to face down the growing tide of the dead, for Dirgesinger to sing for as long as strength remained in her arms and breath in her body. Yet as she did, a winged shadow fell from above, to land among the gathered corpses, crushing one beneath its great bulk as it did. Long arms swept outwards, sending the shambling corpses to tumbling and a loud snarl filled the air. The winged-ape tore into the dead, grasping one and then the next, tearing them apart with a surge of its muscled body in a savage display, discarding limbs and bodies until the way was clear, all around the dismembered corpses. It came out not unscathed though, for the deathless had no thoughts to their own preservation, seeking only to kill and slay even as they were torn asunder.

There were scores across its chest where nails had clawed, blood seeping from the wounds, and upon his arms as well. Cautiously Ishkinil approached the beast. It had saved her, yet its true purpose remained unknown.

“Your aid was most timely,” she told it. A reverberating hum came from its chest and it tapped at it with a clenched fist. “We may escape yet,” she went on. “The way now is clear.”

It rose up to its full height, towering above her, lips curling back in a snarl. Ishkinil took a step back as it did, but it made no move towards her. It raised an arm and pointed behind her, towards the White Citadel. She turned to see what it was that had attracted its attention.

Beyond the shambling horde, at the very top of the stairs at the shattered gates of the Citadel, a figure stood, one glowing an unearthly green. The spectral form of the one whom had been the Everqueen’s general stood, arms raised aloft, the source of the blight upon the city, was bound no more by the sorcerous snares that had once held him tight.

“He is the key,” Ishkinil said, her eyes narrowing as she considered how best to proceed. “If we could but get to him, we could end this darkness, to return this city to the living, yet I fear that there are too many between us and it for us to make it.”

The giant winged-ape tapped at its chest once more and hooted low in its throat, before pointing off towards the spectral figure again.

Deciphering its intent from its gestures, Ishkinil shook her head. “No, this is one I fear that is beyond your means to fight, even with your strength. It is not of this world and requires other means to defeat it, such as this,” she added, raising Dirgesinger. “I alone can do this, if I could but find a way to approach.”

The beast seemed to nod and then, before Ishkinil could react, had snatched her up and leapt aloft, its broad wings snapping opening as it soared into the night’s sky, making towards the White Citadel and the foe that awaited there.

On to Chapter Four – Legends of Shadows