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Even with the distance between us and the roaring wind all around, I hear the growl which rumbles from the back of his throat. His expression reveals the words he would snarl at me if I were any closer: That saving Juron is my decision. That if my hesitation causes the Lich Lord to be freed, he’ll torture my soul in far more painful ways than he’s ever promised.
In the next breath, I’m hurrying across the bridge. The consequences of failure terrify me far more than the chasm below.
As I fall into step behind Caya, I keep my eyes fixed on the obsidian gates ahead. My palms sweat despite the frigid winds slamming into me. The dread of the unknown, of what lies beyond those dark gates, churns in my stomach. Once more, I remind myself of Taria’s and Natharius’s vast power.
The gates shudder open as we reach them, and Zephyr darts up and coils around my shoulders. A putrid stench fills my nostrils as I step into the fortress. We’d be cast in complete darkness if it not for the pale orbs floating along the corridors. They remind me of wisps, though they don’t make a tinkling sound as I pass.
A few paces into the fortress, the obsidian gates slam shut behind us. I jolt and whirl around. There’s no one, or nothing, by the gates. They’ve shut of their own accord and must be enchanted with dark magic.
I shudder and turn back to the corridor ahead. The others are already disappearing around the next corner, and the undead escorting us are long out of sight. Not wanting to be left alone in this ghastly place with only Zephyr for company, I sprint down the corridor until I catch up with Caya. The warrior doesn’t seem to notice my brief hesitation, her gaze on the undead ahead and her fingers curled around the hilt of her sword.
Our footsteps echo through the empty corridors, and the shadows whisper around us. We weave our way through the fortress until we arrive at the courtyard at its center.
Moonlight shines down on us, silvering the withered bones of the many undead gathered here. Skeletal feet clatter against the stone floor. The undead come in a variety of shapes and sizes. Some are humanoid: humans, orcs and goblins. I don’t think there are any elven skeletons lurking amid the fortress’s shadowy courtyard, but I’m not sure I would be able to distinguish them from the human undead. Goblins are short, with over-sized heads and sharp teeth. Orcs are tall and broad, with tusks jutting from their lower jaws, while elves appear much closer to humans, aside from the fact they are often taller and slenderer.
Though many of the undead are of humanoid remains, most are the bones of various animals. There are bears, foxes, hawks, and even squirrels. They make me shiver as much as the humanoid skeletons.
The goblin wraith escorts us through the fortress’s courtyard, and all undead turn their attention to us living beings. My mind is soon frozen by the dozens of empty eye sockets staring at me. The only thought which remains is that of taking one step after another until I reach the large iron doors on the other side of the courtyard.
Like the gates at the fortress’s entrance, the iron doors swing open by themselves. The goblin wraith doesn’t pause before striding through, nor do the others. But I do, glancing back at the courtyard. All the undead now surround us, blocking our path to the fortress’s gates. If we wish to flee, we’ll first need to defeat the masses of undead standing between us and freedom.
The undead draw closer. Their hands, talons and claws reach out for me, as if trying to push me through the doors.
I stumble back, Zephyr almost flying from my shoulders, and narrowly escape the grasp of an undead orc. The skeleton stands at nearly twice my height. With the hordes of undead almost upon me, I whirl around and follow the others through the iron doors and into the hall.
twenty-nine
Ourfootstepsthunderthroughthe hall. While the fortress appears derelict, the inside of this hall is a stark contrast. A polished onyx floor stretches out before us, its surface so clear that when I gaze down, my own reflection stares back at me. The braziers lining the stone walls are filled with the same pale light which illuminates the fortress’s corridors.
A vaulted ceiling climbs high above, dwarfing even Natharius. At the far end of the hall stands an enormous obsidian throne, a hulking figure sitting on it. The braziers’ light doesn’t reach them, and I can’t make out their features from the darkness. But I have no doubt this is the wraith’s master: Mulgath Kharak.
The necromancer isn’t alone in his hall. Undead lurk in the shadows, ivory claws and fangs glinting like the monstrosities outside in the courtyard. Though the surrounding undead clamor as we pass, Mulgath himself doesn’t stir. He remains hunched over in his obsidian throne, as still as death.
The undead fall silent as the goblin wraith halts before the throne, and we stop a few paces behind her.
Now I can better discern Mulgath’s features. Though he isn’t small by any means, his figure fails to fill the enormity of the obsidian throne. Natharius said the Lich Lord once made this place his foothold in Talidor. This fortress must have belonged to him, and judging by the throne, Mulgath’s size was a fraction of the ancient lich’s.
The necromancer’s skeletal form is draped in dark, tattered robes, and the torn fabric reveals many discolored bones. Shadows swirl around him, ebbing and flowing in a steady rhythm. His loose-fitting robes drift through the darkness.
Mulgath’s head remains lowered. The empty sockets of his eyes stare at the few steps leading to his throne. The bones in his fingers twitch, and if not for that slight movement, I would think him nothing more than a heap of bones.
“Master,” the goblin wraith hisses, her voice piercing the silence. “I have brought you the demon you seek. Along with the three mortals.”
Mulgath’s head lifts slowly. The tusks jutting from his jaw glisten in the pale light. Shadowy orbs ignite in the empty sockets of his eyes, and the necromancer’s deathly gaze sweeps over us. His stare fixes on Natharius. It’s impossible to read any emotion on Mulgath’s skull, but the shadowy orbs in his eye sockets intensify. They look like flickering flames, barely containing the necromancer’s wrath.
“Natharius Thalanor.” Mulgath’s hollow voice reverberates off the onyx walls. The sound is deafening. Inescapable. “Long have I awaited this day.”
Natharius meets the necromancer’s gaze with a bored expression. “Mulgath Kharak,” he drawls. “The most incompetent necromancer I have ever met.”
Mulgath leaps from his throne. He throws his skull back and bellows a blood-curdling roar.
I draw back. But there’s nowhere to flee. All the undead inside the hall surround us.
Caya unsheathes her golden sword, and Zephyr darts behind me. Even Taria flinches. Natharius is the only one who doesn’t wince.
A smirk dances on Natharius’s lips. “How can a necromancer pride himself on being a master of undead if he allows himself to be slain by them?”
I cast Natharius a silent plea, desperately urging him to stop taunting our enemy, but he doesn’t notice. His gaze remains on Mulgath.
