Steel flashed in the night – black steel rumoured to have been made from the iron falling from the skies back in prehistoric times, the ancient runes carved into the blade that no one could read anymore glowing with a faint, eerie, greenish glow.
The head of the Black Scorpion, unfortunate enough to have been sitting closest to the door soared through the suddenly frozen air inside the inn and landed on the tabletop between the two surprised jaad merchants. Their bodyguards, drawing their own swords, suddenly came alive and, shielding their masters with their own bodies, turned towards the door.
By the time the newcomer had passed the Scorpions' table, all of them were lying, slaughtered, in a messy heap on the dirty floor, foolish enough to draw their own swords against the killer of their buddy. Before he died, one of the Scorpions managed to land a wide cut on the newcomer's side, opening a gaping hole in the flesh, but the black figure took seemingly no notice of it. Swishing the lunir-steel sword in a wide, horizontal movement, he sent his attacker to the jaad heaven as well, effectively and mercilessly.
Geor suddenly went pale, recognizing the fearful figure of the assassin. By Ranagol, the ram-headed God, it's a Sleeper! Hadn't Lady Liliath sent them all to eternal peace with her last command after they had served her for one last time?
Having cut down the two bodyguards as well – not wasting his time for their whining from fear masters hiding under the table – the Sleeper moved relentlessly to Geor's table and he jumped up on his feet, kicking the chair back and drawing his abbit-steel broadsword. All eyes in the room – all living eyes and a pair of undead ones – were now pointed at him.
Ascyra chose this very moment to emerge from the back door with his beer in her small hands. Seeing the fearful figure, she let go of the cup – the tin making loud contact with the wood of the floor – and emitted a piercing shriek. The eyes of the undead body locked at his new target and Geor sensed he had to act quickly.
He slightly changed his position so that his table would get between him and the undead, motioning to Ascyra with his left – empty – hand not to move. “Sleeper! Why did the Queen of Alidax send you?”
He reached his first target; the Sleeper's attention turned back to them upon hearing the name of his commander. His voice, rusty for having been unused for sixteen long millennia during his sleepless sleep in one of the caves of the Forbidden Plateau, spoke three short words.
“You must die.”
Geor's eyes caught fire, and an almost pleasant, yet ironic smirk formed on his face. “Everybody must die once.” His eyes narrowed, turning into two snake-like slits in his face, while he reached down into his mental self looking for an appropriate piece of magic to destroy the Sleeper. He found none, and that was no surprise. That knowledge was lost together with the last kyr mage, whose predecessors once set their feet on the beautiful shores of Cranta, the most powerful land of the Quaternary period. There fell the proud armada of Cranta, with its elitary corps - the regiment of Sleepers - burnt to ashes by the magical, white fire cast by a few dozen kyr magi, and the foot soldiers of the invader did the rest of the job, cutting down each and every living soul in the “City between the Clouds”. A few decades later, only the ruins of the magnificent Royal Palace stood recognizable, the rest of the city overgrown by a pine forest where time stopped, and a once proud nation with its legends, knowledge and language existed no more.
Neither opponent moved and Geor liked this temporary status quo. He knew that the Sleeper was almost invincible, unless his undead body was burnt or his head severed, and against the sheer, brutal force of the six-foot-six body clad into impenetrable and magically enforced lunir-steel armour he was not weaponed. He knew he had only one chance and he had to act immediately before the Sleeper made up his mind to attack first.
