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.
From the corner of his eye he say Ascyra, pale and trembling, standing in the doorway, unspeakable horror in her eyes. He feared for the girl – the weakest link in the chain, feared that the Sleeper would attack her, and decided to act by surprise.
Jumping on his chair, from the chair onto the table – as if mounting the richly inlaid marble staircase in Queen Liliath's palace on the shore of the Sea of Gallyons – he took the two steps dividing him from the Sleeper. At the end of the table he jumped up, his straight right leg making a perfect circle in the air, connecting with the Sleeper's chin just under his helmet. Continuing his movement, he completed his backwards somersault in the air, landing on the same spot where he'd started his attack.
The Sleeper, however, didn't seem to have felt the powerful kick that would have smashed any chin, any skull into small bone fragments, killing its owner instantaneously. His head gave in only a slight bit, tilting upwards, the next moment his sword slashed down, missing Geor's leg with an inch only.
The Sleuth took his second chance. Supporting himself on the somewhat surprised Sleeper's chest armor with one leg, he stepped on the creature's head with the other one and dove off him, far behind his back, rolling out on the floor and occupying his favourite fighting stance. His well-practiced, feline-like movements earned a few admiring “Ohhh's” and “Ahh's” from the frightened guests of the inn and the Sleeper turned towards him, raising his sword again.
Geor knew it was now and never. The Sleeper brought down his sword – hadn't he jumped aside in the very last aeon, it would have cut him neatly into two identical halves – and he thrust out his own one, opening up a deep cut at the undead's knee, between the armour plates. The zombie, however, took no notice of it; with his free left hand, rolled into a fist, he landed a devastating punch at Geor's chin. The Sleuth flew a few yards back and landed on his back, trying to refocus his eyes and shake the sudden ringing out of his head, when the Sleeper attacked again. He didn't finish his attack, however.
“Aq-khazd!” The short word spoken in the secret language of the Forbidden Plateau cut through the air as thousand shiny blades and a yellow flame smashed into the back of the Sleeper.
Geor, for a split second, couldn't believe his eyes. There stood Ascyra in the doorway, both her hands, palms facing the zombie, thrust out in front of her. Tiny beads of sweat were rolling down her face, her lips, pressed together tight, were slightly trembling nevertheless. There were not many wizards alive, human or not-human, who were adept in the vocal magic of the Forbidden Language, the aquir Words of Power, and this tiny girl, barely 11-12 years of age, had just cast one.
At this moment he knew that his instincts hadn't been lying about the girl. Fighting for his life, however, he had to leave all his contemplations behind; should he win this duel, he could always return to them. He disgustedly flinched at the stench of burning, undead flesh and, all too happy about the momentary distraction, struck at his opponent. Still lying on the floor, he swished his sword in a low, horizontal, circular motion, hitting the Sleeper's leg and severing his knee. At the same moment, his foot kicked out, painfully connecting with the Sleeper's other leg, swiping it out from under the massive body, and the undead fell on the ground with a loud bang.
Jumping up in one swift movement, Geor brought down his sword, separating the Sleeper's head from the neck, his body frozen into that last perfect attack. The faint glow of the magical runes slowly died off as the magic of the horrible ritual performed sixteen thousand years ago tying metal to flesh ceased to exist and the armor slowly disintegrated into fine powder, together with the body of the Sleeper that finally found his eternal peace.
Standing on one knee, Geor sadly watched the eerie spectacle. This awaits us all in the end. This one here must have been an elitary soldier or a young nobleman who willingly gave up his soul in those final days of desperation when the magi of Cranta found those long forgotten scrolls with the description of the ritual. Now he's but a bare heap of dust, just like I'm going to be once. But not today, my dears. Not today.
“May your soul finally rest in peace, blood of Cranta,” he whispered into the air.
Then he slowly stood, admiring eyes following his movements, but no one spoke. Walking back towards his table, he suddenly caught Ascyra's face; the girl still stood there, her hands still pointing towards the spot where the Sleeper had been standing up until a few moments ago, her eyes glassy and unseeing.
“Ascyra?” He brought a barely perceptible magical edge into his voice to break the girl out of her reverie. “Could you show me to my room, please? I'd also need a bowl of fresh water to wash myself.” He spoke to the girl, but he meant to reach the inn-keeper with his words. The jaad nodded approvingly towards the girl, nudging her with his head to obey the esteemed guest. Before passing through the doorway and heading towards the guestrooms, his right hand made a few barely perceptible movements in the air. It would do no good to the girl if those present tonight would later start asking questions about her knowledge of magic, and the magic runes invoking the Mist of Forgetfulness seemed just appropriate for the occasion. It was just a usual brawl and a few drunken soldiers slaughtered each other. Tomorrow no one will remember what had happened.
Tonight, however, it was his exclusive privilege to ask the questions he was longing to ask.