2. Alistair
two
Alistair
Light snow flurries cascaded around Alistair, slowly burying him in a layer of powder.
From his vantage on the rooftop of a shop that had closed for the season, he had a clear view of the large building where Singer’s Rest kept most of its shared supplies.
Situated along the village outskirts, the warehouse presented a prime target to anyone sneaking in from the outside.
He squinted, attempting to discern the bleak landscape through the haze of snow.
Though dawnflame bolstered his body’s hardiness to keep him warm and alert, it did little to enhance his senses in the nighttime gloom.
Hopefully, that storm Erys had mentioned would delay its coming a few hours longer.
The undead would have enough of an advantage through sheer numbers.
Something shifted below, and Alistair’s gaze locked on the movement.
At first, he saw only darkness broken by falling specks of white.
Then, a shape trundled through the snow.
Most of its details remained shrouded, but he picked out its jerking gait, along with the unnatural thinness of its features.
A shiver racked him at the sight of the specter’s face and the twin pools of darkness glowing faintly where its eyes should be.
Erys and the others hadn’t been mistaken—undead plagued their city streets. And where there was one...
As if summoned by his thoughts, more skeletons trailed into view. Alistair counted six in all, though more might have been concealed in the night. They shambled in unison to the warehouse, checking over the door.
Alistair had examined the door himself earlier in the afternoon and noted the heavy locks fitted over it.
However, those proved little impediment to the undead.
With inhuman strength, they ripped the entire door clean off its hinges, tossing it aside.
It landed in the snow with a light thump.
Their path cleared, the undead shuffled inside.
A faint wind howled in Alistair’s ears as he considered his next move.
If he confronted these six inside while more hid in the darkness, he might find himself pincered between them.
It was safer to wait and face them on open ground, where he could more easily outmaneuver them.
No matter what vile magic empowered them, undead weren’t known for being smart.
Unless their master came with them.
That thought sent a shiver down Alistair’s back that had nothing to do with the frigid air.
If whoever had summoned the skeletons lurked nearby, any attempt to interfere might prove suicidal.
Yet, what kind of necromancer would brave the fledgling storm instead of sending their minions out to do their bidding?
Alistair pictured his father, resplendent in his golden armor, and his resolve firmed. Risk or no, he had sworn an oath, and he meant to honor it. He couldn’t allow fear to keep him from living up to his father’s example. Shifting to get comfortable, he settled in to wait.
The skeletons that had entered the warehouse reemerged a few minutes later.
Several bore crates in their arms, while others held everything from blankets to firewood.
He even spotted one carrying what looked like a tiny tea table.
The necromancer certainly had eclectic tastes—not that any of this latest haul would reach them.
Channeling dawnflame to his sword, Alistair drew the blade and leaped from atop his perch.
He landed in the snow below with a heavy crunch.
The undead didn’t react to his presence, even when he charged across the white expanse separating them.
It was only when he plunged a sword dancing with golden flames through one of their chests that they finally seemed to notice him.
The skeleton he’d stabbed let out a rasping cry. It dropped its bundle and tried to turn toward him even as dawnflame surged across its charring bones. In a matter of seconds, the holy energy had engulfed the abomination. Its remnants coated the snow in blackened ash.
The remaining undead regarded him. Up close, Alistair could better discern their thin bones bound together with dark, crackling patches of duskflame like that captured in their empty eye sockets.
He’d expected the scent of rot or decay, but instead, he smelled only a dry, musty odor.
The necromancer must do a good job cleaning the rotten flesh from their victims.
Grimacing in disgust, Alistair fell into a fighting stance and braced himself for the skeletons’ charge. But the expected counterattack didn’t come. No weapons, he realized with a frown. Not a single undead wielded so much as a club. Moving in unison, the skeletons turned and fled.
He muttered a curse and followed. The fresh snowfall was harder to navigate than he’d expected, and he stumbled in the loose substance, struggling to maintain his footing.
The Light-blinded undead were fast, their slender bodies helping them stay atop the snow as they rushed into the oncoming storm.
Alistair channeled more dawnflame in an attempt to keep pace.
The undeads’ retreat had caught him by surprise, but perhaps it would work out for the best. He’d intended to cull some of their numbers tonight before beginning his hunt for the necromancer tomorrow in earnest. Now, however, he might be able to follow these skeletons straight to their master’s lair and catch him or her before they had a chance to prepare.
The oncoming storm raged around Alistair as he ran, growing more intense with each passing moment. Soon enough, he could barely discern the retreating forms ahead.
What if this is some kind of trap? The undead could be leading me to my doom.
A fresh wave of determination heated him along with his dawnflame as he drove himself onward. He’d come too far to lose his quarry now. If this was a trap, he’d trust in the Light—or, at least, in his own prowess—to see him through.
The path ahead grew steeper as he reached the base of an incline. An open cliff face walled him in on the left while the ground dropped away on the right. With the heavy snow, he couldn’t tell if the pit descended five or five hundred paces.
Swallowing, he peered forward, barely able to glimpse the undead. Then, squaring his shoulders, he pressed on. The treacherous path seemed like a good sign they might be nearing the necromancer’s hidden lair. All he had to do was—
His right foot slipped on a patch of ice, and he stepped into open air.
Floundering his arms and digging in his other heel, he tried to stop himself from tumbling over the edge, but his fingers couldn’t find anything solid to grasp onto, and the loose snow denied his attempts at purchase.
Teetering on the cliff’s edge, he had just enough time for his father’s face to flash once more before his eyes, this time wrinkled with disapproval. Then, he was falling into blackness.
The world returned to Alistair in bits and pieces. There had been snow and a fall…yet the air around him warmed his skin.
Blinking his eyes open, he saw he lay in a tiny room of cracked stone. A single rickety door stood at the far end. The room was bare except for a pile of blankets heaped on top of him.
He shoved the blankets aside and realized his armor had been stripped from him, leaving him in a simple tunic. When his scan of the nearby floor revealed no sign of his breastplate or sword, unease clenched his heart.
This is a cell. The necromancer must have captured him while he was unconscious and brought him to their lair. But…why not leave him for dead in the snow, or have their undead execute him while he was defenseless? Why go through all this hassle to rescue a paladin?
Whatever the necromancer’s intent, Alistair couldn’t imagine it would amount to anything good. Four villagers had already gone missing from Singer’s Rest to fuel the fiend’s dark rituals. Perhaps, the necromancer intended to make Alistair number five.
If that’s the case, I won’t make it easy for them. Alistair didn’t need his sword and armor to fight—not when he still had his dawnflame.
He moved to rise and groaned when pain lanced his chest. Glancing down, he saw makeshift cloth bandages had been cinched tight around his torso.
More bandages covered his left arm and hand.
Merciful Light, had the necromancer really bothered tending to his wounds?
Alistair tried flexing his hand and winced. If so, they’d done a poor job of it.
Closing his eyes, he called upon what remained of his dawnflame and infused it into his wounds.
Golden light enveloped him as his flesh knit itself back together.
By the time he’d finished, he had no need for the crude bandages anymore and discarded them so they wouldn’t hamper his movements.
However, after healing himself and bolstering his body for the mad chase through the blizzard, his reserve of dawnflame was running dangerously low.
Perhaps he should give it a chance to recover before he attempted to escape.
Tension flooded him when a click came from the door to his cell, followed by a loud creak as it swung open. So much for a respite. Falling into a crouch, he channeled the dregs of his dawnflame to his fists. They wouldn’t make as effective a weapon as his sword, but they’d have to do.
A pair of undead stepped through the doorway, their skeletal forms clattering.
Alistair didn’t wait for them to make the first move.
He charged forward, smashing a fist into the rightmost undead’s head.
Dawnflame erupted around the blow, searing the abomination.
It wasn’t enough to finish it, but it still sent the skeleton reeling back, its exposed jaw smoking.
The second undead raised its arms to fend him off, but it was as if it had no concept of how to fight. Alistair ducked easily around its clumsy attempt at a block, slamming a fist into its ribcage and then swinging around with his opposite elbow to clock it in the back of the skull.
Bones shattered in its chest, blackening to ash beneath the assault of holy fire, and the undead slumped against the wall.
Alistair started for the door, only to freeze when another pair of undead clogged it.
Unlike the first set, these both carried rusted swords.
While their gear looked like it hadn’t seen use in ages, they at least held the blades like they knew how to wield them.
The new undead stepped aside, flanking the doorway, and a black-cloaked figure appeared in the space they’d vacated. A sliver of fear lodged itself in Alistair’s throat. The necromancer had chosen to reveal themself.
Alistair’s assessing gaze flicked from the necromancer to the two undead.
Not insurmountable odds, but the duskflame wielder might have any number of spells in place to defend themself, and sans his armor and most of his dawnflame, Alistair was dangerously exposed.
Better to play this safe until he could get a better sense of what he was dealing with.
“Who are you?” he demanded, keeping his fists held at the ready but making no move to attack. “Tell me why you have brought me here, fiend!”
The necromancer stood there for a long moment, their face hidden by a heavy black hood.
Then, long, pale fingers slipped the hood back, revealing a youthful and surprisingly attractive—if somewhat gaunt—face framed by a mop of unkempt red hair.
The necromancer blinked ice-blue eyes before twisting his mouth into a scowl.
“Fiend is a little harsh, don’t you think?” the boyish necromancer said, his voice soft as velvet. “After all, I did just save your life.”