Chapter 394: Danse Macabre
Danse Macabre
The inquisitors disregarded Martel's suggestion to retreat. Without hesitation, they began attacking the skeletons rising all around them, sometimes striking before they could even get out of the alcoves.
Standing in the back of the group, Martel was exposed. Down the corridor, the way they had come, more and more of the undead could be seen. Martel's instinct was to raise a wall of fire, but that would block their retreat. He could not do it on the other side of the group either, blocking the enemies coming from ahead, as all the gold worn by the inquisitors in between interfered.
Bony fingers reached out and grabbed him by the arm. Despite the lack of muscles, the grip was so tight that even through his clothes, it threatened to cut off his blood flow. Staring at the skeleton, Martel launched a fire bolt straight at the skull. Teeth rattled, but it was not enough; grabbing the dagger in his belt, Martel struck just below the jaw to hit the spine. Finally, his undead attacker fell to pieces, returned to the rest otherwise denied.
Martel had no time to savour this; already, several others moved towards him. As for his comrades, using the term loosely, they seemed only eager to fight back rather than withdraw one step. Though an anguished scream, sounding more like it was born of pain than fear, told Martel not all was well. His own magelight had been extinguished, and the lamps born by the inquisitors had fallen to the ground, primarily illuminating their feet. In the darkness of the tunnel, Martel could barely see, which reinforced his belief that they should pull back rather than fight on these terms.
But as long as enemies came at them from both sides, an orderly retreat seemed doubtful. Even in the dark, Martel could see the white bones of their enemies everywhere, engaged with the inquisitors. So, either Martel blocked the path behind them and they advanced without knowing the way back to the surface, which seemed foolhardy – or he had to get through the skirmish to block off the other side of the tunnel, giving them a chance to fight their way back to the exit.
Martel released another fire bolt at the nearest enemy to buy himself time as he moved in between the inquisitors entangled with the undead. Panic threatened to overtake him as he tried to advance between mage hunters striking wildly with their golden weapons and skeletons trying to rend flesh apart. He summoned his magical shield, praying that none of the inquisitors hit him and dispelled it.
A golden blade flashed in front of Martel as an inquisitor severed the lower arm of an enemy. From the other side, claws came to tear at his face, stopped by his shield. Another agonising outburst could be heard as someone became wounded. In the midst of undead and inquisitors, Martel felt terrified, and the amount of gold around him amplified the feeling; to his magical senses, nothing surrounded him but the coldness of death.
Foregoing magic, Martel wielded his dagger, swinging it around as he tried to move forward. He stepped on bone more than once, cracking underneath his boot. Next, his foot met something soft, and a complaining moan came in response; someone had fallen to the ground. Forced to ignore them, Martel took another step forward, pushing his way through the brawl to reach the other side. The faint sight of white bones told him of enemies advancing, but he was free of the inquisitors and their gold; nothing hindered his magic down this path. Grateful for his training in the Circle of Fire, Martel raised a wall of flames within moments to block the hallway. The spell should last a few minutes, giving them time to deal with the remaining enemies and scarper.
Turning around, Martel tried to get a sense of the fight. Some of the inquisitors had to be wounded, but half or more were still fighting, by his estimate. Their weapons worked well to destroy the necromantic abominations. Although the skirmish had been chaotic with the undead attacking from all sides, leaving every person to fend for themselves, the creatures fell quickly to the inquisitors' strikes.
Saving his magic rather than risk hitting his allies, Martel swung his blade at the nearest enemy. His blade pierced the skull, releasing bone dust to make the wizard cough. It was not enough to destroy the undead, but Martel distracted the monster, giving Tiberius an opportunity to smash his staff against it. Moments later, the bones fell to the ground, and the inquisitor gave a quick nod in recognition to the mage.
Just as Martel thought the fight was at an end, he felt cold dread from behind. Next, his flame wall disappeared.
***
As Martel swung around, dagger held ready, he saw a gruesome sight. Dozens of skeletons approached, led by one that looked and felt different. Its clothes were, whilst still old and torn, recognisable as a ceremonial robe of some sort. Unlike the others, it did not have empty eye sockets in its skull; instead, blue flames burned where eyes had once been. Around its neck, it carried a necklace that emanated foul magic. Somehow, the jewel had dispelled Martel's wall, and he recognised it to possess some manner of necromantic powers as well.
A ray of fire burst from the wizard's hand to strike the undead straight in the chest. It recoiled, but as Martel's spell ended, it advanced once more. As for the pendant, it appeared unharmed.
Tiberius leapt in front of Martel and swung his staff. Reacting with preternatural speed, the skeleton seized the weapon in flight and held it back. With its other hand, it raked the inquisitor across the face, causing four gashes to bleed.
"The necklace!" Martel shouted and unleashed another ray. Their enemy staggered backwards under the attack, forced to release its grip on Tiberius and his weapon.
Swiftly, the inquisitor smashed his gold-tipped staff straight at the jewel. It held, so he struck again and again. Finally, it cracked. To Martel, it felt like the foulest odour had been released, and he almost vomited. Still Tiberius attacked until finally, the undead creature fell to the ground, as did all the other skeletons. As for the necklace, it lay broken. Taking out a piece of cloth, the inquisitor carefully picked up the jewel from the ground and placed it inside his pocket.
"It's over," he breathed, looking at Martel and the others. "Who's injured?"
"Clara's arm is bleeding," came one reply.
"I can't stand up," another complained. "Bastard took a chunk straight out of my leg like I was mutton!"
"Henry, help him back. Clara, how bad is it?"
"I'll live."
"Keep the wound clean as best you can. We're headed back," Tiberius declared. Their mission was at an end.
***
Seeing the state of the others, Martel understood why a retreat had been called. Two of them were not in much condition to fight, and the inquisitor with the wounded leg slowed them down, making further advances impossible unless they left him behind. Which, given the undead guardians of these tombs, was a fate that Martel would not even wish upon an inquisitor. Maybe.
Still, the disappointment was hard to swallow. Going into the catacombs in the company of inquisitors had seemed like a nightmare, yet Martel had done it in the hopes of destroying the pernicious threat of the maleficar. And they had accomplished nothing. He had not even seen the smallest sign that the sorcerer or his creature still hid in these tunnels. Maybe, given all the attention shown by the inquisitors to the sewers and catacombs, he had abandoned this hideout. Or retreated so deeply into the sepulchre that they stood no chance of finding him. Either way, all of Martel's work these months trying to track down the maleficar had been in vain.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the sewers; however pungent, Martel preferred the stench of filth over the unpleasant presence of necromantic magic. Quickly, the inquisitors boarded up the entrance, and they could finally move towards upper ground.
"You did well, master mage," Tiberius said, walking behind Martel who took the lead with his magelight.
"Not that it mattered."
"We destroyed an evil artefact, bringing a little peace to those tombs. Though I must ask – did you feel any sign of the maleficar or this monster he has in his service?"
Martel exhaled. "No."
"I feared as much. Two expeditions into those crypts without results. We'll have to search elsewhere in Morcaster for our fiend, though we have little to go by."
"He'll probably have abandoned the sewers for now," Martel considered. "He might try new hunting grounds that he hitherto has shunned, such as the Khivan enclave."
"Perhaps. If so, I doubt we can do much," Tiberius admitted. "The locals look upon us with fear. Even if someone fell victim in that district, I doubt they would even tell us."
Probably true. Martel fell quiet; he was out of ideas, and he had done what he could. By right, this was a task for inquisitors, not him. It was time he left it in their hands, however little faith he had in their abilities.
***
It was strange to return to the castle. Hours earlier, Martel had been surrounded by undead abominations spawned by evil magic. Now, he walked past students engaged in conversations about classes and teachers, waiting for the next meal without being aware of what lay underground, far beneath their feet.
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