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Rune stood in the rain, enduring the cold, unrelenting pounding of water against his head and shoulders. It had been days of traveling through mountain passes, swamplands, and ancient, forgotten forests. Finally, he stood before the large wooden gates of Jalta. Its stone walls glistened, washed clean by the endless storm, while thunder reverberated through Rune’s chest and lightning gleamed off the wet ramparts.
It was no mere chance he had come upon Jalta. The city had fallen silent, and he was sent to find the cause—and remove it. As he approached the gate, a faint odor floated on the breeze: the scent of death and decay.
“Gate Keeper!” Rune bellowed.
Minutes passed. No motion, no sound. He stepped back and looked up to the rampart.
“Gate Keeper! I wish to enter your city!” he called out between claps of thunder.
No reply. The hairs on his neck stood up. Why is no one manning the gates?
He followed the gray stone wall to the east, sliding occasionally on the muddy path until he found a guard’s port. He pounded his fist on the door; it gave under his strike and swung open. He expected a guard to burst out, weapons drawn. Instead, he was greeted by a void, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning.
Rune cautiously entered the dark port. As he passed the threshold, the distinct copper scent of blood hit him. He felt the inside wall, his hand finding the unmistakable outline of a sconce. He struck his flint against his dagger, sending sparks flying. A small glow of amber slowly grew, casting soft light into the empty room.
As he turned to inspect the room, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. The port was a mess; the table was broken down the middle, chairs smashed and scattered. Then he saw the blood—pools of it on the floor, splattered on the walls and ceiling. When lightning flashed outside, the rhythmic tapping of the rain fell away, replaced by a silence so heavy he couldn't even hear his own heartbeat.
He placed his hands on the pommels of his two longswords. Pulling himself back from the edge of shock, he shook his head. Something decimated these guards and took their bodies, but why?
He picked up a fallen torch, lit it, and scanned the floor. Bloody footprints. It looked as though three or four people had walked away from the fight down a back corridor. He followed them. Unlike normal tracks that faded after a few steps, these seemed to continuously step in blood even where there was none.
As he wound through the dark corridor, the unnatural silence shattered. He heard a muffled voice echoing off the walls. Rune slowed his pace, lowering the torch. A faint glow at the end of the hallway began to grow, blinking as if someone were pacing before a candle. The voice became distinct, speaking a language he hadn't heard since his youth in the Mages Guild: Elder Drake.
Rune extinguished his torch and pressed his body against the wall, edging to the corner. He peered into a room furnished with a stone fireplace and a long table scattered with scrolls. The source of the voice was not a Dragonkin, but a human—a tall, slinking figure in black robes embroidered with blue glyphs.
“Te'dre neconims…” the figure muttered, slamming a dusty tome shut.
As Rune watched, he heard a slow, constant sound. Ting… ting… ting.
Rune turned his gaze without moving a muscle. In the faint glow, he made out the silhouette of a guard in armor standing three feet away, swaying. It was a Jalta city guard, but his eyes were ghostly gray, void of life. The sound was blood dripping from a wound in the guard's head onto his steel breastplate.
An undead servant.
It blocked the way. If Rune fought it, the mage would hear. If he retreated, he might be spotted. Rune calculated his move. He slid his dagger from its sheath, tightening his grip. He waited for the mage to pass the doorway one more time.
The glow flickered. Rune darted at the guard, tackling it close to his body to muffle the sound of armor hitting the floor. He drove his dagger into the top of its skull with a sickly crunch, lowering the corpse gently.
Suddenly, a door in the study slammed open. Shouting erupted, followed by the sound of furniture being overturned. Rune pulled the guard's body over himself just as heavy boots thudded down the hall. Peering from beneath the corpse, he saw the mage running past, followed by goblins in rusty armor.
“Get him! The boss wants him alive!” one of the goblins shouted.
Rune waited a moment longer before shoving the corpse aside. He wiped the blood and gray matter from his blade onto his trousers and sheathed it. Why would they be after the mage?
He followed the noise. The desperation in the goblins' voices echoed off the walls.
“Come, mage, the boss wants to speak with you!” grunted one. “He said alive, but nothing about you having both your legs.”
Reaching a bend in the corridor, Rune saw them. The goblins had their jagged swords drawn, cornering the mage. The man was in a panic, eyes darting for an exit.
“Let's not keep the boss waiting, finger wiggler,” a goblin beckoned.
Rune gripped his longsword. He began to plan his attack, but the mage beat him to it.
“Ser'ta!” the mage shouted, throwing his hands forward. A bright red aura encased his fingers, and a ball of fire launched outward. It impacted the lead goblin, engulfing it in a blaze. The creature squealed, slashing at the air as it burned. The other goblin stepped back in horror.
The aura faded, and the mage collapsed to his knees, exhausted. The surviving goblin recovered from the shock, glared at his burning companion, and then turned his malicious gaze toward the mage.
Rune moved. He rounded the bend, boots thudding against the stone. The goblin turned, but it was too late. Rune’s sword whistled through the air. The blade tore through the goblin’s neck, severing muscle and bone, silencing its scream in a spray of dark blood.
With the threat ended, Rune knelt before the panting mage.
“You speak the common tongue?” Rune asked.
“Yes,” the mage whispered, laboring for breath.
“Do you know who their boss is?”
“His name is Taf'Nor… a twisted man… formerly of The Order of The Black Drake.”
Rune offered his waterskin. “Drink. It’s from the healing spring in Nevervoid. I came to see why trade ceased. Now I know. Jalta has been taken.”
“Yes,” the mage said, drinking greedily. “Taf'Nor seeks the Staff of Binding, hidden under Jalta. But he is not alone. A necromancer is with him. She placed the curse. All who cross into Jalta are marked. Leaving the city now will kill you instantly. I saw a mother and child try to flee… they incinerated to ash the moment they crossed the gate.”
Rune exhaled heavily. “So no one leaves.”
“Not until the necromancer is slain.”
The mage introduced himself as Wilro. He looked defeated, admitting his magic was failing him due to the curse.
“Well, it is settled,” Rune said, helping Wilro up. “We slay the necromancer, then Taf'Nor.”
“But my magic…” Wilro stammered.
“Save it for the right moment,” Rune said with a faint grin. “Like when the necromancer isn't looking.”
They navigated through the back halls until they reached a heavy wooden door. Rune listened—rain and thunder on the other side. They were exiting onto the main street.
“I’ll go first,” Rune whispered. “If it’s clear, I’ll whistle.”
Rune slipped out into the storm. Wilro waited, heart pounding, clutching his robes. The rain drowned out his breathing. Minutes felt like hours. He heard heavy boots on wet cobblestones and panicked, retreating into a dark corner of the room just as a goblin patrol entered.
The goblin spotted Wilro. “There you are. I’m taking you back to the boss, walking or dragged.”
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
The goblin turned to see Rune standing in the doorway, rain dripping from his nose.
“Tell me where they are,” Rune said, leveling his sword.
“The cathedral… just up the road,” the goblin stammered.
Rune didn't hesitate. A flicker of steel, a slice across the neck, and the goblin fell. Rune signaled Wilro. “Quickly. We know where our prey is.”
They moved through the shadows of the street, the cathedral looming ahead. Rune dispatched two more patrols with silent efficiency. At the foot of the cathedral stairs, Rune motioned for Wilro to take the left side of the great doors while he took the right.
Wilro scurried up the stairs. Suddenly, a heavy thud echoed. Rune looked down the street. A massive Orc marched toward him, dragging a great cleaver that sparked against the cobblestones. Rune pressed himself against a merchant’s stall, waiting.
The thudding stopped. Wilro, hiding in the cathedral shadows, waved frantically. The Orc grunted.
Rune dropped to his knees just as the giant cleaver slammed into the wood where his head had been. Splinters exploded outward. The Orc towered over him, wearing little armor save for a blood-soaked chain belt and a single pauldron. Its stare was cold, emotionless.
Rune scrambled back, gripping his dagger and longsword. He sprang up, feinting a strike. The Orc didn't flinch, raising the cleaver for a killing blow. Rune was exposed, his footing slick on the wet stones.
Suddenly, a bolt of purple energy hissed through the rain. It struck the Orc squarely in the exposed flesh of its back. The beast roared, stumbling forward, and turned its head to see the terrified mage standing on the cathedral steps, hand still glowing.
Rune saw his opening.
As the Orc turned away, Rune dropped low. He swung his longsword in a brutal arc, the blade slicing through the thick muscles behind the Orc's knees. The giant roared in agony, its legs buckling, and it crashed to its knees.
Before the Orc could recover, Rune vaulted onto its back. He reversed his grip on his longsword and drove the blade downward through the base of the Orc’s skull. The creature went rigid, then slumped forward, dead.
Rune panted, wiping rain and gore from his eyes. He looked at Wilro and nodded. "Good shot."
Wilro swallowed hard, his hands trembling, but he nodded back.
They turned to the cathedral doors. Rune pushed them open just enough to slip inside.
The interior was lit by unholy green candlelight. At the far end, near the altar, stood Taf'Nor, chanting over the Staff of Binding. To his right, the Necromancer—a woman with pale skin and robes of stitched human skin—stood over a bound villager, a sacrificial dagger raised high.
"Now," Rune whispered.
They crept down the nave, using the pews for cover. When they were twenty paces away, Rune signaled.
Wilro stood up, channeling every ounce of his remaining strength. "Ignis Maxima!"
A roaring ball of fire spiraled from Wilro’s hands, illuminating the dark cathedral. The Necromancer spun around, eyes widening. She raised a hand, and a wall of bone erupted from the floor.
BOOM.
The fireball slammed into the bone wall, shattering it into calcified shrapnel and filling the air with smoke and blinding light.
The Necromancer lowered her hand, sneering at the mage. But as the smoke cleared, she saw a shadow flying through the air above the debris.
Rune.
He had used the explosion as cover to close the distance. He leaped from the top of a pew, dual longswords extended. Before she could utter a curse, Rune crashed into her, driving both blades through her chest. The impact threw them both to the ground. She gasped once, black blood bubbling from her lips, and went still.
The heavy atmosphere of the cathedral instantly lightened. The curse was broken.
"No!" Taf'Nor roared.
The sorcerer stopped his chanting and turned to face the interlopers. Rune ripped his swords from the Necromancer’s corpse with a wet squelch and stood, exchanging fiery glares with Taf'Nor.
"You've ruined everything," Taf'Nor hissed, pulling a serrated dagger from his robes.
Rune didn't waste words. He charged.
Taf'Nor was faster than he looked. As Rune swung a heavy downward strike, the sorcerer sidestepped with unnatural speed. Rune’s sword sparked against the stone floor. Taf'Nor lunged, his dagger slicing deep into Rune's side, finding the gap in his leather armor.
Rune cried out, stumbling back, clutching his side. Blood flowed hot over his fingers. He dropped to one knee, his vision blurring.
Taf'Nor laughed, raising the dagger for the final blow. "Die, interfering fool."
But the air above Taf'Nor began to hum. Wilro, his power returning in a torrent now that the Necromancer was dead, stood with his arms raised, eyes glowing white.
"Taf'Nor!" Wilro commanded.
The sorcerer looked up. A massive sword of pure, burning light materialized above his head, the heat radiating through the hall.
Taf'Nor’s eyes widened in terror. His attention wavered, his gaze locked on the magical doom hovering above him.
It was the only chance Rune would get.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Rune gathered his remaining strength. He didn't rise; he lunged from his knees, putting every ounce of his weight behind his sword. He drove the steel upward, burying it into Taf'Nor’s gut, twisting it as he pushed.
Taf'Nor gasped, the dagger falling from his hand. Wilro released his spell, and the magical sword vanished before it could skewer them both. Taf'Nor slumped against Rune, then slid to the floor, his eyes glazing over as he died.
Silence returned to the cathedral, but this time, it was the silence of peace, not dread.
Rune groaned, pressing his hand against his bleeding side. "Is it... is it done?"
Wilro ran to him, helping him stand. "It is. The curse is lifted. I can feel the city breathing again."
Supporting Rune’s weight, Wilro guided him back down the nave and out through the heavy double doors.
They stepped out onto the cathedral porch. Rune looked up. The storm still raged, but something had changed. He stepped out from the overhang, letting the water hit him.
It wasn't the cold, unrelenting pounding he had felt for days. The rain felt cool, soothing against his fevered skin. It washed the orc blood and the grime of the battle from his face. It no longer smelled of death and decay; it smelled of wet stone, of earth, of life returning.
Rune closed his eyes, letting the water run down his face, mixing with the blood on his side, cleansing the city and his soul alike. He took a deep breath of the wet air. The silence of Jalta was broken not by monsters, but by the clean, steady rhythm of the rain.
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