Baron Valdrik frowned as he regarded the fallen drake before him. Its massive form lay still, blood pooling beneath its scales. Rothian the Pyromancer stood at his side, wringing his hands. Valdrik's nose tinged; the portly man positively reeked under his robes.
“Is this really going to work, Baron?” Rothian asked, his high voice trembling. "It's a drake, after all. A Level 36 one."
Valdrik sneered, turning to fix his subordinate with a cold glare. “Of course it’s going to work! I gained a level from defeating this drake, so I out-level it by one. I should have the strength to pull this off. And if I don't..."
Valdrik left that part unsaid.
Wolfram, standing a few paces away, tossed a rock to the side; his gaze flickered to his master with a strange mix of unease and skepticism. Valdrik tried not to be irked by the Ranger's general attitude. Easier said than done.
Baron Valdrik raised his staff and began to utter the Vranthillis Cant of Greater Reanimation. As dark eddies of magic swirled around the drake, the Baron couldn't help but think of Justin. Once again, the insolent upstart had managed to finagle his way out of the situation. But the question remained: could the Baron finagle his way back into pursuing him?
Valdrik repeated the Cant, chanting it again and again, to no effect.
A System notification flashed across his vision.
[Vorhtyrn's core resists your Cant of Greater Reanimation.]
At last, the Baron lowered his staff, turned away from the drake, and scowled. They were going to have to do this the hard way.
“Where is that damnable Gareth? If he’s not back here soon—”
He cut himself off as Gareth suddenly appeared, stepping out of invisibility with his hands folded in front of his body and blade sheathed. The undead servant’s cadaverous face was unreadable, and the Baron’s frown deepened. He stared at Gareth for a long moment, as though reading some unspoken truth in his expression.
“You've failed me, Gareth,” the Baron said, his voice low and venomous.
Gareth said nothing in response. Unlike the others, he seemed to understand that silence was golden.
The Baron’s gaze swept over his gathered underlings, each of them shirking at his furious glare. Even Wolfram, but Valdrik was too angry to feel satisfied about that.
“In fact,” he snarled, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade, “all of you have failed me! How is this possible? How could we let him escape, not once, but twice? He is nothing, and I am everything! I am the most powerful Lexicant and Necromancer on this side of the world. This failure...it will not stand.”
His tone grew colder, more menacing. “That someone like him could evade my grasp. This insult is an affront to my power!"
The Baron’s lips curled into a chilling smile as his eyes darkened. “But the thing is,” he said, his voice soft but deadly, “one of you will have to pay for your mistakes.”
“Not I!” Rothian blurted, his voice sputtering and squealing like a pig about to be thrown onto a spit. He trembled as he fell to his knees. “I am ever your faithful servant, my master! I have done nothing but aid you, help you, and serve you! It must be someone else—one of these two!”
He gestured wildly at the others, his eyes darting between them like a cornered animal.
Wolfram scowled at the implication, his lips curling in disdain. “I have done my part, Baron,” he said. “I’ve led you to all these forsaken places, guided you through the depths of Drakendir, navigated the wilderness at your side, and tracked down Justin where you could not. That Eldrin knows his stuff, and I hazard to guess that, despite his level, there's not a Ranger in all Serenthel that can keep up with him. Now, I’ve been patient, but if it means keeping my skin intact, I’m willing to lower my rate and let bygones be bygones. I will not grovel to you, not when I've done nothing wrong. Not when you've made just as many mistakes as we have, if not more. That said, you still owe me fifty gold for all the trouble I've gone through."
Valdrik regarded Wolfram coolly. He had to respect the Ranger's gumption. True, he was already undead, enthralled to another master. A master that Valdrik, quite frankly, didn't want to mess with, given the circumstances.
Gareth, by contrast, remained silent, as was his nature. His pale hands stayed folded in front of him. Only when Valdrik did not let up his gaze did Gareth speak.
“You know me well, Master,” Gareth finally said, his voice even and measured. “You gave me a task that was impossible. The agreement forbade me from attacking them directly, but I did what I could. I sabotaged their boat—they may yet fail to escape. If you employ your Cant of Gravity, we can still salvage the situation.”
The Baron listened to his men, his expression unreadable as he weighed their words. He wasn’t deciding out of anger—no, this decision was born of cold, calculating necessity.
Unlike what he had told Rothian, he was still too weak to reanimate the drake by his own power. Even if he out-leveled it. It was a Mythic creature, and as such, the rules of Necromancy were a bit different.
All the same, the Cant of Gravity wouldn't cut it. It was far too dangerous to risk it with the ice in the Strait of Nithral.
The drake could be reanimated, and better yet, placed under Valdrik's command. But its immense power demanded a core for reanimation.
And one of these three would have to provide it.
The question was simple: who was the least valuable?
The Baron considered each man in turn, his sharp gaze lingering on them as he weighed their worth.
Rothian. Foolish. Fluttering. But loyal to a fault. He trembled like a child before him now, but what if, one day, he lost his fear of Baron Valdrik? Would his fervent devotion turn to betrayal? The thought gnawed at the edge of Valdrik’s mind, though Rothian's loyalty had always been unquestionable—for now.
Gareth. Ever faithful. Ever practical. He was a blade in the dark that never questioned its wielder. That unthinking obedience was valuable—essential, even—to a man like Valdrik. But Gareth was a tool, not a thinker. He would never challenge the Baron’s decisions or offer an opposing view. Was that a weakness or an asset?
Wolfram. The dark Ranger. He was infuriatingly independent, often daring to disagree with the Baron, and yet it was a quality Valdrik had come to rely upon. Unlike the others, Wolfram had the gumption to push back and offer perspectives the Baron might not have considered. That loss of autonomy would rob the Baron of one of the few voices he valued. Plus, killing him would likely rub his master the wrong way. Valdrik was certain he could destroy him if push came to shove, but it was another thing to worry about.
And then there was Wolfram’s utility. In these strange lands, a Ranger was invaluable, especially with the other party boasting one of their own. Wolfram’s skills would surely prove his worth. Yet, at the same time, the Baron couldn’t ignore a simple truth: what use was a Ranger in covering ground if he had a drake?
The Baron’s lips curled into a faint smile as he mulled over his decision. He always enjoyed the feeling of deciding others' lives. Was there any greater power than that over life and death?
It took about a minute or two for him to decide. His underlings watched him with misgiving. Even Wolfram seemed to be questioning his earlier insolence. It was a victory, however slight. Maybe the Ranger would show a bit more respect.
At last, a slow, cold smile spread across his face as he came to his final decision.
He turned to Rothian.
“Rothian,” the Baron drawled, savoring the way the name hung in the air. The piggy began to squirm, his eyes darting around as if searching for an escape.
“You are loyal,” the Baron continued. “Very loyal. But loyalty born of fear is fragile. There may come a day when you lose your fear of me, and that would make you the most unreliable of all my servants.”
“No!” Rothian screamed, his voice high and desperate. “Please, Baron! I am far more loyal than any of these! I’ll do anything you want—anything!”
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“Nevertheless,” the Baron said, his voice now cold and calculating, “you lack the unique skills of the others. The drake is dead, and your fire magic is of little use to me now. And more than that, your...infatuation...with fire...causes you to sometimes go overboard, and that's dangerous. Wolfram is a critical asset, even if his independence annoys me, and Gareth’s obedience and practicality are invaluable. But you? Your foolish nature makes you a liability in high-stakes situations.”
A whimper escaped Rothian's throat. He tried to speak in his defense, but his fear betrayed his voice.
The Baron’s smile grew sharper as he leaned forward. “Besides, how can your meager power compare to that of a reanimated drake? Can you imagine, Rothian, how glorious it will be to soar through the skies? To serve me with such might? This is the honor I bestow upon you!"
Rothian was sobbing now, tears streaming down his face. “But it won’t be me, Master!” he wailed. “I won’t feel anything but cold, undead hunger. I’ll no longer be myself. Please, Baron. Please!”
The Baron’s gaze hardened. “I would keep you alive if I could. But the drake must be reanimated—it’s the only sure way to catch Justin and the rest. The only way to avert the disasters that await us if we fail. The life of one Pyromancer is a small thing when weighed against what I stand to lose. Your demise is regrettable, Rothian, really—but it is also necessary.”
Rothian let out a scream, one of pure anguish, as a System notification flashed across the Baron’s interface.
[Rothian Nightflame has left the party.]
Suddenly, flames erupted around the Pyromancer, swirling with wild intensity. The unexpected display pushed the Baron back a step, his eyes narrowing as he studied his enemy.
The Baron sneered, even as he took a measured step back. “You would dare resist me?” he spat, already preparing a countermeasure.
Rothian's fire grew hotter, and with a feral roar, he surged forward. The Baron uttered an aegis into existence as he was pushed off balance. Yet even as the Baron flew backward, he smiled. A few choice words in Vranthillis saw him land lightly on his feet.
“You’re only making it worse for yourself,” he said. "Stop resisting, and I can make it painless."
Gareth and Wolfram closed in from the sides, Gareth with his curved blade drawn, and Wolfram with a javelin at the ready. They maintained their distance as Wolfram created a circle of flames around himself.
"You will taste the wrath of Vorthak!" Rothian shouted. "All will wither!"
Valdrik smiled at the battle cry. “You think the lines from the Prophecy of Vorthak will have any effect on me, a Worshipper of Death? Pathetic fool!”
Before anyone could counter, Rothian's body erupted in fiery light, his entire form glowing with an incandescent fury. With a deafening roar, he unleashed a swarm of firebolts that rained down upon them, each one crackling with searing intensity.
Baron Valdrik reacted swiftly, raising his staff and uttering the Cant of Nullifying Fire. A shimmering shield enveloped every member of his party, deflecting the wave of firebolts.
But Rothian's magic was relentless. Possessed by the fury of the Fire God himself, flames bore down on the barrier, and cracks began to form in the shield. One by one, the shields shattered, extinguished by the sheer might of the Pyromancer’s wrath.
Rothian's voice rang out above the roaring inferno. “You will know the price of betrayal, Valdrik! You will taste the wrath of Vorthak, God of Fire!”
The flames surged, embers spiraling into a maelstrom of destruction as Rothian's fury threatened to consume them all.
He will burn himself out, the Baron thought to himself. The power of fire waxes in the beginning, but wanes for the one who practices patience. Death comes for all in the end.
Valdrik stood firm as Rothian’s inferno raged, his cold eyes watching the chaos unfold with detached calculation. Embers danced, their heat licking at the edges of the battlefield. Wolfram and Gareth flanked him, their weapons drawn, waiting for an opening.
“Such theatrics,” Valdrik said, his voice taunting despite the rising flames. “Do you honestly believe you can overpower me with rage alone?”
Rothian snarled, his eyes blazing with fury. “I don’t need belief—I have fire, and fire consumes all!”
With a violent sweep of his arms, Rothian conjured a wall of flames, cutting the Baron off from his allies. The Pyromancer’s scream echoed as the ground beneath him cracked, molten veins spreading outward like a spiderweb.
Valdrik could not abide this spell; it could actually do some serious damage if he weren't careful. He raised his staff, uttering the Cant of Severance. Dark energy coalesced at its tip, and with a sharp word, he unleashed it. A wave of shadow erupted, cutting off the spell at the source and forcing Rothian back.
But the Pyromancer was far from done. Rothian thrust his staff forward, unleashing twin fire streams that spiraled toward Valdrik. The Baron sidestepped one and batted the other away with his staff, once again speaking the Cant of Nullifying Fire, now off cooldown.
“Impressive. Why didn't you show this level of expertise before I decided to kill you?"
Rothian's response was to gaze at his former master murderously. Yes, the Bloodlust of Vorthak had taken him.
"But know this, Rothian," Valdrik continued. "Fire always burns brightest before it dies.”
Valdrik nodded at Gareth, who seized the moment, darting through the dissipating flames with his curved blade raised. Rothian turned in time to deflect the strike with a fire lashing from his staff, creating a shockwave. Gareth tanked the hit with his sword as he pressed the attack, forcing Rothian to retreat step by step.
From the other side, Wolfram hurled one of his dark javelins. The shadow-imbued weapon pierced the air, shattering the fiery aegis Rothian had raised around himself. As the javelin struck a glancing blow, the pyromancer howled in pain. Flames flared around him as he clutched the wound. The javelin disappeared and reappeared in Wolfram's hand.
“You will regret that, Ranger!” Rothian bellowed.
His body became ensconced in flames as he began to dance with a grace that belied his rotund form, his fiery feet tracing runic patterns on the stone floor. Valdrik frowned at the display, as the fire flared from Rothian's sides in resemblance to a dragon's wings. Had he unlocked this new spell after leveling up?
"The Dragon Dance," Valdrik said. "I must stop underestimating my enemies."
Rothian's staff shot skyward, and the air grew stiflingly hot. The flames around him converged, spiraling into a massive sphere above his head. The fire roared as it expanded.
Valdrik’s eyes narrowed. “At last, you show your full hand.” The Baron used a minor spell to increase the volume of his voice. Gareth and Wolfram would not survive this if they stuck around. "Run!"
The order was needless. Both of the Baron's underlings were fleeing for any shelter they could find.
The massive sphere of fire pulsed with power as Rothian's voice roared above the din. “Burn them! Burn them all!”
The Baron crouched to face the coming storm.
The sphere exploded, raining fire across the battlefield. Columns of flame erupted in chaotic patterns. The ground quaked under the sheer power of the spell. Valdrik used his Cant of Nullifying Fire, which had come off cooldown. His current staff, Gravebinder, had been with him for years now, always at Platinum-tier. But thanks to the Crystal of Ascension, its now Mythic-tier was doing wonders for his battle capabilities, reducing the cooldown of all his Vranthillian Cants. He could never show it in public, though one day soon, if all went well, he would wield it in the open.
But even so, the shield barely lasted a few seconds. Valdrik cursed as he uttered the Cant of Shadow Jump, causing him to shoot a couple of hundred feet away, where Wolfram and Gareth were waiting.
At last, the power of the spell waned, and the roaring flames subsided. The battlefield was scorched, the ground cracked and smoldering. Valdrik surveyed his surroundings, his eyes falling on his two underlings. The damage they had taken was far more severe than he had initially supposed. Both were incapacitated—bodies battered and armor scorched—but their bodies were salvageable. As long as the Baron could feed them with his magic, they would regenerate.
Whatever the case, the Baron would stand alone against Rothian.
The Dragon Dance spell, Rothian’s ultimate gambit, had spent its fury. Valdrik knew the limitations of such magic—powerful but draining, a desperate final move after a string of failed attempts.
As Valdrik walked toward the Pyromancer, Rothian staggered, his breaths labored, the once-majestic flames around him now flickering weakly. His robes hung in charred tatters, and his hands trembled as he tried to summon another spell.
“You’ve exhausted yourself,” Valdrik said, his voice cold and steady. “But your story is not to end here. For you, this is just the beginning."
He raised Gravebinder, pointing it at Rothian. The Pyromancer was far too weak to resist, accepting his fate without complaint.
“Now,” the Baron said, his voice a low growl, “you will see what true power looks like.”
With a flourish of his staff, he began to chant the Cant of Ascension. Dark, sonorous words filled the air, vibrating with power. Rothian screamed as an ethereal light, his very essence, tore free from his body. The luminous core drifted toward the head of the Baron's staff, collecting there as a ball of swirling black energy.
The Baron’s lips curved into a satisfied smile as he completed the transmigration of Rothian's core. But he was not done, and the increased power would not last long.
Raising his staff once more, he began to utter the Cant of Greater Reanimation. This time, the words came faster and sharper. He could feel their power in a way he had never felt it before.
[Your Cant of Greater Reanimation has ascended to the Cant of Epic Reanimation!]
Black tendrils shot from the Baron's staff as he uttered the Cant again and again. And as the shell of dark magic entered the drake, encasing it, the once-proud monster's body began to shift.
At first, its battered wings twitched faintly. Then its massive tail jerked against the ground, sending up clouds of dust. Piece by piece, the colossal creature stirred, its stiff, jerky movements laced with tendrils of shadowy magic. Burn marks marred its once-pristine scales, while the gaps in its armor-like hide revealed dark sinew beneath.
But even in its ruined state, the corpse of Vorthyrn the Frostbound was an awe-inspiring sight.
At last, the creature pushed itself onto its hind legs, towering over the Baron. Its glowing, hollow eyes snapped open, radiating an eerie white light. The drake's head dipped low, its massive snout coming within inches of Valdrik's face. Its breath was cold, laced with the acrid stench of decay, already taking hold several hours after its death. To a Necromancer like the Baron, it was a sweet perfume.
[Vorthryn the Frostbound is bound to you in undead thralldom!]
[You have gained 50,000 experience points! Your experience stands at 105,500/2,600,000.]
The Baron dismissed the notification. It was more experience points than he had expected, but well-deserved in his opinion.
Instead, the Baron looked deep into Vorhtyrn's undead eyes, each as large as his face. He stared unflinching, his smile widening.
“Heed me, Vorthyrn,” he intoned, his voice dripping with authority. “You are mine now. And together, we will do glorious things."
The drake let out a guttural, rasping roar that echoed across the battlefield, its tattered wings unfurling like banners of death. Valdrik allowed himself to feel its terror.
In a voice that scraped like stone, it answered. “What is your command...master?”
Valdrik placed a hand on the drake's snout, his touch possessive.
“Stay here for now," he instructed. "I have some fools to deal with. But once I'm done, take heart. For the Terror of the North will fly again."