Chapter 13

Iscariot

Iscariot stumbled as he materialized in the shadowy graveyard, the same cursed ground where he first began raising his army of the dead. The air was cold and heavy, thick with the memories of ancient rituals and the stench of decay. His body collapsed, his limbs trembling as he hit the earth with a dull thud. He was barely conscious, his vision swimming in and out of focus, but he fought to summon what little magic he had left, his hands trembling as he attempted to heal his battered form.

The familiar pulse of dark energy coursed through him, but it was faint, flickering like a dying flame. His magic was failing him, and the pain in his chest intensified with every breath. As he labored to repair his wounds, a voice slithered into his mind, chilling and cryptic.

“Your soul is damaged,” Wispein’s voice hissed, disembodied yet close. “You can't heal that wound with mere magic. The damage is in your soul. Only resurrection can mend such a wound.”

Iscariot groaned, his voice hoarse. “Then I will resurrect,” he growled, though the words felt empty.

Wispein’s laughter was like a whisper of wind through dry leaves. “Resurrection is not so simple for one such as you. Beings of immense power cannot rise from the dead like common heroes. Your essence is bound in ways they could never understand. Even if you were to resurrect, it would take time—a long time.”

“How long?” Iscariot rasped, his hand clutching his chest as if the pain might escape through his fingers.

“With the strength you have acquired, it could be centuries... perhaps even longer,” Wispein replied, her voice both indifferent and amused by his suffering.

Iscariot's breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling as the pain clawed at him. His thoughts raced to the Bronze Elves, the only beings who had stood as equals to him. “What about the Bronze Elves?” he forced out between gasps. “How long for them?”

A long pause followed before Wispein finally answered. “Their fate remains uncertain. The dragons slew three of their kind in ancient battles, and none have ever returned. Their kind may never resurrect. Perhaps you share their fate.”

A wave of despair washed over Iscariot, and he nodded slowly, the weight of his mortality settling in. He lay still for a moment, his body broken and his mind in turmoil. The ground beneath him felt colder now, as if the graveyard itself was claiming him.

“So I can’t heal this?” Iscariot asked, though he already knew the answer.

“You cannot,” Wispein replied, her voice smooth. “Not unless you find a ritual to cleanse your soul. ”

“And how am I supposed to find it?” he snapped, anger replacing his despair. “I can’t just take it in my condition.”

“No,” Wispein whispered, “You are too weak for that.”

Iscariot managed to pull himself to his feet, though his legs trembled under the weight of his injuries. “I have gold,” he said through gritted teeth. “Gold stored in the vaults at Nuri'Fon.”

Wispein's laughter came again, soft and mocking. “You think you can simply return there? The lords of necromancy will sense your weakness and tear you apart the moment you set foot in the city. You would be a fool to go there now.”

Iscariot started to walk, his body aching with every step. “Then I'll disguise myself,” he said, determination replacing doubt. “I'll return to Fairfon and gather my strength.”

Wispein’s laugh echoed through his mind again, this time darker, more sinister. “Disguise yourself?” she sneered. “You failed to keep Ta'Ffair hidden. You’ve lost everything.”

Iscariot let out a deep, labored sigh, his body slumping against the cold surface of an ancient tomb. The weight of his injuries and the toll of his lost power bore down on him like a leaden shroud. He rested momentarily, his hand brushing over the worn stone, feeling the rough, weathered edges beneath his fingertips as he struggled to collect his thoughts. His path forward felt insurmountable, but surrender was not an option. He had come too far and sacrificed too much. Yet, the cost of wielding such immense power had been far more significant than he ever imagined.

Closing his eyes, he tuned out Wispein’s mocking voice, brushing her words aside with a wave of his hand. He focused instead on someone who could help him. “Zavet,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he extended his mind outward in search of him. The effort drained him further, and before he could solidify the connection, his consciousness slipped away, pulling him into a deep sleep.

His eyes opened to a familiar serenity. Zavet stood before him, not as the warrior he had once known, but as a builder, constructing a stone house with his bare hands. The sight was surreal, a calm within the storm. Zavet worked with quiet purpose, his expression focused and intense as he labored over each stone. His hands moved with precision, crafting the structure's walls with care.

But Iscariot saw more than just the physical labor. Surrounding Zavet were his colony and family members, each standing motionless, their eyes vacant, and their minds once fractured by terrible forces. Zavet, with the power of the well coursing through him, was restoring their minds, piece by piece, using his newfound abilities to give them back their memories, identities, and souls.

Iscariot watched in silence, hidden within the folds of his consciousness, observing Zavet’s work. He had intended to speak, to reach out, but something in Zavet’s face made him hesitate. It wasn’t just the determination; he saw despair, the deep-rooted hatred burning behind Zavet’s eyes. The more Zavet restored, his anger grew, simmering beneath the surface like molten rock ready to erupt. Iscariot knew that hatred was for him. Zavet would never forgive him for what he had done. If anything, he would hunt Iscariot down and kill him.

Iscariot recoiled from the vision, snapping back into his body with a sharp intake of breath. His chest heaved as he lay sprawled atop the tomb, staring at the darkened sky. “Zavet will help me,” he whispered to himself, though the certainty in his voice was hollow. He knew Zavet’s hatred was real, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use him. There were other ways to gain what he needed.

He closed his eyes again, allowing a new thought to form, one laced with deception. What if I made myself look like Zavet? The idea came to him suddenly, sharp and clever. If he disguised himself as Zavet, he could infiltrate the palace in Ffairfon. There would surely be ritual scrolls there.

He rested until the sun had met the horizon. He stood, his body still aching but more composed now, ready for what lay ahead. The city of Ffairfon was near the graveyard. He traveled during the day, knowing the only people who would recognize him would not be awake this early morning, slipping through the forgotten pathways outside the city until he reached the outskirts. As he approached the city’s edge, he scavenged for clothing, finding discarded garments in a heap near an old market stall. Among them was a woman’s long dress, ragged but serviceable. He smiled grimly to himself. Zavet always wore a long kilt that dragged the ground, more out of practicality for his short stature than any fashion.

He donned the dress and adjusted it to resemble the kilt Zavet wore, then wiped the dirt and grime from his face as best he could. His remaining magic was weak, but it was enough to complete the disguise, altering his features to resemble Zavet’s. His skin darkened, his frame grew taller, and his eyes reflected Zavet’s familiar gleam. He was satisfied with the illusion.

With his transformation complete, Iscariot made his way toward the palace, moving with a newfound confidence. The guards barely glanced at him as he passed through the gates, his appearance shielding him from suspicion. Inside the palace, he walked among the grand tapestries and stone walls, his eyes scanning the surroundings. Each tapestry told stories of victories and noble deeds, but Iscariot knew the truth. Everything he saw, every story depicted, was a lie. One carefully crafted by Wispein to manipulate these people.

He paused for a moment, tilting his head as realization struck him. She was using me, he thought, his anger simmering beneath the surface. Wispein didn’t care about him or his goals. She merely wanted to drag these people through hell, to torment them for her own amusement. Iscariot clenched his fists but quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind, where Wispein would not hear. He would confront her later, but first, he needed to regain his strength.

He continued through the palace, moving with purpose until he found the archives where the ritual scrolls were kept. The halls were silent, save for the occasional footsteps of servants and palace guards. He slipped into the library, scanning the shelves until he found what he sought: a hefty tome bound in dark leather, the pages filled with arcane rituals. As he thumbed through the book, one of the necromancers from the guild entered the room. The man glanced at Iscariot but paid him no mind, too engrossed in his tasks to notice anything amiss.

Iscariot’s fingers stopped on a page detailing a ritual of soul cleansing. It was precisely what he needed. Without hesitation, he took the page from the book, carefully folding it and tucking it into his cloak. He left the palace quickly, not bothering to speak to anyone.

With the ritual in hand, Iscariot allowed himself a small, victorious smile. Soon, he would have the power to confront Wispein and perhaps even more.

Iscariot moved swiftly through the day, keeping to the shadows as he returned to the graveyard. His illusion had served him well in the palace, and the ritual scroll he had stolen was now his most valuable possession. He clutched it tightly beneath his cloak, the cool parchment brushing against his fingertips, a reminder that salvation was within his grasp.

Upon arriving at the graveyard, he cared to remain out of sight, weaving between the tombstones and crypts that had become his familiar haunt. The eerie silence of the graves was comforting in a way, its stillness unbroken by the living. The shadows seemed to welcome him back as he found a secluded spot away from prying eyes. He could no longer sense Wispein’s presence lurking in the corners of his mind. It was as if she had retreated completely, her mocking whispers gone.

She must have pulled away, he thought, relief washing over him. She wouldn’t know he had discovered a way to heal his soul without her interference. It was his secret to keep, and he intended to wield that knowledge with caution.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting early morning rays over the gravestones as he unrolled the scroll and spread it out on the cold, damp earth before him. He knelt beside it, his fingers tracing the ancient symbols and runes inscribed on the page. The ritual was complex but organized, requiring precise movements and words of power. Every detail mattered.

He began the ritual slowly, his voice low as he whispered the incantations written in the ancient tongue. His hands moved gracefully, drawing symbols in the air, each gesture unlocking a different layer of the ritual’s magic. Raw energy began to swirl around him, rising from the earth itself, binding him to the forces that would cleanse and restore his fractured soul.

As the ritual progressed, he felt a surge of power deep within him, faint at first but growing steadily with each passing moment. It was working. Once cracked and broken, his soul began to mend, the jagged edges fusing as the ancient magic took hold. His body trembled with the intensity of it, the dark energy coiling around his spirit, feeding him the strength he so desperately needed.

With each word he spoke, he felt the connection to his soul deepen, the power coursing through him becoming more potent. It was as though the darkness within him had been dormant, waiting for this moment to reawaken. His soul was no longer damaged, no longer fragile. It was fortified, strong, and complete once more.

When the ritual was finished, Iscariot collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from him, his body no longer burdened by the broken fragments of his soul. He was whole. He was powerful again.

He rose slowly, his senses sharper than they had been in days. He could feel the magic within him, and the full extent of his abilities was restored. A smile crept across his lips. I’m back. But he knew better than to act recklessly. His enemies would be watching, waiting for any sign of weakness. He needed time to rest and time to plan.

His thoughts drifted to Nuri'fon, the palace of the lords. He would go there next. The lords had ambitions and missions to fulfill, and they would continue to carry them out without question. He did not need to intervene, at least not yet.

Without hesitation, Iscariot called upon his magic and teleported to the palace in Nuri'fon, the familiar rush of energy enveloping him. When he arrived, the grand halls greeted him, and the dark stone walls and high ceilings were in stark contrast to the bleakness of the graveyard. He moved through the palace quickly, his presence unnoticed as he passed by the guards and servants. No one dared to question him here. His authority was absolute.

He found an empty chamber tucked away in the depths of the palace, far from the prying eyes of the lords. It was dimly lit, and the air was cool and still. The room had been unused for some time, which suited him perfectly. He needed solitude, and he needed to recover fully before making any bold moves.

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As he lay down on the small bed in the corner of the room, his mind began to race. The ritual had restored his power, but he still had much to do. With a final exhale, Iscariot closed his eyes, momentarily allowing the world's weight to lift from his shoulders. The dark, quiet room in the palace of Nuri'fon enveloped him, providing a rare moment of solace. His body, still drained from the recent ordeal, needed time to recover fully. He knew he would be fully restored in just a few days. Then, and only then, would he decide on his next move.

The real question gnawed at the back of his mind was more personal and intimate. What side am I on? For the first time in a long while, doubt crept into his thoughts. The old certainties that once governed his every action felt less solid, as if the ground beneath him had shifted. Wispein had always been the voice guiding him, controlling him even, bending his will to her desires. But now, in the stillness of the palace, he was beginning to see beyond the web she had spun around him.

She had me kill my family. The thought settled over him like a cold shroud. His mind drifted back to the moment he first saw his mother again, not in life but in a memory buried deep within his soul. The memory had resurfaced recently, triggered by the most unexpected revelation—Zavet. Zavet had spoken of her, calling her “mother” as if she belonged to them both. The realization had been like a blade to his chest.

We are brothers, Iscariot thought bitterly. The revelation had shaken him to his core; now, it was impossible to ignore. Zavet, the one he had considered an adversary, was more than just another rival. He was blood. Zavet was older by about eight months—just enough time to make him part of an earlier clutch, but not so far apart that they wouldn’t have been raised together.

In retrospect, their similarities, shared magic, and innate connection to the same forces made perfect sense. But Wispein had twisted those bonds, using them to manipulate Iscariot, bending his youth and inexperience to her advantage. She had made him kill his own family, severing the most sacred of ties, all to further her agenda.

That’s why she could control me so quickly, Iscariot realized. He had been so young when it all began, barely more than a child when he had first tasted true power. His mind had been impressionable, his will malleable, and Wispein had taken full advantage of that. She had filled his head with lies and made him believe in the righteousness of his actions, even as she turned him against his blood. And he had followed her commands without question.

The truth had begun to unravel, and a new sense of clarity came with it. His relationship with Wispein had always been one of servitude disguised as partnership. She had never cared for him. She had only seen him as a tool to be wielded against her enemies. And when the time came, she would discard him just as quickly.

Lying there in the quiet of the palace, Iscariot’s mind raced with the implications of what he had learned. He could no longer be her puppet, dancing to her tune. But that didn’t mean he would turn away from his gained power.

Zavet, he thought again, his mind circling back to his brother. The revelation of their bond complicated everything. Zavet would never forgive him for the pain he had caused, nor the betrayal that had come with their mother’s death. Yet, there was still a thread of possibility—a thin, fragile line of connection.

Iscariot wasn’t sure. But what he did know was that the world had changed. He would have to make a decision that could shape the future of everything he had fought for. Would he remain aligned with Wispein, following her into the depths of whatever madness she sought to unleash? Or would he forge his path, perhaps even one that led him to an alliance with Zavet?

Iscariot drifted into a deep, dreamlike state. At first, he wasn’t sure if it was a dream or something else entirely. He found himself standing in a familiar grove, quiet and serene, nestled beside the stone house that Zavet had built. The house was as solid as it had been, its rough stones worn but sturdy. The grove, however, pulsed with a strange energy, an energy that led his gaze to the well of power that shimmered in the center of it all. The well’s magic was palpable, a swirling vortex of energy that seemed to hum with knowledge.

Sitting near the well was Zavet, his brother, though the word felt foreign on Iscariot's lips. Zavet was engrossed in his work, calmly carving something out of wood, sitting in a rocking chair that creaked with each slow movement. As Iscariot approached, he remained silent, watching Zavet in his peaceful task. Without a word, Iscariot manifested a rocking chair on the opposite side of the well. He sat down, the chair moving gently beneath him as he studied his brother silently.

Zavet didn’t acknowledge him immediately, continuing to carve as if the dream was only his own. Feeling a strange calm wash over him, Iscariot let Zavet speak first.

“Why are you in my dream?” Zavet finally asked, his voice steady and deliberate. He didn’t look up from his carving.

Iscariot’s gaze dropped to the ground, his usual composure absent in this strange, ethereal place. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice lacking its typical coldness and authority. There was no stoic mask to hide behind, not here.

Zavet continued to carve, his knife moving slowly, deliberately, shaping the wood into something delicate. Iscariot squinted, finally noticing the intricate details forming in the wood. Toys, he realized. Zavet was carving toys, simple and small but crafted with care.

“Why are you making toys?” Iscariot asked, breaking the silence again, unable to understand why his brother would engage in such an act.

This time, Zavet looked up, his eyes locking onto Iscariot’s. There was a weight behind his gaze, a deep intensity that conveyed more than words could. “You didn’t get them all,” Zavet said, his voice carrying a quiet defiance. “I will not allow you to get them all. Not my family. Not you.”

Iscariot averted his eyes, the weight of Zavet’s words pressing down on him. The truth of his past actions, the deaths he had caused, and the families he had torn apart all lingered like a dark shadow over him. But something had changed, something fundamental within him. He didn’t want to continue down the same path.

“I won’t go after them,” Iscariot whispered, his voice barely audible. “Can I tell you something?”

Zavet’s eyes darkened, his gaze piercing as he looked across the well at his brother. The air between them grew heavier, thick with tension and unspoken history.

Iscariot swallowed hard before speaking again. “I saw you… I saw you call her mother,” he began, his voice wavering. “She was also my mother.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, their impact immediate. Zavet’s calm demeanor shattered. He stood abruptly, throwing his carving down with a sharp clatter against the stones beneath his feet. “You killed her,” Zavet spat, his voice laced with venom. “If she was your mother, why would you kill her?”

Iscariot shrank back in his chair, the weight of guilt pressing down on him harder than ever before. His hands gripped the arms of the rocking chair tightly, his knuckles white. “Wispein used me,” he confessed, his voice raw with regret. “I know that now. She made me kill so many people. She took full control after I failed to keep Ta'Ffair from the heroes. She forced me to kill our family. I had no will of my own.”

Zavet’s face hardened, though the initial fury had given way to something else—something more profound and colder. He sat down slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving Iscariot’s. “I knew it,” Zavet said quietly, almost to himself. “I knew she was controlling you the whole time.” His voice softened but still held the edge of a blade. “But I can’t forgive you, even if we are brothers. You killed them.”

Iscariot nodded, not expecting nor wanting forgiveness. “I don’t want you to forgive me,” he admitted, his voice heavy with resignation. “I am beyond forgiveness. If you forgave me, you would become an enemy to all your friends and family. I won’t let you betray them. Not for me.”

There was a long pause, the well of power between them pulsing faintly in the dreamlike haze. Iscariot could feel its pull, the knowledge it held, the secrets it kept. He knew he had to give Zavet something that would change the course of things, even if they could never reconcile.

“But I have something for you,” Iscariot said, standing slowly. Zavet’s gaze followed him warily as he approached the well. “Wispein did give me something,” he added as he reached out, dipping his hand into the well’s swirling energy. He held an old, tattered book when he pulled his hand back.

“Knowledge,” Iscariot said, handing the book to Zavet. “This book is about the Bone Collector and the Order of Necro wardens. Even though they died out centuries ago, there is one survivor who was their mentor. He created them long ago to protect the sentient undead and the Moon of the Forgotten. They were the protectors of necromancers. The Order was snuffed out by the Order of the White Orchid centuries ago, but their legacy lives on.”

Zavet hesitated but took the book, opening it cautiously. His eyes scanned the pages, but before either could say anything more, the dream began to dissolve, the world around them fading as reality pulled them back.

Iscariot jolted awake, his body tense and covered in a thin layer of sweat. He sat up quickly, his mind racing. “Was that a dream?” he muttered, trying to shake the lingering sense of unreality. But one thought took hold as he processed what he had seen and heard.

Necro wardens. The words echoed in his mind, along with another memory that seemed to line up with the dream. The dragon skull, the ancient one from which he had retrieved the dagger, had spoken to him once, long ago, in dreams as well. It had claimed to be the Old Fang, the commander of the Necro Wardens, and the dagger he had taken was their symbol of power.

Iscariot's mind whirled with the implications: the Bone Collector, the Necro Wardens, and Zavet. There was more to this than he had ever realized.

Iscariot, now fully awake and clear-headed, made a decision. He would help Zavet to ensure the resurrection of the Necro Wardens. There was power in the old order, which could be harnessed for protection rather than destruction, and Zavet could be the key to that resurgence.

Determined, he closed his eyes, forcing his consciousness to return to the well of power. Slowly, the familiar grove materialized in his mind's eye—the same grove from the dream, with the stone house Zavet had built standing steadfast beside it. But the well called to him.

This time, Iscariot did not hesitate. He dove into the well's depths, letting the ethereal currents of power guide him. He allowed his consciousness to be pulled deeper into its abyss until the world around him faded into a cavernous darkness. There, waiting for him, was the massive and ancient dragon skull. Its hollow eye sockets stared into the void, devoid of life yet still holding an air of immense authority.

Iscariot approached the colossal skull with a steady breath, his resolve unwavering. He had taken the Guardian’s dagger long ago, but now he had come for something greater.

“Old Fang,” he announced, his voice echoing in the empty chamber like a forgotten chant. His tone was respectful and assertive, calling on the name of the once-great dragon, the ancient commander of the Necro Wardens.

The air around him shifted. The lifeless sockets of the skull began to glow faintly, a dull red light flickering to life within them. The massive form of the dragon stirred as much as a disembodied skull could stir, filling the space with an overwhelming sense of power. The ground beneath Iscariot’s feet trembled lightly, a reminder of the raw strength this creature had once wielded.

“You are the one,” a voice rumbled, deep and resonant, vibrating through the very essence of the void. “You took the Warden’s dagger.”

Iscariot stood tall, meeting the dragon’s glowing eyes without fear. “Yes,” he replied. “I took the dagger and wish to restore the order. I want to help you rebuild the Necro Wardens.”

The skull’s eyes flared brighter, a sudden intensity surging through the well as the dragon’s energy grew more focused. “Restore the order?” Old Fang’s voice dripped with both curiosity and suspicion. “Do you know what it means to be a Necro Warden? What it requires?” The dragon’s tone was a warning, as though to test Iscariot’s resolve.

Iscariot remained calm, his face expressionless but his voice steady. “Yes,” he answered. “I understand the burden and the purpose. I have seen the destruction and know what the Necro Wardens stood for. I want to bring that balance back.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, the dragon’s eye sockets burned brighter still, the crimson light blazing like molten fire. The presence of Old Fang grew heavier, and Iscariot could feel the weight of ancient eyes scrutinizing him, measuring his worth.

“Balance, you say,” the dragon rumbled. “The Necro Wardens were protectors but were not free from death. They embraced it. You must find those who can carry such a burden, who understand the true nature of life and death.”

“I will,” Iscariot said firmly, meeting the dragon’s gaze without wavering. “I have already found one who could be their leader. He can find the others.”

The dragon seemed to ponder his words, the glowing red light in its eyes flickering rhythmically, almost as if in thought. “One is not enough,” Old Fang finally replied, his voice a low growl. “The Order cannot rise with one. You must find three willing to carry the weight of life and death, who understand the delicate balance between the two.”

Iscariot nodded, his mind already working through the possibilities. He knew that Zavet could be the key, not just as a member but as a leader. Zavet, with his unwavering loyalty to his people, determination, and strength, could find others capable of taking on the mantle of the Necro Warden. There had to be others—necromancers, warriors, perhaps even undead, who could rise to the challenge.

“I found one,” Iscariot said confidently, “and he will find the others.”

Old Fang's eyes flared again, though this time with what Iscariot could almost describe as approval. “Good,” the dragon said, its deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Iscariot bowed his head slightly, a rare show of respect.

The dragon's glowing eyes seemed to dim slightly, the raw intensity easing. “Go,” Old Fang commanded, his voice softer but still carrying the weight of ancient power. “Find those who will stand between life and death, and when you do, return to me. I will give them the tools to protect the forgotten.”

Iscariot stepped back, feeling the pull of the well begins to loosen its hold on him. He could feel the world of the grove and the stone house calling him back, the dreamlike state beginning to fade. But before the connection was entirely severed, Old Fang spoke once more.

Iscariot opened his eyes, again finding himself in the palace room where he had chosen to rest. The weight of the dragon's words hung heavy on his mind.

Iscariot sat up, restless, and decided to check on his Lords. As he stepped into the courtyard, he was met with excitement rather than panic. Sentient undead and necromancers were rushing outside, their faces alight with anticipation.

“The Moon of Life has been destroyed,” one of them informed him, almost triumphantly.

Iscariot felt a surge of satisfaction. The Moon of Life, the enemy to all undead and a symbol of vitality, was no more. Its destruction had been part of the plan all along.

He looked at his Lords, who were already discussing their next moves with eager voices. “Lord Merek was consumed by the ritual that destroyed the moon.” Iscariot nodded in thought. As Merek was the first lord, he had stolen. “It is fine. We proceed as planned. “

The news of losing Merek might have troubled Iscariot more under different circumstances, but now it barely registered. This was the final step in bringing back Wispein. She must have reached out to the lord of Liches, believing he had failed her.

Her presence within his mind sparked to life once again. He fought to prevent her from fully taking over again, but it was useless. She was too strong. His mind faded as she was in control again.

“Good,” she said out loud, through him. “You put a spark of hope in the heart of the people. Now we will tear it out.”