Twenty-six years ago…

The fires of the village illuminated the rising magician, a lone figure in crimson arrayed against a vast army. In the pale light of morning, the true scale of a single night of madness would become clear: This was not the only place to burn tonight.

Yet the army did not move as soulless eyes watched and waited for the order which would see them reduced to ash, and they did nothing. They didn’t even breathe.

In the heart of the village, one building withstood the onslaught of the flames, as if by some miracle mere straw, thatch and wood were withstanding a heat which had reduced stone and metal to a flowing glowing liquid, a phenomenon which proved only mildly commentable to the six people sheltered within.

“Looking good Dalash,” commented a figure in a black robe and hood, looking up at the woman in red who was sat crosslegged on a bale of slowly smoking hay at the very top of the hayloft. The woman did not respond, too deep in the threads of magic to hear the man, who shrugged amiably, returning to his conversation with his companions. “So has your son decided which branch of magic he wishes to pursue, Anton?”

Of the other four, two were also dressed in the traditional mage’s garb, each denoting a different order by colour. One, the speaker, the eternal black of a necromancer. The second, young Dalash, the scorching red of a fire mage, a pyromancer. A third in the humble, drab white of a healer. And the fourth was shrouded in shadow, literally clothed in her own power.

Shadowmancers had had to claw their names way out of the dirt, perhaps harder than necromancers and, even necromancers would admit, less deservedly so.

Now they wore their power blatantly, a small shield of bravado, as if daring the world to take offence; usually, it didn’t.

There was nothing extraordinary about this in itself; mages travelling together was a tradition almost as old as magic itself. Travelling with paladins, on the other hand, was, even now, exceptional.

The two paladin-knights were resplendent in finest steel, foregoing nullstone so their colleagues could work safely. In place of the trusted null, an intricate filigree of runes were carved into the metal, harkening back to an era where the precious rock had not been refined properly and even through the soot and ash coating it, the magic shone like an aquamarine candle, seemingly hovering on the surface rather than in the runes themselves.

From within his helmet Anton smiled, “The boy wants to follow in your footsteps old friend.”

The man in the black robes chuckled lightly, “How’s the rest of the family taking it?”

“Oh they’ve threatened to disown him; and me. Bollocks to the lot of them I say, it’s his life, his choice.”

“And your opinion old friend?” came the quiet prompt.

“I can’t say I’m entirely pleased…” the paladin confessed, “I was hoping he’d pick something safer, like healing or geomancy, I know you do your best, but you still have a three per cent attrition rate in the first year alone.”

“I’ll make sure he’s got a tutor of some sort. Something powerful,” the necromancer assured his ancient enemy; and close friend.

“Thank you. Now I assume you’ve some sort of plan to deal with our fiery friend outside?” Anton said, with complete certainty, this was the case.

“Dalash is dealing with it now,” the necromancer said with a smile. “Though if this takes much longer I’ll have the troops lend a hand so she can rest for a few minutes.”

“You’ve an army of a thousand undead warriors, surely you can do better than a few minutes?” the paladin declared incredulously.

“Not really. The temperature outside is sufficient to melt steel, bone would be little deterrent I’m afraid,” the robed figure explained.

“So again; what’s the plan?” he demanded.

“To be patient.”

“Do you have to be this cryptic all the time? Susan, what is he talking about?” the paladin snapped though there was no longer any malice in it after all these years.

The shadowmancer smiled, lowering her hood. “It’s a battle of attrition. Standard duel tactic amongst the more powerful magicians, not that anyone would know these days with the bans on duelling. To maintain these sorts of temperatures and nullify them over a long period of time is beyond the capacity of any human mage. And so any magical artefacts in their possession are currently being drained of their reserves.”

“Sounds risky, what if his reserves are greater than Dalash’s?” this from Karatas, the other paladin in their small group, the man barely out of his teens.

“Unlikely,” the necromancer interjected, “Dalash is one of the most powerful pyromancers produced by the Academy Vulcanus in the last four decades, and the reserves she carries are significant, and should her reserves be insufficient I will lend my own strength to hers, I know enough of pyromancy to be of assistance.”

“Surely this would be safer if Susan got the rest of us out of here?” this from the healer.

“No! So much magic in one place, They will be swarming all over it. We would be offering ourselves on a platter to Them,” Susan’s voice quivered with dread, the capital T in ‘They’ and ‘Them’ quite audible for those with the ears for it.

“Who are ‘They’?” demanded Karatas suspiciously.

“We don’t- ” Susan began, hurt in her voice over this apparent distrust.

“You are asking for one of shadowmancy’s greatest secrets,” the necromancer said quietly, with dark solemnity. “It would be like me asking you about the seraphim population for example.”

The horrified gasp was highly informative. He’d struck a nerve.

“Then how do you know of it?” Anton asked, apparently entirely unphased by this casual dropping of a paladin secret; in fact, there was almost a hint of resignation to the voice, as if such blatant disregard for secrecy was commonplace.

“I saved a man’s life. He repaid the life debt with knowledge. And I studied under a shadowmancer for ten years, or umbramancer as it called it,” the black-robed man said matter-of-factly.

“So what should we do in the meantime?” the healer asked, trying to defuse the situation.

There was a mutual glance up to the top of the hayloft where Dalash was sweating profusely. The occasional wisp of smoke rising from the hay.

“Is she as good as old Tyrone?” Susan asked quietly, nerves showing.

“Tyrone?” this from Karatas.

It was Anton who answered, the rest looking a tad too lost in miserable reminiscence to reply, “He was the pyromancer with us before Dalash. A good man.”

There was a great finality to the words as if they had closed the matter of the mage’s character in its entirety.

“What happened to him?” Karatas pressed, not seeming to be able to take a hint.

“He was overpowered using his own element. A rogue elemental,” the other paladin replied mournfully. “The poor fool… the poor brave fool.”

“Brave? More like stupid,” Karatas exclaimed.

The necromancer caught Anton’s punch deftly and calmly before it could connect with the younger paladin’s face. “It’s not his fault old friend. Envy the child his naivety,” he said, old eyes gazing imploringly at his friend even as he caught Karatas’ own strike, hand closing a vice-grip around the man’s fist.

“How dare you mock me, magician?” Karatas spat, imbuing ‘magician’ with all the properties of an expletive as he swung with the other hand.

Blood arced out in a spray of crimson droplets from beneath the necromancer’s hood as the mailed fist split his nose. With an expression of shock he released Anton’s fist, squeezing hard on Karatas’ hand with the intent of crushing the bones within it. For a moment it looked like he’d succeed as the metal visibly deformed in the uncompromising vice of the necromancer’s grip, perfect impressions of his fingerprints stamped into the metal, almost a quarter of an inch deep, the steel conforming to the inexorable pressure. Against mere metal he would likely have succeeded, but before he could inflict a maiming injury upon his errant ally the armour’s enchantments kicked in, a sheen of magical energy forming on the surface, the insubstantial substance proving utterly incompressible to the magically enhanced strength of the mage.

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A wiser man might realise the point being made, but Karatas was young and quick of temper, a combination of factors to which escalation was a natural consequence.

As his dagger left the sheathe on his belt, the younger paladin felt a gentle prick under his left armpit as a white-robed arm pulled him into a vicious headlock. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” assured a low voice just behind his ear. “My blade is maybe half a centimetre from the artery supplying blood to your left arm. No, don’t move, my hand might slip and then you’d bleed out in just over a minute. We wouldn’t want that.”

The paladin froze, hardly daring to breathe. His eyes glanced at his comrades-in-arms. None of them seemed inclined to help; in fact, amusement would best describe what little expression was visible beneath hoods and helm. Gathering his courage he spoke quietly to his captor, his voice little more than a croak, “You can’t kill me, you’re a healer. It’s against your oath.”

“That could be the case, yes, but are you willing to stake your life that I’m a man of my word. Afterall I distinctly recall you saying… now what was it? Ah I remember…” The voice was purest poison, sweet and lethal, dripping slowly as it suffused towards the small set of synapses marked ‘Primal Terror’.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” he half-pleaded only to be cut off as the healer continued in a perfect imitation of Karatas’ hateful baritone growl. “Mages, what do they know about oaths? How can you trust a man who can weave lies into reality itself?”

Karatas swallowed nervously, trying not to struggle as fear, cold as ice, seemed to wrap around his spine. Wide-eyed gaze noting the way his other companions were studiously ignoring the confrontation. The necromancer having gone so far as to ascend to the top of the hayloft to assist the struggling Dalash; a hurried, whispered conversation taking place in the rafters as the two mages shared the mental strain of neutralising the flames cascading down upon their oh so very flammable shelter as their comrades squabbled below.

Back at ground level, Anton was watching what was, at this point, essentially a much-needed lesson in humility and understanding.

The tension had been slowly building since the young Karatas had been foisted upon the squad after his predecessor had been the unfortunate recipient of a lifetime’s supply of chimaera venom, though, in this instance, the lifetime in question was a scant fifteen seconds.

Apparently, some administrative bigwig had decided to assign the rookie, fresh out of training, to a squad of professional killers on the basis it would ‘smooth the rough edges’ which everyone — bar the almost as recent if nowhere near as inexperienced Dalash — had instantly rewritten those four words into ‘hopefully he’ll get killed’ within the comfort of their own heads.

Somehow the young knight had annoyed someone in authority within the Paladin Order. This was the only reason they had tolerated his nonsense for so long, though now, after three months of clashing and no sign of the maverick spirit they’d envisaged, it appeared one of them had finally run out of patience.

Despite this apparent abandonment, each member of the group, beneath their façade of nonchalance, was, in fact, preparing to leap to the defence of the indoctrinated fool should Dwight take things too far. Even to the death of their friend if necessary for each knew the healer’s past and, though they entrusted him daily with their lives, each had sworn an oath upon something held dear, that should the former Dread Healer ever fall from the path of redemption then his death would be the result. Killing paladins for being an annoyance would be a significant step off of that path, no matter that each had at some point daydreamed of gently sliding a long dagger up between his ribs.

Yes, they would defend him, and then when whatever bloodshed had run its course, they would cut him off as if they had never known him, except perhaps to poison his career. Dwight, for his many faults and irredeemable past, was their friend and brother in hardship, and they did not kill friends lightly.

And so guarded expressions watched as the lives of two men hung in the balance. Fates to be decided by the words and deeds of the next few minutes while above them three minds duelled at the speed of thought, foregoing the drama of the wizard’s duels of legend, just action and reaction as magic twisted and warped under implacable wills and immense powers.

Dalash was a master pyromancer despite the doubts of her comrades. She had been handpicked from the Academy Vulcanus, and even the much-missed Tyrone had lacked her raw power and potential. The grizzled veteran had been a master of all the forms of fire and heat, a technician not a powerhouse but despite her strength, and even with the necromancer’s willpower alongside her, Dalash was losing as the improbable happened, for as her power waned, her resources drained; rubies of unnaturally fiery lustre dimmed, lesser gemstones shattered and runes warped and yet the pyromancer outside did not weaken, his magic only waxing, stronger, more uncontrolled.

The young woman sent a panicked glance towards her black-robed colleague as realisation dawned only to see calm determination in his passive gaze.

“I feel it too. Go tell Susan it is time to leave. I will hold it for now,” the voice was so terribly calm.

“But-”

“No buts child, the Vulcanus has rather failed in its duties here. We must simply limit the damage until the ascension is complete.” There was a mirthless chuckle. “Duty unto death. Now go tell them to stop bickering and pack their things back up. I have years enough to spend to buy the time needed.”

Slowly Dalash stood up, the young woman stretching stiff muscles before hopping down to ground level.

While this had been occurring, the situation with Karatas had failed to resolve, the healer still holding the paladin at knifepoint. The rookie wasn’t helping his case either as he attempted to struggle free, though, despite his threats, Dwight had not driven home the knife. He had wanted the man frightened and repentant rather than dead, and thus, as soon as Dalash’s feet had hit the floor, he pushed the paladin away, the blade disappearing back into the recesses of his robe. “Trouble Dalash?” the tone was sincere, if perhaps a touch hopeful that trouble would indeed be the case.

“Too much trouble,” she admitted, slightly unsteady on her feet. “Our out-of-control- magician is half an hour away from being a full-blown elemental.”

Dwight winced, “Heads are going to roll for this one.”

Susan nodded in agreement, “Over three hundred dead because some desk-jockey lost track of the paperwork.”

Anton shook his head, “A touch harsh, you try tracking a single tick in a ledger, especially when some mages can take centuries to achieve that level of understanding of their element.”

“Susan’s right,” this from Dalash, the young woman making no attempt to defend her order. “There are two ways to ascend to embodying an element; by understanding it utterly or by raw power. We don’t bother tracking understanding, no point; they tend to ascend peacefully, and there’s no practical way to track it. Power on the hand tends to be highly volatile, in fire mages particularly, mirroring the nature of fire, and with no idea of how to control what’s happening to them. Those people we do keep a studious track of. If one wasn’t recalled to the Vulcanus in time then Susan’s right, heads will roll. Though there’s another worry, this would make two elemental ascendances missed in under a year, I know two’s just a coincidence, but that’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“So what did the cantankerous old git have to say?” Anton asked fondly, tone belaying the viciousness of the words themselves.

“He wants us to evacuate-”

“No way! No way at all!” Susan declared angrily. “You’re asking me to commit suicide.”

Dalash folded her arms, “Let me phrase this another way, you can stay here and definitely die, or try and leave and only probably die.”

The shadow mage frowned thoughtfully, genuinely mulling over her options. “You’re sure there’s no way we can fight our way out?”

“None that involves any of us still breathing at the end of it and while I’ll admit maybe two of us would consider that a mere inconvenience neither of them are us, so it’s up to you to decide,” the pyromancer said flatly before frowning. “The fire’s stopped.”

“Merely redirected I’m afraid,” the necromancer informed them, smiling as they all went for their weapons. Not one of them had seen or heard him move. “My army is engaging him, I predict we have maybe five minutes until they have been reduced to ash unless one of the archers gets very, very lucky.”

“We could always join them, take advantage of the distraction to strike.” Surprisingly Karatas’ suggestion was met with nods of approval.

“There’s no point,” the man in black said flatly. “He’s holding a flare sphere hot enough to vaporise steel from a foot away and there’s some sort of spell deflection as an outer shield. I’ve been throwing air blades at him for over a minute, nothing’s so much as scratched it. On a really good day we might be able to punch through together, but frankly we backed the wrong strategy by trying to tire him and now two of us are exhausted,” the necromancer stated calmly. “Now Susan, it’s now or never.”

All eyes went to the trembling woman as she stood tall, clenching her fists so tight her skin turned white as fresh snow as she tried to suppress the tremors of fear trying to course through her frail form.

“Safe journey my friend,” the necromancer said solemnly yet warmly. “One way or another we’ll be seeing each other soon.” Similar comments were expressed by the rest of the team, even Karatas managing a convincing goodbye.

Susan smiled morosely, “See you all soon.” And then she stepped into one of the deeper shadows, somehow stepping in a direction not normally available to mortal man, disappearing as she passed across the threshold of darkness.

Moments later she emerged, screaming soundlessly as she collapsed to her knees; her entire form – clothes, skin and even eyes – seemed to be coated in tar, yet not the meagrest glimmer of light escaped the surface while the flesh seemed to dissolve before their eyes, exposing muscle and then the bone beneath. Three recoiled in primal terror, the necromancer, however, drew a knife from within the recesses of his sleeve yet was too slow as in a single smooth motion Karatas stepped forwards, drawing his sword to cleave Susan’s head from her shoulders, the skull rolling into a corner to dissolve quietly.

Silence reigned as they watched their erstwhile comrade dissipate into nothingness.

Karatas started as a hand was placed gently on his arm, nearly spitting the necromancer upon his blade out of sheer nerves.

“That was a brave thing you did,” he said simply, stepping back away with a respectful nod. “Now it would seem our options are but one. With escape denied us there is nought we can do but fight unto our last.” Calmly he shook each of them by the hand, “My friends, it has been a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Anton enthused warmly. “And that applies to the rest of you as well.”

Similar comments abounded until silence descended; there wasn’t time to say all they would wish, so each restrained themselves to quiet farewells.

“Shall we?” the necromancer enquired, unbarring the wooden double doors and pushing them open, proceeding calmly outside. Already the fighting was beginning to conclude as the last of the skeletal horde met a final fiery death.

The others followed, weapons held ready. Anton moved carefully in front of his colleague, slightly to the right of the necromancer so he could shield the man without blocking his shot. The movement was utterly subconscious, born of years of working together.

The sun may have set hours before but the sky seemed as bright as a clear summer noon, the pyromancer making a passable alternative to the great celestial orb.

“We haven’t got long until the ascension peaks,” Anton observed calmly as the mage returned his deranged attention back upon them, fire quite literally in his eyes as his own inferno began to consume the man as the final stages of his ascension unfolded.

The paladin was right, his black-robed friend concluded, in minutes they would be dealing not with a man but an elemental. Magic given physical form.

And then they would die.