Ishkinil had started to turn from the corpse upon the throne, now severed of its unnatural life, ready to return Dirgesinger to its scabbard, when a whispered noise came to her. Faint at first it started but slowly it gathered intensity. It came from all around, from the vortex of energies above. Tendrils of it began to lash about, an almost frantic edge to them, whipping through the air, seeking to ground themselves.
The corpse upon the throne fell apart before her, the sorcerous energies that had once held it there and sustained it no more. It fell into dust and ash upon the throne. A stirring wind in the chamber, driven by the arcane energies, tugged at them, spilling them across the marble floor.
Where once had sat a corpse now remained a spectral figure, its features more distinct, of a proud and handsome looking man, his features now suffused in agonised pan. Still the golden spikes held him in place, holding his spectral form there as they had done with his desiccated body. Now that the physical body was no more, Ishkinil could make out the nature of the golden spikes better, and upon them were etched sorcerous runes that glowed red, words of dark power and binding, enough to hammer the spectral body to the throne, to prevent its release into Enkurgil's embrace.
The spectre of he who had once been Nakhurena's general struggled against the bindings, seeking to break break free of his restraints, but it availed him not, for they bound him tight with shackles unbreakable, forged of the darkest sorceries. It threw back its head in despair and let out a silent roar. No sound emanated from its mouth though there was a force behind it still. It struck Ishkinil with an invisible hand, one that buffeted at her and sent her shadowed cloak rippling behind her, rocking her back on her feet. She felt its touch wash over her, a cloying tainted touch that set her skin to itching and crawling.
Light erupted from the spectral figure’s eyes and mouth, corrupted green in colour, snapping tendrils of arcane energy that lashed through the air, leaving glowing after-effects in their wake. Frenzied strikes crashed upon the floor and the walls about, and where they hit sparks leapt and the stone was left scored, molten and bubbling along the edges, near white-hot in intensity.
One tendril whipped towards Ishkinil, cracking through the air, forcing her to dive aside to avoid its deadly caress. She rolled smoothly across the floor and back to her feet in one easy motion, poised low on the balls of her feet, watching the whip of the sorcerous tendrils, making ready to move at a moment. Another tendril arced towards her, snaking through the air as if it was scenting her out, seeking her as it came. She darted behind one of the broad while marble columns of the hall as it lashed towards her. It struck the column, and the corpse nailed to it. Sparks leapt and the smell of burnt flesh rose in the as he corpse was cut in half. Molten stone dripped to the floor and flames began to smoulder as the corpse started to burn.
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As abrupt as the sorcerous attacks had come they were then gone again, tendrils snapping back into the spectral form. As cautious as any wild cornered animal, Ishkinil edged out from behind the column, away from the smouldering corpse, wary that the attacks had not yet ended, only paused.
Well was she to think so, for one more sickly energy erupt from the spectral figure, more intense and numerous, a multitude of smaller flailing tendrils. They came not for her, but rather arced and jumped through the air, grounding themselves upon the corpses nailed to the walls and columns of the throne room. The arcane energy borrowed into them, and as it did, they began to shuddered and jerk. The nails that bound them melted away and all around her, corpses began to fall to the ground, even the one aflame. First one, then another, rose to it is feet, motions jarring and unsteady. They began to shamble in her direction, a wall of the dead that walked, from their eyes glowing an insidious, sickly green light.
Ishkinil turned about, watching as they came on at her from all parts of the room, a ring of them closing in, lurching towards her, arms reaching out, ready to grasp and rend.
They were numerous, too many for her to face down, not alone and surrounded as she was. To fight was to die, and there, in that place, she could not do so.
With swift step she dashed for the entrance, charging the approaching mass of walking corpses, shadows growing thick about her. Dirgesinger flashed with bright white-blue flame and crooned as it sung through the air. The blade arced down upon the nearest of the reanimated, and the blow clove it asunder, cutting clear through from shoulder to emerge on the other side of the body.
A flailing blow came at her as she kicked passed the falling, sundered corpse, and she ducked swiftly beneath it, lashing out with Dirgesinger, taking the legs out from beneath another, cutting a path clear through the encircling foe. On she ran, long legged stride swiftly outpacing her shambling pursuers. They could not catch her, not while strength remained in her limbs.
Yet even as she ran, headed for the exit of the throne room and the corridors that led out of the White Citadel and back into the city, she caught a glimpse of more of the arcing tendrils of sorcerous might. These struck not the corpses in the room but passed through the very walls of it, heading to parts unseen.
There would be other bodies out there, perhaps in parts of the White Citadel she had not as yet explored, or in Iskor Yar itself, and these too would be brought back to unnatural life. The dead would walk, and with it seek to bring forth a tide of suffering and pain.