A DARK WIZARD'S APPRENTICE Myleia walked through the desert, and her dire wolf limped by her side. The white fur had been burnt from his front paws, revealing raw, peeling flesh. She could not ride him in these conditions. So she walked. And he limped. And their pace was slow. Four days they travelled this way. No food. No water. On the fifth they came to a great marsh. Sand turned to mud, thistles to reeds. The water was foul, but Myleia and the wolf drank. By noon they had to stop. Their stomachs burned. Myleia clutched her side and the wolf howled. Beneath the sun they loosed their steaming bowels. Brown shit vanished into brown water. Weakened, they could not rest. There was no shade to protect them from the burning sun and nothing to sit on but shit-colored water. So they walked. Dusk came and went and the great marsh stretched to the horizon and beyond. But as light gave way to darkness and the twin moons shined blood red in the sky, Myleia glimpsed a strange aura simmering on a plateau to the north. Even as she turned, ending their long march west, the glow took on a green hue, and the wolf whined. This was not the light of a town or friendly camp. Dark magic, older than the marsh they trudged through, stained the air with its fermented odor. But on she marched, Myleia the warriess. And wherever she went the giant dire wolf went by her side. The air at the base of the plateau crackled with electricity. Myleia’s hair stood on end. She strapped her longspear to her back and grasped the cliffside rocks with calloused hands. The wolf whimpered. He knew what awaited Myleia atop the cliff. But fate had brought her here. She dismissed his warning and scaled the steep rock cliff. The green aura billowed and broke like waves in the air above the plateau. Before she reached the top, Myleia heard a guttural voice conjuring in the old tongue. D’skatha eyrgyn s’koot D’skathka myrgyn b’lut D’sratha tyrgyn r’ult The green aura undulated, pulsing brighter as the chant continued. Myleia reached the summit. Her fingers dug into the dry dirt atop the plateau, and she hoisted herself up over the ledge. In seconds her longspear was in hand, but she saw no foe before her. A vast graveyard extended the length of the plateau. Fragments of rusted iron indicated a fence long ago dismantled by time. Thousands of obsidian gravestones bearing no marks lined the plateau in rows. Interspersed among these were great ivory statues depicting the many-eyed, many-tentacled monsters worshipped in the time before man. A hooded figure stood upon an ivory platform at the center of the plateau. But this was not who was conjuring. No, the voice came from a boy, no older than eight, chanting beneath the shadow of a statue. His eyes were closed, and he did not sense her presence. She was still many yards off. As the chant continued and the green aura in the sky pulsed, the ground beneath the boy’s feet began to rumble and quake. He was attempting to conjure the dead. Myleia readied her longspear. He was a child, yes. But a child threatening the tenuous wall between this world and the Other deserved no mercy. Her spear found its mark. The tip tore through his throat, ending the chant. The earth settled. The aura dimmed and dispersed. And the boy fell to his knees, weighed down by the spear. He grasped at his neck, now wet with blood, and his fingers slipped. He gurgled something before collapsing to the ground, dead. Myleia withdrew the longspear from his throat and cleaned its blade on the earth. Wind whispered across the graveyard. A voice carried in the air. The entire plateau trembled. D’skatha eyrgyn s’koot D’skathka myrgyn b’lut D’sratha tyrgyn r’ult The words seemed to emanate directly from the ground. The hooded figure watched Myleia from the platform. Red moonlight reflected in the dark wizard’s eyes, which glowed bright like a cat’s. This was not just a sorcerer, but one of the Five. The aura burned blue and descended to the earth. As it passed through Myleia and entered the ground she felt a sudden chill so cold it made her gasp, and a cloud of vapor escaped her lips. All sound vanished in an instant, and for one brief moment the totality of silence was absolute. And then it passed. And the ground tore open. And the dead oozed out. They surrounded Myleia, rotting corpses and skeletons, all dripping with the white bile of black magic. Their forms were human and beast alike. Some stood so tall they blocked out the dim light of the moons. Escape was impossible – not that Myleia considered it. She was a warriess - one of the last - and never turned from battle. They shuffled towards Myleia, encircling her. She gripped her longspear, waiting until they drew close before thrusting the blade forward. The tip skewered one mold-spotted corpse and passed through into another. The two barely reacted. She withdrew the spear and they shambled forward, unabated. Behind her a cluster of skeletons closed in. Their bones creaked and groaned as they moved, announcing their presence. Myleia spun, swinging the spear around her like a club. Bones cracked, dust flew, and the skeletons crumpled to the earth. The bone walkers could be dealt with. But what of the other, fresher corpses? What could stop what was already dead? Looking past the advancing horde to the ivory platform, Myleia saw no sign of the wizard. A wet hand clutched her shoulder and dripping bile burned her flesh. “Aiee!” Myleia screamed, shoving the corpse back with the shaft of her longspear. She glimpsed the bile eating away at her shoulder and then several more corpses were on her. She swung wildly. The longspear’s blade lopped off limbs and tore rotting flesh to tatters. As pieces of the dead fell around her, their open wounds dribbled and spurt more of the corrosive white bile. She shouted and swung and fought even as they closed in and the bile showered her. It boiled through her skin, exposing raw muscle. Myleia’s long, dark hair fell in clumps as her scalp liquefied and melted until the top of her head was nothing but white skull. Still she fought. Blinded by her own melting flesh, she fought. And then time stopped. Her pain vanished like a blown-out candle. She could see again, but the world was hazy, as if she was looking through a dark shroud. The dead were frozen in their attack. Streams of bile hung suspended in the air, spilling from gouged orifices. Even the air seemed locked in place. Myleia tried to breathe, but her lungs would not respond. She was frozen along with everything else. Panic hit. This was beyond the abilities of even the most powerful wizards. Was this… death? Her conscious mind trapped in the moment of fatality for all eternity? An apparition appeared on the edge of her vision. The figure was cloaked in a hooded robe, but this was not the dark wizard from the ivory platform. Its bone-white claws wielded a giant scythe. The Reaper floated toward Myleia. The fabric of its robe billowed as if drifting through water. It passed straight through the frozen dead and reached Myleia with its scythe raised. So this was it. Her time was up. “Last words?” The Reaper spoke slowly in a deep, gravelly voice. Myleia eyed the glinting scythe. Rage filled her. No. Her time had not yet come. Not if she had anything to say about it. The shroud before her eyes seemed to part. Cool night air brushed Myleia’s cheek. Her lungs filled with air. “Go to hell.” Myleia ripped the scythe from the Reaper’s claws. She swung, but the Reaper was already gone. Time lurched into motion. The scythe blade cleaved through the circle of undead. Bile splattered Myleia, boring new holes in her flesh. She winced through the pain. This time the dead stayed dead. The Reaper’s scythe had done its job. Myleia leapt over the fallen corpses and swung the scythe with barbaric fury at the remaining undead horde. Rotting entrails spilled on obsidian gravestones. Severed limbs dropped to the dry earth. Bones splintered and broke. And still the horde marched on. Myleia fought until her muscles screamed and then fell numb. She fought until the mounds of bodies formed a ten-foot crater around her. She fought until night had passed, dawn had come and gone, and every last member of the graveyard lay dead once again. The final ghoul’s decapitated head rolled to her feet and its body toppled back into the enormous pile of corpses. It was just past noon. The scythe’s blade had not dulled at all. It never would. Myleia fought every urge to collapse into a deep sleep. The dark wizard could still be out there. She hoisted herself up the mound of bodies. Her muscles trembled and her vision went white as she climbed to the top. From here she could see the entire plateau. There was no sign of the wizard. She descended the corpses and walked to the ivory platform at the center of the graveyard. Two ashen paw prints on the platform’s white base were the only sign of the wizard’s presence. Myleia howled and her dire wolf answered. She returned to him and they rested in the shadow of the plateau. Her wounds would take months to heal. She gave herself one night. In the morning they started north. The dire wolf bent down, willing her to mount. His burnt paws had scarred over. She straddled his back and they began their hunt, riding toward gathering storm clouds. The wizard left no trail, no scent – but north seemed right. Myleia gripped the wolf’s rough fur in her left hand and held the Reaper’s scythe in her right. When she found the dark wizard he would fall to his knees and beg for mercy from Myleia – the woman who thwarted death. She adjusted her grip on the scythe. Myleia had been called a lot of things in her life. Merciful was not one of them.