The Black Wizard's Spire by Daylan Ephitis (most popular ebook readers .txt) 📕

expressed their concerns. He told them all the same thing he had told Henrik, there was nothing to worry about.
Narthak had walked one full circle around the encampment when he smelt it. A pungent scent filled his nostrils completely. It was like the rotting stench of decay, but more acrid. His inner nose hairs burned off as he inhaled. His eyes lit up and he scowled in disgust and hatred. It was the putrid reek of magic.
Just then, he heard the shouts of surrounding clansmen.
“Mages! Sorcerers! Magicians! Prepare yourselves for battle!” shouted Henrik at the top of his lungs as he ran towards the edge of camp.
Narthak ran with a group of warriors in the direction the sorcerers were coming from; the east. They were already close and approaching the camp at an alarming rate. Narthak could see their dark robes and long, stringy, grey heir. His heart sank as he saw the otherworldly beasts that accompanied them. Strange demonic hounds ran alongside the sorcerers, slimy green foam frothed around the corners of their mouths and their glossy black eyes glowed like obsidian. They were completely covered in a thick black coat of stringy hair.
He drew his iron claymore from its leather scabbard. He could see the sorcerers clearly now, their demonic eyes pieced his very soul. He tightened his iron grip on his beast of a sword as the creatures entered swinging range.
The things pounced on the front lines of warriors guarding the camp, tearing them to shreds. Narthak backed up, a single hound tried to jump him and he plunged his sword deep into its bulging chest. The creature let out a howl then went limp. Narthak pulled his claymore out of it just in time to intercept a second one. His sword entered the creature through its left eye then shot out the back of the thing’s skull. He pulled the sword up, vertically splitting the beast’s head in half, then turned around and ran into the camp through the chaos surrounding him.
The mages were within firing range now; they stood in a line as they conjured demonic fire in the palms of their hands. They hurled the flames into the camp and soon it was ablaze.
Narthak heard of the time it took to regain magical energy in one’s blood. Spell casters traded some of their own life force in exchange for more magical power. His grandfather, great Jinjo Yorden, son of Nhoktur, had told him many stories of daring adventures and mighty quests during Narthak’s uneventful youth. Many of them had involved sorcerers or other magical beings. That was the extent of Narthak’s knowledge on sorcery; children’s tales.
Presently, he was coughing and gagging as he ran through the camp, barely able to hold his stomach because of the unbearable stench of magic in the air. He guessed that because of the very strong initial assault, the sorcerers soon wouldn’t have anything left. If he could just survive, and get as many other clansmen as he could to do the same, he could easily cut down the mages one by one.
Up ahead, Narthak saw Henrik sprawled out on the snow, blood spurted from a deep hole in his chest that tore right through his chain mail cuirass. Henrik breathed deeply and slowly, but called Narthak over to him. Narthak ran up to Henrik and helped him up.
“I warned you damned fools! I’ve been warning you for years!” Henrik coughed as he stood up. He picked up a longbow from a fallen comrade and nocked an arrow. After careful aiming, he let the arrow fly straight and true. It entered a sorcerer’s head right between the eyes over fifty feet away. The arrow’s exit was grotesque; bits of skull flew out like shrapnel in every direction. The dead magician had a gaping hole in his head and stood still as if nothing had happened for a long moment, then toppled over limply into the blood-red snow around him. Henrik smiled then fell over back into the pool of his own blood, his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
Narthak let out a long yell of fury but used his better judgment and did not charge straight into the inevitable slaughter. He advanced slowly through the chaos, hiding behind dead hellhounds from time to time so he wouldn’t be seen by any of the sorcerers.
All around him was anarchy and destruction, the screams of the vanquished rang in his ears. The highlanders fought with all their might, battling the demonic hounds and dark sorcerers. There was much bloodshed, but it looked like a fairly even battle . . . though that was before the sorcerers began their second synchronized attack.
The dark mages all stopped at once, and purple tainted forcefields engulfed them. Their hands were raised above their heads; purple balls of dark energy grew in their palms. At the sight of this, Narthak, and some other highlanders sprinted away into the burning camp; into safety.
“You cowards! Get back here!” Hathus shouted at the top of his lungs as he battled two of the otherworldly creatures at once. His cuirass was gone, leaving him armorless and vulnerable. There was a deep gash in the side of his forehead, a thin strip of flesh hung off his temple, fresh blood poured out like a river, but still, he kept on fighting. A third hound approached him with lightning quickness, eroding the ground with each step. It swung one massive claw at Hathus’s exposed stomach, easily cleaving through the frail flesh, tearing a large hole in his gut. Viscera rolled out in sloppy heaps then flopped to the ground in a putrid pile. Hathus’s gaze was an emotionless stare as he dropped to his knees. Blood trickled out of his open mouth, then at once, the beasts were on him. They tore his body to shreds, then ripped his cadaver limb from limb. Narthak stopped watching around the moment one of the creatures held Hathus’s severed head up to the sky, posing in a victory stance.
Nausea churned his stomach as he ran through the burning field of charred bodies. He finally came to a small dip in the endless tundra on the other side of the camp. A large blast shook the very earth, Narthak dove for the ground. Shortly after, he was blinded by an unbearably bright purple light. He could feel heat from the blast blow past his bloody face as he lay in the snow.
Narthak lay in the snow for what seemed like an eternity. He could hear the distant battle cries of Joben Valorka, a childhood friend, but his ears were still ringing. With all his willpower he picked himself up and scanned the battlefield. He was shocked to see almost bare nothingness. The camp was all but embers. The only thing left was a few of his brothers taking on a small horde of the hellhounds; the rest of the clan was all dead, piled on top of each other in a sick display.
In the distance he could see the sorcerers, they were weak and tired, taking in deep breaths and coughing out blood with every exhale. Narthak finally let his primal instincts take him over. Rage engulfed him and he lost all control. He charged, gripping his claymore in both hands and letting out a brutal war cry. Bloodlust filled his body and shook his core.
Two of the demonic abominations started towards him as he approached the sorcerers. The bigger of the two charged at him with its jaw extended. With a mighty shout, Narthak twisted around and skewered his sword straight through the creature’s open mouth. It let out a final yelp as the sword exited through the back of its neck. The second beast brought him down before he could pull his sword out of the first one’s mouth. He was disarmed, trying to fight off the evil monstrosity’s relentless assault. Slimy spittle dropped down on his face as the creature attacked. Finally, Narthak gave the creature a hard punch to the side of its hideous face. He could hear a sharp crack and saw blood burst out its opposite ear. It let out a short yelp then fell limp on him. He stayed there, with the dead beast on top of him, while he caught his breath and wiped the foreign blood from his face.
After a long moment, he threw the dead monstrosity off him, regained his sword, and continued his charge on the magicians. As he ran, he thought of all he had lost in such a short amount of time. The whole clan had been practically wiped out; only a few stragglers – including himself – remained. This nearly brought him to tears of anger as he mindlessly charged into battle, shouting incoherent babble that meant nothing except extreme aggression and rage in its purest form.
About twenty feet away, one of the sorcerers began to cycle energy through his palms, preparing a spell. Before the magician could unleash his dark powers, Narthak plunged his claymore into the man’s stomach. He gasped for air, but could not seize any. Blood pumped out the wound in the rhythmatic pulse of his heartbeat. Narthak snarled at the man then ripped the sword out his side, with it came the man’s intestinal tract.
Out of the corner of his eye, Narthak could see a second sorcerer. He turned to the mage and noticed this one was much weaker than the first. He was shaking uncontrollably, barely able to stay standing. Dark blood dripped out of his ears and nose. A convulsion came over him and he vomited blood all over the snow. Narthak charged the man. When he got close enough, he swung his claymore in a wide arc. The mage’s head tore off from his body in a swift motion, his body collapsed in a limp heap.
He dropped his sword and fell to one knee. Scanning the battlefield, he could see it was all over. Everyone around him was either dead or dying. The conjured hellbeasts let out their last sickening moans before collapsing around each other, dozens of arrows littered their sides. The clan all lay in the packed snow – more red than white – with gaping holes in their chests that smoked like a doused flame. The sorcerers all lay in rows, ripped open and mutilated, though some crawled along the ground in desperate attempts to escape. Narthak could hear faint breathing and groaning; he walked through the frozen tundra and systematically put every survivor out of his or her misery, whether they were friend or foe. He was rougher with his enemies than his allies though. He told his friends to be brave and strong before plunging his sword deep into the backs of their heads; he whispered obscenities and curses into the sorcerers’ ears before committing the same deed.
He stepped back, disgusted with himself at the act he just carried out. The combat rage slowly drifted from his eyes and he returned to reality. He still could not fathom the utter destruction of the whole scene; it was now but a barren field littered with bodies and ashes.
Suddenly, he became aware of the intense pain burning in his thigh. He looked down at the spot the hurt was coming from and his eyes widened. There was a deep cut bleeding profusely