Chapter 3: Arrow of Dragon's Fire and the Trickster Mage

Davethstraz trotted up the rocky side of the mountain, to his left and over some higher, jutting rocks were Damien and Azael’thas, fighting for their lives. He was almost high enough to take aim at the Corpsayer, but first he had to manoeuvre his way up the treacherous rocks. With the wind battling him at every step, it was a little more difficult than simply walking up the mountain, but it wasn’t taxing. For a dragonling. He chuckled to himself. Something flitted across his vision for a second and he threw himself aside into the cover of a low jutting rock he would have leapt over. Just peering over it, he saw two forms loping down the mountain at high speed. They looked lupine, until they were close enough to be seen with detail. He recognised them as Shilaari, the assassin-like demonic simians. There were only two of them, so they must be on a low ranking objective. Nocking an arrow, he realised he would only have time to fire once before the other would be upon him, but he was confident he could take them.

As they were closing in, without knowing he was nearby, he leapt out, taking aim as they were still slow to realise him. He loosed his arrow, smiling as he had every time before, as the arrow left the jaws of the golden maw of the bow and caught fire. The fiery arrow flew through the winds, straight and true, through the panting mouth of the Shilaari and exploded out of the back of its throat. There was a shrieking whimper as it collapsed and continued to drag along the stones with the momentum of its run. The other spotted him instantly, its tail flicking over to launch its dagger at him. He was fast, but so was the dagger, and he only just managed to avoid the wickedly serrated blade as it flew past his head. The Shilaari was on him the moment he righted from his evasion, leaping forward with both daggers pointed squarely for his face.

He leapt forward to meet it, swinging his bow with all of his strength. The dragon-head tip of the bow struck, past the daggers, against the Shilaari’s head, opening up a large gash on its cheek. It still landed against him, but its daggers only cut against his breastplate ineffectively. He spun to its left before it could recover, slitting its head between the string of the bow and the dragon’s maw grip. He slung the beast over his shoulder and its face connected with hard stone. He reined it up, the grip pressing into its throat, and kicked away both daggers from its hands. He put a foot on its back and another on its head whilst sliding his bow off its neck. Pinned and helpless, he drew an arrow from the quiver on his back and let it loose into the back of its neck. It convulsed once and then went still.

He stowed his bow, into the slot next to his quiver and drew his leaf-bladed dagger, as long as his forearm and used it to sever the head. Tying its mess of hair to his belt and trotted over to the other, doing the same so that both hung from his belt before he cleaned his blade on a handful of snow and then slotted his large dagger back into its sheath. Pulling his cloak around him and blending into the snow again, he drew his bow and continued up the jagged stone slope.  A horrible screech sounded not moments later and drew his attention to the sky above Azael’thas and Damien. The skeleton of a very large Dreadgheist was falling through the air, obviously with them in its sights.

“Oh, damn…” he managed to curse before he set off, sprinting up the stones with little regard for stealth.

Reaching the top of the stone slope he cast around for the Corpsayer, scanning past the dragon’s maw grip of his bow. There was a rasping snicker above him and before he could think he rolled aside as the Corpsayer landed where he had been crouching. He spun as he came to his feet, stowing his bow and drawing his staff-blade as the Corpsayer loomed over him, standing at its full height, nearly a foot taller. It reached behind it, into a half rotted, dark leather sheath and drew forth its own blade. Half as tall as Davethstraz, the blade was straight and single-edged. Spinning it end over end, the Corpsayer advanced on him, holding one hand before him as if to steady himself. Davethstraz leapt forward, the ice-blue blade testing his opponent in a simple strike. Effortlessly the Corpsayer turned aside the blade and returned the strike.

Davethstraz stepped neatly out of the way and circled the Corpsayer, both judging the other from that brief skirmish. Finally deciding they both had the run of the other, they darted in, blades meeting with quick flashes, and the rapid sounds of metal on metal. They danced through the snow, neither hindered by the knee high, snowy, whiteness. The Corpsayer moved like a snake, a deadly sinuous grace that would dismember him for the wrong step. Davethstraz grew frustrated with his opponent, Azael’thas and Damien had to fend off the undead Dreadgheist while he was battling its controller and was unable to stop it. His blade flashed high and low, leaving a trail of light in its glowing wake. But the Corpsayers blade was always there, stopping it before it could come close, sweeping high and low and kicking up little explosions of snow every time it swept through the snow at their feet.

He must have been pressing the Corpsayer well, for it suddenly spun out of reach and exploded into a cloud of ink like smoke. It reappeared on the small ledge he had first spied it, an orb of darkness swirling in its hand. He dived for the cover of a nearby cluster of rocks as the Corpsayer launched the bolt of darkness. It struck the patch of snow he was standing in and exploded, throwing him bodily into the rocks he had tried to hide behind. He opened himself up to his own magic, and felt the fires within him rise to his eyes. His emerald orbs now burned with bright flames and he drew himself up, launching a series of burning bolts toward the Corpsayer. With an explosion of smoke it reappeared behind him, sword raised to strike. He threw himself aside at the last minute, but was too slow to avoid the blade all together. The blade bit deep into his leg and he bit back a cry of pain, feeling the pain give way to anger which further heightened his magic. Rolling to his feet and retreating on his wounded leg, he thrust out his palms, letting the magic escape from there. A gout of flame roared from his hands, incinerating the space before him.

A cloud of smoke in the midst of the flames alerted him to the Corpsayers disappearance and he released the flow of the flames.  He spotted the Corpsayer a little way down the rocky slope, just beyond the border of the blackened stone. It raised its sword in a mock salute and snaked its way up the slope, closing in with terrifying speed. Before it was upon him, Davethstraz had time to raise his blade, blocking the first strike and spinning away from the second. The Corpsayers robe writhed for a moment before tendrils of shadow leapt out, grabbing for him and his sword. He continued to parry the increasingly sinuous strokes of the Corpsayer, each time having to avoid the grasping little, shadow hands. At every parry and every strike he was forced back, having to jump back a little every time the hands grabbed for him. They grabbed his cloak, his blade, his arms, anything they could reach to entangle him and slow his attacks. He was growing more and more frustrated, the skeletal Dreadgheist could be feasting on the remains of his paladins friends by now, and he was powerless to end this confrontation.

…

The undead Dreadgheist struck the stones like a meteorite, throwing up dust, snow and chunks of snow that rained upon the two paladins. It reared up, looking around the crater it had made for the paladins it sought to tear apart. Azael’thas rolled away from the shower of stones, rolling onto his back to find the Dreadgheist looming over him. He scrambled to his feet, weaving around the stomping claws of the beasts forelimbs. It continued to chase him as such, like a cat after a mouse.

“Hey ugly!” Damien roared, as Azael’thas darted around its forelimb seeing him charging at its back.

“Damien, no!” Azael’thas shouted.

The beast reared up and spun, pouncing down upon the charging paladin. Its forelimbs struck the ground around him, cracking and throwing up stones. He was destabilised, but still swung him warhammer up into its jaw. The resounding crack was a sweet melody, Azael’thas revelled in the sound as he spun and brought his word to bear on the limb next to him. His blade shattered through the bone, but the limb flicked out and the odd knuckle of the talon threw him aside. He landed heavily on his back and felt the breath knocked out of him as the beast rounded on Damien. As he watched, the wound he had just caused began to reknit. The bones clicked back into place and the dark magics surged along the bone, repairing it to full function. Where is Daveth!? He shouted to himself as he rolled to his feet, darting forward to combat the Dreadgheist.

…

A raven flew amongst the clouds, looking for the particular battle in which it was needed. It continued to soar, moving from the sweeping high currents to the lower, swifter winds. Finally he spotted them, a dragonling and Corpsayer duelling on a deceptively small ledge. Swiftly the raven tucked in its wings and dived, aiming straight for the combatants. Nearing them he leapt out of the raven form, a cloud of purple smoke signalling his shift as he once again became human and crashed, foot first into the Corpsayer. Its shadowy hands writhed in an attempt to get away from him, but he was in close and spun his odd, gnarled staff, high and brought it down to crack heavily against the creature head.  He felt the dragonling behind him step back warily, its staff-blade clutched ready, but he focused on the Corpsayer while he had the element of surprise. It staggered back and wheeled on him, searching for his identity. Its blade shot forth as it recognised him as an aggressor, but he was already within its guard, his hands reaching up into the hood.

He found the writhing shadows beneath the morose robes and twisted them, bringing debilitating pain to the Corpsayer. It fell to its knees and he brought his knee up into the hood for good measure. Turning he gestured for the staff-blade, and recognising an ally, the dragonling tossed it to him, hilt first. Grasping it and twirling it end over end he brought it down in a deft sweep that sent a hood and cloud of ink off the ledge and into the snowy winds of the mountain. He darted back as the body exploded into smoke, and handed the blade back to the dragonling with a nod. He found the emerald eyes seeking out some features beneath his hood but instead turned and leapt through the smoke of the dead Corpsayer. He knew the dragonling would follow and so continued until he came to where the Corpsayer had raised the Dreadgheist. Two paladins stood, wearily, over the bones of the dead Dreadgheist.

“The Corpsayer is dead” he called out, his voice heavy with an accent that bespoke isolation.

“Who might you be?” the dragonling called from behind him, staff-blade held warily.

“I am an ally and a friend, you know it, Davethstraz. I need to speak to Enaithor Stormrunner, I hear he is up the mountain ahead, yes?” he asked as the paladins trudged through the snow up toward the human and dragonling.

“Still doesn’t answer the question” the human paladin said, gruffly.

“Damien!” the elf hissed, then turned back to the hooded and robed human, “Thank you for your aid, we could thank you properly if we knew you name, ally. To answer your question, we are headed up the mountain behind the main Crusade camp, home to both the Human King Magnus and the elven hero Enaithor. You could accompany us if it pleases you?” Azael’thas asked, with a wary respect, for he thought he knew the stranger.

“You know me, Azael’thas.” The hooded stranger cocked his head in a sly manner.

Azael’thas looked him up and down. He wore odd robes, mostly black and brown, stitched together in an odd fashion, not seen in human or elven lands. The robes were made for combat though, they were tight fitting and would not get in the way, but were loose enough to confuse enemy attackers, for they wouldn’t be sure whether they would hit or not. Raven’s feathers stuck out from the sleeveless shoulders, and from under the leather bracers of the odd man. The staff he carried was gnarled and inscribed with elven runes for shadow, trickery and undoing. Trickery…

“Okkam!? Is it you? Light above, I never thought I would catch up with you again, let alone in this frozen hell!” Azael’thas exclaimed and embraced an old legend.

“It is good to see you too, Azael’thas!” Okkam, the legendary Trickster Mage, embraced Azael’thas with equal friendliness.

“I'm sorry, the Okkam, as in the legend?” Daveth asked, a little confused.

“Haha, the very same Daveth” Azael’thas held his friend at arm’s length, looking him over.

“It’s ok Daveth, many think I would be taller” the sly mage joked, and at first Daveth looked horrified, but seeing the amusement on Azael’thas’ face he broke into a true grin.

“Damn me, saved by a legend no less. The Corpsayer was almost done with me when this raven flew down and exploded in a cloud of purple smoke, suddenly this robed man just smacks it in the head with its staff! The robes of the Corpsayer go all fearful and he just reaches in, snaps something, knocks it out, asks for my blade and executes the sorry shadow-creature!” Daveth recounted, much to Okkam’s amusement.

“No need to feel bad, Daveth, you did the best you could” Damien clapped him on the shoulder.

“Actually, that wasn’t just any Corpsayer. It was one of the elite, not all of them can use their robes in that same fashion. Daveth, you must be a true warrior if you managed to hold your own beyond it drawing its blade” Okkam laid his hand on the dragonlings shoulders.

“I’m just glad you came when you did.” Daveth admitted, shrugging and sheathing his blade.

“We’re all glad you arrived when you did, Okkam. Now let us get our things and head up, nights nearly upon us. The camp will stay there for three more days. We can catch them on the second, provided we don’t encounter anymore Corpsayers or undead.” Azael’thas assumed command again.

“Or Shilaari” Daveth added, pointing to his belt where the heads of the two, demonic simians hung.

Okkam seemed to take great interest in them, and bent down to take ones chin in his hand, turning it too look all over its face. He seemed to come to some conclusion and nodded, standing again.

“May I have them; there is something I can use them for. Provided it’s not against any laws of the hunt?” he asked, amazingly respectful of dragonling laws.  

“It is at the hunters discretion to with the rewards of the hunt as he wished, you may have them Okkam.” Daveth nodded and untied the unruly hair and handed them over.

Once in his hands he inspected them further, bowing and offering his gracious thanks, surprisingly very gracious from a human.

“A human like no other” Azael’thas nodded, standing beside the dragonling as Okkam trudged a little way up the mountain and then sat on a small ledge.

“Truly” Daveth agreed with a grin.

“Hey!” Damien cried, mocking offense.

“Haha, old friend. I don’t understand you, and you don’t understand me. That is why we can be friends” Daveth cheerfully wrapped his arm around his friends shoulders as they made their way down the mountain to retrieve their packs.

Azael’thas could only shake his head a smile, truly smile.

…

Later that night, they sat in a small cave, around a tall fire. Daveth had expertly constructed the fire so that the smoke would get caught in a pocket of stalactites. Damien had a small iron kettle over the fire, preparing tea for himself, to accompany the dried bread and thawed meat they had for food. He had a collection of dried leaves in an iron mug he always carried. For a gruff old soldier, he was strangely obsessed with his tea. He even considered himself a connoisseur, which had made Daveth and Azael’thas snort with laughter the first time they had heard that. Okkam worked a little away from the fire, he had skinned the skulls and was now preparing to clean them over the heat of the fire. With a twinkle of a amusement in his eyes, and sure Damien was watching, he walked over and reached up to the nearest stalactite over the fire.

 He tapped the point once and then tapped the top of the skull, all with a magicians showmanship, and then put the two together. When he removed his hand, the skull stayed fast.  Damien gaped and forgot about his tea as he watched Okkam perform the same trick with the other skull. Blood and grit soon boiled off them as the heat from the fire cleaned it too the bleached bone. The kettle was nearly screaming by now, steam was pouring out of it at an alarming rate and Azael’thas nudged Damien. He snapped out of it and jumped for the kettle, muttering about never understanding the magician magical hoodoo.

Daveth let out a slight chuckle and went back to pulling out a shining red apple and an old pipe, keeping the pipe in the crook of his arm while he bit into the apple. It looked like the shiniest apple Azael’thas had ever seen, and Damien remarked on it.

“That has to be the best apple I have ever seen in my life, better than the Wyldespire vineyards in the South West.” Damien nodded in his appreciation and gently blew over his steaming mug of tea.

It was remarkably dark, and looked very bitter to Azael’thas’ tastes, but it was one of the regular odd delicacies with friends shared in their night meals. Turning back to Daveth, they found him smiling oddly and still munching away on the first, crispy bite he had taken. Finishing it he swallowed and then seemed to look dizzy for a second before he nodded and turned back to them.

“This is an apple from the Summersong woods. I would offer you some, but apples are never shared by dragonlings. And the apple itself might not be…good for you” Daveth struggled to find the right words.

“Summersong apples contain a poison that the dragonlings are immune to, thanks to their dragon ancestry. Humans and even elves are vulnerable to the poison, however, and even a single bite will kill them.” Okkam spoke up as he produced a pipe from somewhere in his odd robes.

All eyes turned to him and he looked around at all three pairs, still wearing his hood.

“Okkam is correct” Daveth acknowledge with growing respect.

Okkam raised his pipe in salute and Daveth chuckled.

“He left out the effect it still has on dragonlings, however.” Daveth remarked, amusement and mischief in his eyes.

“Well, yes. Summersong apples have similar effects to the tobacco many smoke in pipes, however it is also has effects that increase sensitivity, similar to human drugs yet without side effects.” Okkam looked to Daveth, who smiled and nodded.

Azael’thas watched all three of them, and then pulled out the purple glass bottle he always kept in his packs. He had managed to salvage it along with his cold-cloak. Thanks to the weather, the bottle was subtly chilled. He pulled out the stopper and waved the bottle beneath his nose, bringing forth the fruit scents of the Eastern Isles.

“Damien?” he asked, hefting the bottle, as he had every night.

“You always ask, and I always screw my nose up at it sweetness.” Damien refused, screwing his nose up as he had said he would.

Azael’thas laughed and turned to Daveth who was already shaking his head.

“No, Daveth?” he said, swinging it around enticingly.

Daveth simple shook his head once and finished his apple, throwing the core into the fire. It flared brightly for a second before it returned to its previous, consuming vigour.

“It’s polite to ask everyone in the camp, Damien. Okkam, a glass?” he asked, knowing his friend would join him.

“What delicacy have you captured in a bottle and turned my way?” he asked, smiling as he remembered the times he had shared with Azael’thas and a bottle.

“This is a Summerwine from the Eastern Isles, elderberries, blackberries and plum wine.” He poured some into a small glass.

He passed it across the fire to Okkam, who swished it appreciatively. The dark purple liquid smelled of all things summer, and Azael’thas could remember his trip to the Eastern Isles. Okkam and Azael’thas raised their glasses to one another and downed them in one mouthful, savouring the warmth in their stomachs.

An hour later Okkam returned from staring out of the small cave, the fire having dwindled to hot coals by now.

“No one will come across the cave entrance; I put a minor spell of disguise upon it. All they’ll see is a wall of snow” he sat amongst his bedding as the rest of the group were almost asleep.

Azael’thas’ insides tingled with the wine and he felt pleasantly tired. Daveth was contently puffing on his pipe, sitting back and make smoke rings occasionally. Damien was binding up his tea leaves again and put them in his pack, unrolled his cold-cloak and put it over himself, grumbling a goodnight to them all.

“We’d all better rest, the trek tomorrow will be fast pace” Azael’thas warned as he shrugged into his bedding. Okkam and Daveth merely nodded, and Damien grumbled something that might have been a complaint of an confirmation, either way, he heard.

“Azael’thas. Lynessa is wracked with grief and guilt, you must speak to her eventually” Okkam muttered, in elvish, across the coals.

Knowing his friends couldn’t understand elvish he allowed himself to rie angrily and reply, sharply;

“Eventually, when I am ready to speak to her again! Goodnight” he added the last with less venom, but settled down to sleep.

Damien had raised his head and lowered it as if he expected the flames from early to burst through the cave, and Daveth watched with concerned eyes. Okkam merely looked into the burning coals, sad for his friend.