Lieutenant Markas Tau of the Order of the Golden Gryphons surveyed the vast untouched landscape before him. Normally patrol was one of his favorite duties because it meant a chance to be out in the air with, Kirin, his gryphon mount. But today was the feast of St. Ridgestone and there would be much merry making at the citadel the Golden Gryphons called home. Still, unlike his fellow knights who bitterly complained under their breaths when they drew lots, Markas simply accepted it as his duty. After all, there was always next year. Admittedly, morning patrol was one of the most boring patrols. The order was charged to protect the borders between the rest of the world and Decadris, the undead city. However, the undead usually came out only at night, so it was unlikely to see any on the morning shift.
Echoing his sentiments, Kirin looked back at him, and let out a low rumbling caw.
"I know, I know," Markas said stroking the honey colored feathers on her neck, "I wanted to be in the races today too. But duty always comes first."
Kirin snorted.
"Fine, you want to have some fun?" Markas said gripping Kirin's reigns, pulling them to indicate a dive maneuver. Kirin reared and quickly began to plummet, gathering speed at a terrifying rate. Markas felt his armor press up against his body, as Kirin zoomed deftly towards the forest below. In a harmonious move of mount and rider, Markas pulled on Kirin's reigns, came out of the dive gracefully, and pulled back up to their former height.
"Tau!" a stern voice called out from behind him.
"Yes sir, captain," Markas said as he turned Kirin around and was face to face with Captain Chessem.
"Tau," his captain said, "What are you doing?"
"Giving Kirin some exercise, sir,” Markas replied.
"Really Tau, I'd expect this from Kirke or Watson," his captain sighed, "But usually you're more disciplined."
"Sorry, sir," Markas replied.
"Well," the captain said, "Try to stay focused. I mean even I would rather..."
"Captain!" Sir Kirke came flying up, "There, on the horizon!"
Both Markas and the captain turned to examine the strange figure that was approaching.
"What is it?" Chessem said peering into the distance.
"Dragon, sir," Kirke replied, his voice trembling.
"But its white,” Markas said, "White dragons only live in the arctic."
"It's not white sir," the captain replied peering at it intently, "Its undead."
Captain Chessem pulled up his horn and blew, summoning the two other knights on patrol. Markas readied his lance, waiting for the captain's signal to charge. On the signal, Markas and the other knights dove in attack formation attempting to overcome the beast. The riders swooped around the dragon with military precision, jabbing at it with their lances. But the dragon out maneuvered them, rolling and gliding between the riders. Markas circled high above the dragon with Kirin, then pulled her as quickly as he could into a dive. Lance ready, he had a clear shot at the dragons back. He felt the lance make contact with dragon’s sickly translucent flesh. He jabbed the lance in as hard as he could and then pulled out to circle back again. He had expected the dragon to react but it just kept flying. He watched as his fellow knights finally managed to land their own blows. The dragon just kept flying, unfazed. Still, the knights continued their assault, hoping to make some damage stick. But even though the lances would pierce its lucent hide, it didn’t seem to actually hurt the dragon any. It just stared at them with its grey opaque eyes, aware of them, but not particularly concerned by them. It occurred to Markas after about forty minutes of fruitless attacks that this dragon could crush them anytime it wanted, but yet it continued to let them attack it, as if it were just playing with them. He was about to say something when his captain yelled.
“Tau, break off! Get reinforcements!”
Markas pulled out of formation and urged Kirin back towards the Citadel. He knew what Chessem was thinking—throw sheer numbers at the beast. Four knights wouldn’t have a chance against the dragon, but fifty might. Markas urged Kirin to fly faster. He hadn’t realized how far the undead dragon had drawn them away from the patrol zone. As he reached the edge of the forest, Markas saw smoke rising up in the distance.
Have they already lit the bonfires so early? Its still morning.
Something wasn’t right. He drove Kirin to fly faster than she had ever flown before. As he approached the citadel, a horrible stench over came him—a stench he knew well, the stench of rotting flesh, of undead. It mingled with the smell of smoke.
“Kirin, we have to hurry. Something’s happened. Something’s wrong,” he whispered.
As they reached the citadel, Kirin stopped and hovered midair. Markas felt his stomach turn and tie up into a knot.
“By Torus will,” he muttered.
The area around the citadel was filled with the remains of a great battle. Without prompting, Kirin landed in the middle of it. Golden feathers splattered with crimson blood. Wings broken and twisted. Beside their mounts, his fellow knights, only wearing half their armor—some wearing no armor at all. Whatever had happened had happened so fast that they hadn’t had time to put it on. Scattered among his comrades were the remains of their foes—the undead. It was their rotting corpses whose stench he had smelled on his approach. For the remains of every knight, there were at least six or seven undead. At least the Order didn’t go down without a fight.
Markas made his way to the citadel itself, hoping there would be survivors inside. But when he saw the large wooden front gate smashed to pieces, his hope fled. As he entered he saw that even the pages had fought to the last man. No one was alive. His mind raced.
How could this happen? An army of undead? In the morning? So fast? Who could organize such a thing? And how could they surprise the citadel like this? The patrols surely would have seen them coming.
The patrols.
Markas dashed out to Kirin and took off, pushing her to go as fast as she could. The dragon was a decoy. It was just playing with them. It had lured them far away enough from their post that they couldn’t warn the citadel.
He was too late. The undead dragon was gone. And his remaining comrades were dead. Kirin landed and he dismounted, almost falling off her as the situation sank in.
Everyone is dead. Everyone but me.
*****
The study at the Tower of Secrets was a most intriguing place, even to the most experienced scholars. On the ancient dark oak shelves that lined the walls one could find such oddities as a glass bubble the size of a fist that contained two tiny fire-breathing dragons eternally locked in combat next to a rudely carved dagger with a faint blue glow. Or one might come across a silver harp that when played by a blind elf virgin would create such beautiful music that it could bring the dead back to life, but if anyone else dared play it would shatter into 50,001 pieces. And that rather plain looking wooden bowl would actually recite the entire history of Crolis if filled with water from an ancient well in the dwarven city of Volguard.
In the middle of this study sat an old scholar by the name of Ivanus Arcanus, master of the tower. He sat in his favorite chair, a rather comfortable overstuffed one upholstered in matte red velvet. Glasses perched on the end of his nose, he was engrossed in a volume on transubstantionary metaphysics, when there was a knock at the door.
"Entarus," he muttered, and the door flew open to reveal Emily, his apprentice and adopted daughter.
"Uncle," she said, as she always addressed him as such, "Mama Greta sent me to inform you that it’s late and to enquire when you plan on going to bed?"
Ivan looked up and sure enough Emily was already in her night shift, her red hair braided and tucked up into her night cap.
"Tell Greta there are a few more chapters I want to get through tonight and then I will go to bed. She need not wait up for me. Good night Emily," Ivan said, looking back down at his book.
But Emily just stood there.
"Yes, my child?" Ivan finally asked.
"Well, Uncle, I was hoping I could talk to you about tomorrow and what we had discussed before, about me leaving"
"We can talk about tomorrow tomorrow," he interrupted her, "For now Emily go to bed and get some rest."
"Yes Uncle," she replied, "Good night."
Ivan turned back to his book but before he could start reading again the magical blue flames that lit the study turned red and flared violently.
"You could try just knocking like my apprentice does," Ivan said to the old man and young woman who had just appeared behind his chair.
"We could," said the old man, dressed in scholarly robes similar to Ivan’s, "But we wanted to make sure you wouldn't dismiss us like you just dismissed her."
"I make it a point to try not to dismiss deities," Ivan replied, not looking up from his book.
"Which is why you ignored our warnings the first time we appeared to you all those years ago,” the old man said as he took a seat in an imposing carved chair.
"I thought you were pleased with my results," Ivan said as he continued to read.
"I never said we weren't. Only you didn't listen to us then," the old man said.
"Besides, we have a much more pressing topic than that," the young woman said as she moved in front of Ivan, "A topic you wouldn't discuss with young Emily, but one you must discuss with us."
Ivan looked up at the woman who was dressed in gown that seemed to be patterned with the night sky, the actual night sky. Likewise it seemed she had plucked a few stars off her dress and was using them pull back her long black hair. Ivan shut his book and set it on a spindly legged table next to him.
"I am listening," he said.
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