The clink of chainmail could be heard amongst the barks of commands around the huge bonfires.  Soldiers hustled about,  sharpening swords and cleaning their steam guns.  One figure in particular could not be seen by the others.

     He stood in the shadow of a large oak tree, studying for one last time a company of soldiers who had been in formation for hours, motionless.

     With a gesture and a whispered word, the figure vanished.

     Ardathacus Magus brushed off the ether dust after the teleportation thought.  He took no notice of the guards who fell from their chairs at his sudden appearance. 

     A head thrust out of the pavilion to investigate the commotion.  It was an old man who wore a gold circlet. 

     “I was dreadfully worried about your long absence—do come in.”

     A table was in the center of the pavilion, surrounded by several figures in armor who turned towards the entrance.

     To an onlooker, Ardatha’s clothing stood out.  His robes of blue and black were draped over him.  He’d had a seamstress stitch on crescent moons and traditional stars to look the part of a sorcerer.  The sword at his side was from the far-off Orient, a legendary Katana.  His green eyes scanned the tent and mental notes were taken.  A mammoth-sized man named Duke Montgomery shook his head.

     “We don’t need any sleight-of-hand tricks.  What we need is more men.”

     Another knight sneered, then spoke up.  “So tell us, Celestial Initiate, what did you see in your crystal ball?  Oh, but wait, let me guess.  You couldn’t use your mystical powers because the moons aren’t aligned!”

     Chuckles escaped from several of the men as Ardatha used his spring-loaded flint and tinder-box on his ivory pipe.  Between puffs he said,

     “I gave my viewing crystal to Leonardo to study.”

     A grin crossed King Nast’s countenance as he watched the nonchalance of the wizard.  He said, “Well, you’ll need more than cold iron and men to win this battle, Baron Steele.”  He stood, walked over to the table, and tapped at a certain spot on the map. 

     “Here is your problem.  It seems the leader of this army is a trained mystic, as the rumors said.”

     Ardatha casually puffed his pipe, which to the discomfort of others was issuing forth small steel dragons of varying shades of color.

     Baron Steele vanquished a pesky purple dragon with a swipe of his hand and snapped, “So what’s right there?”  His finger pointed at the map.  “A new type of siege engine?  A formidable squad of horsemen?”

     “No, nothing like that—about fifty men in different degrees of armor.  Some have swords but most are unarmed.  They seem—“

     “Stick to your arcane dabbling, wizard; we know how many soldiers he has.  Some ill-equipped rabble is no worry!”

     “Oh, do hush up, Steele,” mumbled the king.  “What’s so special about those fifty men-at-arms that we should worry about?”

     Ardatha sighed.  “Well, my Lord, they’re technically dead.”

     The baron began to laugh.  “Now I know you should not be here!”

     Ardatha’s voice cut through the laughter.

     “You don’t understand, dear baron, they still move upon command.”

     Everyone was silent then.  The king sat down.  He recalled a rumor concerning Ardatha’s sanity.

     “This is something I’ve only heard about from long ago—I believe in empaths and sorcery, because I’ve seen yours, but this….”

     “My Lord, this is a wizard called a necromancer.  He uses the black art to raise the dead.  I myself have never studied this dark way, but I have seen its results long ago.  It’s hard to kill someone that’s already going through rigor mortis.”

     A younger man with small wire glasses stepped forward. 

     “I find this impossible.  This is truly absurd.”

     Ardatha raised an eyebrow.  “And who are you?  You’re equipped like a warrior, but lack the scars.”

     King Nast spoke up.  “This is Thaster, our new top scientist and strategist.  He’s the inventor of our steam cannons in the center of camp.”

     Ardatha studied Thaster.  Oh, great, another scientist.  I suppose he’ll try to talk after the meeting and discuss the laws of physics and nature.  A sigh passed over him.  Maybe I should have stayed in Atlantis that last night so long ago…

     A look of concern was on King Nast’s face.  “If they are what you think they are, how do we stop them?”

     “How about burying them?” mumbled Baron Steele.

     The king threw him a cold gaze and motioned for Ardatha to continue.

     “Your normal weapons won’t do them much harm, unless you literally hack them to pieces.  But there’s an incantation I know that, if said by your men, would make the undead vulnerable.  It must be said with fresh dirt sprinkled over their weapons when the moon is at its peak.”

     Steele took off his helmet and ran his ham-sized fist through his curly blond hair.

     “My men will not dabble in witchcraft, and neither will I.”

     Others spoke up saying the same.  Nast said, “That’s fine with me, gentlemen.  I am well aware that it’s against the codes of chivalry and all, but the city I protect and its people are at stake.  And if any of your lines are broken through because of your knightly honor, you’ll be answering to me! 

     “My men will be waiting at the center of camp within an hour, Ardatha.  I suggest all of you do the same.  Tomorrow we face the enemy.  This council is now adjourned.”

     Amid the scowls of those filing out of the tent, Ardatha noticed Thaster coming closer.  I suppose I’ll see what he has to say, he thought.  He produced a glass of wine from his sleeve and sipped.  Thaster peered over the gold rim of his glasses.  “Now about those ghosts—“

     “Considering their present state, I’d refer to them as animated corpses.”

     “Yes, well, have you ever seen what makeup can do?”  He began to smirk.  “Are they interstellar vampires?  Maybe this warlord is playing on our superstitions.”

     “My my, I seem to have finished my wine, if you would excuse….”

     “I’ve gotten into many disputes with my colleagues on the metaphysics of what’s called magic and its existence.  I myself believe it’s an unproven science.”

     Smoke dragons from the pipe soared around Thaster.

     “I believe you’re wrong.  They’re diametric opposites.”

     “If you’re right, then science is winning.  The dwarves seemed to have disappeared into the mountains.  The elves have gone to fairyland or some such place.  We’re at the start of a new age.”

     By this time the smoke was so thick that the scientist couldn’t see his own hands.  He turned and threw back the tent flap.  “I say, could you please tone down on the—”  But all he was talking to was dissipating smoke dragons.

     Only the king’s personal guard was present an hour later, just as Ardatha had expected.  But during the castings of the thought, Thaster could be seen off in the distance watching curiously.  For just an instant before the final meditation, Thaster’s thoughts touched Ardatha’s.  Then the crystals which were the melted eyes or tears of shades were distributed to the King’s Regiment.  The hardened drops had appeared under the statues of St. Michael and St. George, on the cobblestone road in front of the city.

     The sun had not yet cut through the darkness when Ardatha yawned and stepped out of his tent.  He was set up away from the others and was visited only by the king.  He looked skyward and estimated two hours before daybreak.

     Walking until he came upon a small clearing, he pulled out a small figurine in the likeness of a horse.  He read the words of power inscribed on its base, which fit his hand.  Hoof beats echoed far away; only one who was in tune with planar thought patterns could hear them.  But the galloping was coming from across the plains, not the grassy hills.  The beat gradually grew louder, until it was at its peak.  At that instant, a beautiful grey stallion appeared.  It reared back, its silvery mane whisping around in the fading moonlight.

     “Moonstreak, I knew to count on you.”

     The horse seemed to flicker as it pawed the ground.

     “Alas, no, I’ve not summoned you for a pleasure ride.  I’ve still got a debt to pay.”

     He thought back to when Nast was only a young prince who had stopped a mob of villagers from burning the ever-youthful-appearing wizard at the stake.  One of the few men of this land who accepted Ardatha for what he was.  And the only one who knew of his half-elven parentage.

     “I need you to carry me into battle, a battle that doesn’t look good.  My allies are a handful of headstrong knights and one that follows the way of science.  We’re up against a warlock who uses necromancy.  And here I thought I was the last of the mystic users.  I guess we’ll see.”  He patted its neck.  “If I live through it, we’ll ride till your heart’s content.”

     He mounted and looked up once again at the sky, which was clouding up.  He moved his fingers in a complex pattern and nodded.  So, my new-found adversary is skilled at weather magic.  I could attempt to cancel his forecast, but that would alert him to another mage in the area.  No, I’ll conserve my energy for the actual battle.  My knowledge in cloud-reading shows caution and forethought.

     There was a silver flash as he mounted upon Moonstreak, appeared beside Steele.  To the wizard’s surprise the baron complimented him on what a fine steed he rode.  But upon answering the inquiry as to the land from which it came, “Surprised you would ask, the dimensions of Epona.”

     Steele scowled and turned away.

     Platoons of soldiers stood about in rigid formation.  Ahead, an unnatural fog was creeping in.  Within minutes, its tendrils were coiling about the men like grey snakes.  Somewhere in the distance there came the steady beat of a bass drum.  Some of the men nervously clutched their weapons while others began backing away.  The hiss of steam-lock guns could be heard.  As if depicting an old tapestry, the baron reared his brilliantly white stallion.

     Raising his gleaming broadsword, he shouted “Hold your ground!  Clean iron and bravery will win this battle, not weak stomachs and fluttering hearts!”

     Shapes began to take form in the grayness.  Ardatha gasped.  The figures who seemed to be one with the fog were preceded by a powerful stench.  Men doubled over and gagged before the onslaught.  As if waking to a dream, the grey mist receded to the edges of the battlefield.  There were now more than fifty of the lurching undead.  They seemed to move with the mist, slow, plodding.  The beating of the drum was seemingly upon them now as it thumped in time with the shambling dead.  They were out of range for the steam-lock guns, but not the archers.  Volleys of arrows hailed into the fog and its inhabitants.  The sickening thuds that followed seemed to land without effect.  Ardath looked around nervously.  There have to be servants of the warlock himself to control these creatures.  He can’t possibly be powerful enough to do it all himself. 

     A second frantic cloud of arrows drilled into them, but again to no avail.

     The wizard turned and found a messenger.

     “Quickly, go tell the king to use flame arrows on the creatures, it might be a little more effective.”

     The last two volleys flew into the grey like hundreds of stars in a foggy sky…but with little better effect.  Explosions split the air and were followed by trails of sulphur steam when finally the undead were in range.  On an average, one out of ten shots would have an effect.  And even then the shot corpse would sometimes rise like an icy plant from gravesoil. 

     Platoon leaders gave the signal and mounted lancers surged forward, mowing down several lines of their enemy, but the dead always seemed to stand.  A trumpet note sounded  the regroup, several banners waved and fell in the mass.  Even the ones that were too mangled to stand dragged themselves forward like a parody of man to grasp at a horse’s leg.  Only the king’s guard stood a chance with their surge spears.

     Baron Steele called out and charged. 

     Ardatha raised his sword in a medieval salute of chivalry and smiled.  The wizard was astounded by the boost of morale the baron caused.  Moonstreak reared and crushed the skull of a bloody, eyeless corpse blocking his path while the wizard slashed left and right with his enchanted blade.  A knight to his right screamed as his horse was dragged to the ground kicking.  Ardatha got a glimpse of Baron Steele’s banner wavering and falling as the knight impaled another enemy.

     Two creatures leaped on the wizard from behind as he struggled to rip his blade free from its last victim.  His hold on his sword gave way and he fell back to the ground.  Searing pain lanced through his neck and back as the creatures raked their black talons through his robes.  His wand appeared in his hand as he was slammed to the cold earth.

     Through clenched teeth, archaic words of power and emotion spilled forth as one of his assailants fell upon him.  Its teeth entered his neck.  As the last word escaped it crescendoed into a scream.  Flames suddenly burst forth from the sorcerer’s hand and wand, engulfing the dead.  He scrambled through the cloud of ash that had held him down and onto the frantic Moonstreak.  The horse and rider vanished and reappeared several yards away.

     A man in gun-metal armor was now visible in the midst of the undead reinforcements filling the gap he’d made.  They locked in on each other’s eyes for a split second.  Then the contact was broken as a bolt of lightning from the wizard’s wand blasted clean through the enemy’s skull.  The undead that were around the man crumpled to the ground, motionless.  After retrieving his sword, the wizard glanced about.  The king’s banner still flew high, probably because of the enchantment of their weapons. 

     Where’s that damn Steele?  He’s in a key position.  If his line breaks, we’ll be overwhelmed and slaughtered!

     A zombie with an ancient rusty sword hurtled out of the mist behind the wizard.  Just before the blade’s point pierced Ardatha’s skin, the horse and rider again vanished.  The baron grasped his flag and swung his sword in a bloody right hand.  Undead writhed on the ground as he hacked away at his assailants.  Only five of his personal guards were standing.  Another fell screaming under a fresh tide of death when Ardatha appeared throwing blue bolts of power from his wand.  A ring of blue flames appeared in front of the battered wizard and spread outward, turning to ash the undead within reach.  A huge humanoid made entirely of flame was formed and swung its hands of fiery death.  Ardatha yelled over the tumult of battle, “We have to fall back to the city, I can’t keep this up for long!”

     The baron shouted back, “I won’t retreat---”

     A tremor brought all those standing save the cackling fire elemental to the ground.  The fiery giant took advantage of the stunned undead and leaped upon them, exterminating them and itself before they could regain their footing.  Steele struggled back up and yelled, “Retreat, and praise the cannons!”  Overhead, a low-pitched hum filled the air as the cannons fired into the fog.  The baron mounted a stray horse and led the retreat.

     Ardatha was forced to slow down his magical steed in order to keep pace with the others.  They rejoined several remnants of platoons before finally getting to the outskirts of the city by which they were camped.  King Nast spotted them and rode up.  He was glad to see them alive.

     “We seem to be trapped in a living nightmare!  Our steam cannons bought us a little time but soon will be too close to the enemy to be effective.  Those—things are nearly invulnerable.  I’m afraid this could be our final battle.”

     A look of concern crossed Ardatha’s features.  “Did your weapons not harm them?”

     “At first, yes, but then the mist around us wrapped about our weapons, making them normal.”

     Drumbeats could be heard growing steadily closer as the mist approached the edge of camp.

     “There appears to be only one way, my king.”  Ardatha looked at his clothing, then began to move his fingers in a knitting motion, making his torn robes whole again.  He appeared disgusted at his worse-for-wear appearance, and looked up.  “We must eliminate the necromancer.  The men you saw on the field were not mystic users, just men wearing amulets or some charm binding the zombies to their original commands given by the warlock.”

     Steele gallantly raised his pistol.

     “Duke Montgomery and I will ride forth and do it.”

     A forlorn look crossed Nast’s features.  “I’m afraid the Duke has already tried, for he lies in my tent.  He’s with us no longer.  He did die gallantly.”  He sighed.  “We’ll have to mourn later, and praise him for the time he has given us to retreat. Thaster told me earlier that it would be wise if we fell back into the city.  It’s a better defensive position.”

     An ancient temple long since abandoned stood at the end of the street, gothic amongst surreal architecture.  Ardatha could faintly hear the battle begin to rage outside the city walls.  He peered at the runes above the doorways while dismounting.  I think this will do. And here I thought all the shrines dedicated to magic were gone. 

     Moonstreak faded out of view as the wizard stepped over the threshold into the building.  The silence was deafening.  Once inside, the sounds of battle seemed never to have existed.

     Most of the pews had been destroyed or taken long ago.  Layers of dust lay upon the pyramid of steps leading to the throne where the archmage must have sat when the temple was in use.  Ardatha left no footprints as he slowly walked across to the dais. He tightened his grip upon his wand and summoned a light blue semi-transparent globe around him.  A cold breeze touched Ardatha as he turned to face the doorway.  In the doorway he stood.  He wore the typical garb of a magic user, robes inscribed with mystical symbols of power.  They were mainly deep grey, trimmed in black.  The cowl of his hood was pulled back, revealing a face that looked as if it could be no more than eighteen years of age.  But Ardatha knew better.  By draining the life force of others, the way of necromancy could keep you perpetually young.  His voice was soft.

     “Greetings, Mage, you knew I’d seek you out, I could detect the art being used on the field of battle.”

     “Yes, indeed, this location seemed more than appropriate, does it not?”

     “Yes, but do you realize that it doesn’t have to be this way.  If we worked together we could bring the art back to its former standing.”  The warlock’s voice cracked like an adolescent’s.  “Abolish this abomination they call science.”

     A feverish look was on his pale face, that of a man drowning.

     “Just imagine the way it was long ago.”

     For a split second Ardatha had a far-away look, and started to nod.  Then his eyes refocused on the warlock across the room and his blue sphere seemed to brighten. 

     “No, it cannot be.  I would never stand with you.  Even in the days of old we would have been at odds, you know that.”

     The necromancer sighed and a dull grey sphere materialized around him.  “So be it.”

     A black ray of power shot out of the warlock’s hand and glanced off the opposing blue globe, but in turn Ardatha was sent hurtling into the far wall.  Lightning returned the grey one’s assault, filling the air with electricity and in the process bringing down several wooden beams.  A grey vapor formed around Ardatha, surging forth from the necromancer, draining life upon touch.  On his knees, Ardatha hurled a fireball roaring into the source of life-sapping greyness.  The flames spread to the rafters almost immediately.  The vapors vanished as Ardatha rose and pointed to a burning bench, which then flew across the room and crashed into the warlock, slamming him onto the floor.  The grey sphere was reformed into a phantasmal sword that drove through Ardatha’s defense, striking him in the chest as he tried to leap out of its path.  He scrambled back up as black fire seared his whole body.  It seemed colder than an arctic blast.  He screamed and staggered back.  He grasped his wand in both hands and twisted, frantically saying the words of power.  As the scepter snapped, a roar filled the room.  The few windows that had withstood time now shattered under the blast.  The air was filled with thousands of particles, every color of the spectrum, and some hues normal men had never seen.  They burned everything they touched.  Most flew directly into the grey one himself.  He uttered “Damn clones…” and began to dissolve to dust.  Ardatha looked from where he lay into the dust-filled smoldering room.

     It no longer is sacred; indeed, it’s no longer really a building.  He staggered up to what was left of the throne and collapsed.  An hour later, he was still there, summoning all his strength to call Moonstreak.

     A figure appeared where the doorway used to be.  It looked around after putting on a pair of spectacles.

     Oh great, the last person I want to see before I leave, he thought.  He clutched the figurine hiding underneath his torn robes and whispered the words of summoning.  Thaster cautiously stepped over the rubble and smirked at Ardatha. 

     “Magic is a very impressive thing, I admit.  But you realize that it no longer belongs here.”

     “Yes, I know.”

     A look of surprise crossed the scientist’s face as Ardatha continued, “It belongs in a place of huge powerful dragons, graceful unicorns, and enchanting elven maidens.”  Ardatha closed his eyes and sighed a smile as he heard the faint hoofbeats coming closer.  A hiss of steam came from somewhere.  A loud crack resounded into smoky air as the figure on the throne slumped over, lifeless.

     The scientist lowered the steam lock. 

     “I hope you find that place.”

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