A single brazier flickered with pale blue flame, casting ghostly illumination onto the mold-slick walls of a circular chamber carved into the city's sewers. The faint drip of water and the scuttling of vermin were a near-constant background chorus. Carved runes stretched across the stones, still smelling of dried blood that had long seeped into the mortar. Here, Christelen made his lair.
A necromancer of no small repute, Christelen stood over a table of black marble. Chains dangled from the low ceiling: remnants of "patients" once subject to his experiments. A body lay before him, its chest cavity partially open. Christelen bent close to the corpse, stitching a rune-etched rod into dead flesh. Threads of necromantic energy danced on the tip of his needle, glimmering bluish-white in the gloom.
He had almost finished when the brazier flared, the flame turning a deep, malignant red. The runes on the walls pulsed in response, as though awakened by the presence of a greater power. Christelen paused, needle still in hand, and bowed his head in grudging respect.
A swirl of shadow formed at the center of the chamber's stone floor. It twisted upward in a cloud of black smoke, resolving into the shape of a man cloaked in midnight. His face was half-hidden beneath the hood: but within that darkness, faint glimmers of violet flared: eyes like embers. He stood tall and unnaturally still, a staff of twisted ebony in hand, topped by a crimson orb that glowed like fresh blood.
Christelen bowed deeply, setting aside the half-finished corpse. "Master Malrik," he intoned, voice echoing in the curved confines of the sewer-chamber. "Your presence honors me."
Malrik raised a pale hand; a single, silent gesture commanding Christelen to rise. "Much time has passed since our last meeting," he said, his voice a layered whisper of contempt and power. "And our plan nears fruition. Tell me, Christelen, how fares the array?"
Christelen stood, his posture somehow both wary and reverent. The overhead chains rattled with each movement. "Well, my lord. The runes are placed all across Maze. I used the chaos following our clash with that accursed Tower Master to seed the blood runes in hidden corners; stables, alleyways, abandoned shops, and any location that used to see foot traffic. My undead have also etched them across the perimeter of the city. All that remains is linking them."
Malrik's eyes blazed at the mention of the Tower Master, a flicker of old enmity. "He dares persist after once destroying my work. . . but no matter. His arrogance will be his undoing. Once we unleash the artifact, he and his precious tower will bow or perish. The city's life force, the very mana lines Archmage Arveth built, shall fuel our perfect array."
He lifted his staff. The crimson orb at its apex pulsed, suffusing the chamber with lurid red light. Christelen felt the waves of power roll over him; pure, unfiltered mana, stolen from the ley lines that crisscrossed beneath Maze. A hum reverberated through the stones, making the sewers feel oppressively warm, as though heated from within.
Christelen's lips twitched into a satisfied smile. "Then you've succeeded in wresting the artifact from the Tower's vault, Master. Truly you are unstoppable."
"Indeed." Malrik's voice dropped to a near-growl. "The Heart of Avernus, they once called it; a relic from Maze's founding. The Tower Master hid it for fear of its destructive potential. Now, it is mine. It resonates with this city's mana flow, ripe for exploitation. And once the final anchors are set, our blood array shall be unstoppable. Anyone who dies under its effect will be resurrected as your undead puppet, Christelen, fueling our unstoppable legion."
A soft moan interrupted them. Christelen glanced back at the corpse on the slab; it had begun to stir, reanimated by the partial ritual. "My lord," he said, "allow me to finish this creation." With careful motions, Christelen dipped the needle again, sewing runic thread around the rod embedded in the corpse's torso. Each stitch flared with bluish necromantic sparks. Moments later, the rod glowed; and the corpse's eyes snapped open, brimming with dull, lifeless light.
Christelen examined his handiwork with grim pride. "Another soldier for our cause."
Malrik let the corners of his mouth lift in a predatory smirk. "Raise as many as you can. In the coming days, the Tower Master's meddling will not save Maze. My hatred for that fool runs deeper than any mortal can imagine. I recall the day he thwarted me, forced me into hiding. He thought me dead, yet here I stand. Stronger. More determined."
Christelen could taste the bitterness behind his master's words. It manifested as raw, crackling magic dancing along the staff's orb. He bowed his head. "Your vengeance will be realized, Master. And none shall stand before us."
Malrik nodded, exhaling a slow breath as though purging old ghosts. "When dawn breaks on the final day, Maze's skies will burn red with the artifact's power. The entire city will feel their life force draining away. Meanwhile, we and our allies remain shielded. Death shall be a gift we bestow upon them all."
He let his gaze rove around the chamber. Chains glinted wetly in the ghostly firelight, while rank sewage trickled from overhead vents. Behind the circle of runes that Christelen had inscribed on the floor, half a dozen other undead stood at silent attention, eyes blank, arms slack at their sides.
Malrik lifted his staff, letting the orb's glow intensify. "Continue your efforts, Christelen. Place the final anchors in these tunnels. Then link them to the labyrinth's perimeter. No one has gained access to that ancient place, but the sewers beneath it will suffice to harness the mana lines. My part of the bargain is nearly done. Soon, you shall receive the signal to unleash the citywide curse."
Christelen pressed a hand to his chest. "As you will, Master."
With a swirl of darkness, Malrik receded. The staff's red aura flared once, then died back. Wisps of black smoke coiled around him, and in a heartbeat, he was gone, leaving the necromancer alone in the flickering brazier-light. The newly risen corpse at Christelen's side let out a raspy moan, as though in protest at its unnatural existence.
"Silence," Christelen snapped, flicking necromantic energy at the ghoul. It stiffened, then fell into docile stillness.
He felt a surge of triumph. Soon Maze's entire population would be at his mercy; exacting retribution for the humiliations inflicted when the Tower Master repelled him from the Pearl's assault. That meddling mage had forced Christelen to retreat, but it only delayed the inevitable.
Christelen stepped into the center of the chamber. At his feet lay a sprawling network of runes drawn in a mixture of ash, chalk, and blood. Dripping rivulets of sewer water occasionally threatened to wash parts of it away, but Christelen had anchored them with minor wards, forming a stable circle. He crouched, pressing a bony hand to the runes, feeling their latent potential.
For weeks, he and his undead thralls had etched identical runes across the city's sewers. Each node formed a segment of an invisible web—one that would gather mana from the city's flow and funnel it into the artifact Malrik now wielded. The blood runes were the final piece of the puzzle: ensuring that every death in the city fed their power, swelling Christelen's legion of undead.
"Mmm," he murmured, recalling Malrik's words: soon the sky would redden, as the artifact ignited the city's leylines. Let the Tower Master tremble. Let Everyone in the city wither and turn.
He curled his hand, channeling a thin strand of necromantic energy into the central circle. The runes glowed, lines of red creeping outward in spiderweb fashion, forging ephemeral connections to other segments of the array.
Somewhere above, a muffled clatter suggested distant footsteps. People might be moving in the upper streets. Perhaps watch patrols. Perhaps city folk returning from late-night errands. Christelen allowed himself a cruel grin. Soon enough, they would all be beneath his dominion.
A sloshing sound echoed from a tunnel entrance, a soft footstep in shallow water. Christelen turned, eyes narrowing. Few would dare come this deep into his domain.
To his unsurprise, the visitor was Rorik. The tall, scarred gang leader had chosen to arrive alone, like usual. A single lantern in hand, Rorik picked his way through the sewer corridor, face contorted with disgust as he tried to avoid stepping in refuse.
"Christelen?" Rorik called, his voice echoing over the dripping stone. "You down here?"
The necromancer flicked his needle-like nails against the brazier. The flame rattled, brightening enough to reveal him standing in the circle. "So, you arrived, Rorik. Bold to enter unaccompanied."
Rorik's gaze flicked to the newly animated corpse hunched in the corner. "Seems you've been busy," he said, not bothering to hide the revulsion in his tone. "But I got your summons. Something about a final strike?"
Christelen's lips curled into a half-snarl. "Yes. The time is nigh, or nearly so. Our master Malrik has stolen the artifact from the Mage Tower. I trust you recall the fiasco at the Pearl? Well, the Tower Master intervened, forcing a retreat. But that was merely a skirmish. Now the real assault begins."
Rorik spat onto the ground, his scar tugging the corner of his mouth into a perpetual sneer. "Huh. So, you still blame me for that fiasco? I lost men, you know. That blasted Tower Master tore you a new one, and I had to salvage what I could."
Christelen stepped forward, the brazier's cold glow revealing the deep lines of frustration on his face. "I blame your lack of discipline. Had you pressed harder, they would not have stood a chance. Our undead were primed to overrun them. But no matter, the city soon falls to us either way."
Rorik's dark eyes flickered with annoyance. "You keep saying that. I don't see the city on its knees yet."
"Oh, it shall be," Christelen answered with razor-edged confidence. "Malrik is unleashing the artifact's power. Soon, the blood runes will awaken, weaving an aura that weakens every living soul within Maze. Anyone who dies under that aura reanimates instantly as an undead soldier; mine to command."
Rorik let out a low whistle. "Better not lose my men in that crossfire, necromancer."
A mocking laugh escaped Christelen. "Then perhaps you'd prefer to stand aside? Let the Tower Master crush you. This time he won't spare petty criminals. No. The watch is on edge, and the Tower's mages are furious. I propose you keep quite while you still can."
Rorik scowled. "I'm here, aren't I? The damned Tower Master humiliated me more than once. I expect more gold for this. So, if you have a plan, spit it out."
Christelen paced to a wooden chest near the chamber's rear wall, stepping around a slumped skeleton on the floor. Opening the chest with a rusted key, he withdrew a small, iron-bound box. Ornate runes traced its surface, each symbol exuding a faint black glow.
"These," Christelen said, tapping the box, "contain talismans that protect the bearer from the blood array's lethal effect. They keep you or your men from the weakening and turning undead. Wear one, and you stay immune to my curses, so long as you carry it. Drop it or destroy it, and you become fair game."
Rorik's lips tightened. "That's all that stands between us and your big new plan?"
Christelen's gaze gleamed. "Precisely. You want to be paid. This is how you achieve it; fighting unhampered while the watch crumbles under the array's curse. The artifact will drain their mana, sap their strength. One by one, the city's defenders fall and rise as more soldiers in my legion. Meanwhile, you roam free, culling whoever stands in your path."
A pause filled the chamber, thick with tension. Rorik glanced at the swirling red glow from the brazier's flame, a reflection of the necromantic power saturating the sewers. At length, he nodded. "Fine. Hand them over. My men will be ready."
Christelen extended the iron-bound box. Rorik seized it, feeling its unexpected weight. "Distribute these talismans," Christelen said. "When the sky turns red, you will know the artifact
is fully activated. That's your moment to strike. Show no mercy. By the day's end, Maze will be an abattoir feeding our unstoppable tide of undead; and you can claim the city's spoils."
Rorik tucked the box under his arm. "I'll keep them safe. But if you try to trick us, necromancer, if these talismans fail…" he glowered, scar twisting, "I'll make you pay in blood."
Christelen only smiled, a chilling sight on his hollowed features. "Your threats amuse me. Either we both profit, or the Tower Master hunts us down. I have no desire to be cast into oblivion. Do you?"
Rorik made no reply. He turned on his heel, lantern swaying; and headed back the way he came, boots splashing in shallow sewer water. His silhouette shrank into the gloom until even the light vanished. Christelen remained, feeling the faint echo of Rorik's footsteps reverberate through the slime-caked tunnels.
At length, the necromancer exhaled a slow breath, returning to the half-animated corpse near the table. Soon, all of Maze would feel Malrik's wrath, and the Tower Master who once defeated him would learn there was no second chance at mercy. Christelen reached for his needle again, continuing the delicate work of stitching rods into dead flesh.
Emerging from the sewer's hidden entrance, Rorik stepped onto a deserted back street near a dilapidated warehouse. The damp night air came as a relief after the stifling stench of necromancy. He paused under a flickering lantern, letting his eyes adjust. Moments later, a figure materialized from the shadows: lean, with darting eyes and a short blade at his belt.
"Boss," the man greeted. It was Shiv; Rorik's second-in-command, a trusted ally. Shiv noticed the iron-bound box at once. "So that's what we're after?"
"Aye," Rorik said tersely, glancing around to ensure no eavesdroppers lurked. "Talismans. Enough for our men. They'll protect us when the necromancer sets off his big curse."
Shiv exhaled, relief plain on his face. "So, we don't end up like those poor sods in the Pearl fiasco?"
Rorik's mouth thinned. Memories of charred beams and rotting undead flashed through his mind. "We were lucky the Tower Master stepped in then, or the necromancer might've turned us. But this time, it's different. Malrik, his damned master, claims the artifact can harness the city's mana lines. That means the entire city goes under a death cloud. If we're not shielded, we're as good as corpses."
Shiv let out a low whistle. "That's some sinister magic. But if it hits the watch too… we can exploit that."
Rorik allowed a feral grin. "Exactly. We strike when they're weakened, finish them off; and the city is ours. The necromancers handle the Tower Master. We reap the spoils. But we must move fast. Distribute these talismans." He patted the box. "Make sure every man has one. If they lose it, that's on them."
Shiv nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "When does it happen?"
Rorik shrugged. "Within days, maybe hours. The necromancer said we'll know by the sky turning red. So, gather the men. Get them armed, well-rested, and alert. Because once that signal comes, it's do-or-die."
While Rorik and his gang prepared for an all-out assault, Christelen's subterranean domain bustled with unholy activity. Undead servants dragged in freshly acquired bodies—some hapless beggars, others city guards who ventured too close to the sealed entrances. One by one, Christelen converted these corpses into new thralls, each embedded with rune rods. Dark magic pulsed through the sewers, growing in strength.
Above ground, Maze City remained oblivious to the cataclysm creeping ever closer. Market stalls folded for the night, the watch patrolled lamplit streets, and the common folk locked their doors, thinking themselves safe until morning. Rumors whispered of missing guards, sightings of animated corpses in the slums, and ominous red glows occasionally glimpsed beneath sewer grates. Most citizens dismissed such tales as drunken ravings or illusions of weary eyes. Those with sharper instincts sensed a mounting dread, but they lacked proof or power to confront it.
In the mage Tower of Maze, Kaelith focused on strengthening wards, suspecting an imminent assault. Yet even he did not imagine the scale of the blood array forming beneath his feet.
Sometime later, Christelen stood in the center of a newly crafted circle, deep in the sewer labyrinth. The Heart of Avernus, carried by Malrik, might not be physically present, but Christelen could still feel its potent resonance from afar. The runes carved into damp bricks glowed as if alive, each a fragment of the citywide pattern.
He flicked his hand to command the six reanimated corpses around him. "Stand guard," he ordered. They shambled into position, swords or clubs in their stiffened grips. Perfect watchdogs: obedient, tireless, and immune to fear.
With slow, deliberate steps, Christelen raised both arms. Dark energy coalesced around his hands, swirling in a miniature storm of moans and shrieks; echoes of souls once forcibly ripped from their bodies. The circle underfoot responded with a dull, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat. He spoke incantations in a language older than Maze itself, forging a link to the other runic nodes across the sewers.
A wave of necromantic power surged, traveling from circle to circle. Were one to traverse the city's underbelly at that moment, they might sense an invisible tremor running through each hidden site. The final puzzle piece: the array, nearly whole.
Christelen felt ecstasy flood his veins. He saw a vision in his mind's eye: The Tower Master, kneeling in anguish as mana drained from his body, powerless to stop the unstoppable. Malrik looming triumphant, the city drowned in red. The thought of retribution for the humiliation inflicted on them by the Tower Master was sweeter than any mortal pleasure.
Yet a faint voice in the back of his mind whispered caution. Malrik's hatred ran deep, and success demanded perfection. If any miscalculation occurred; if Rorik's men failed or the Tower
Master found a weakness; they might lose their advantage. Christelen crushed that doubt. Nothing would stand in the path of a fully activated artifact that harnessed Maze's leylines.
He let the energy ebb, stepping out of the circle. The undead watchers remained motionless, silent guardians. Carefully, Christelen retrieved a small jar of Deathbloom petals from a crate and scattered them along the chalk lines. The odor was pungent, reminiscent of rotting lilies, fueling the unholy synergy of the runes. That synergy forced the arrangement into a stable channel, preventing disruptions from the city's natural wards.
Sewer water dripped from above in a steady patter, forming muddy puddles around the circle. In the gloom, Christelen's ragged hair clung to his sunken cheeks, and a triumphant grin revealed teeth that seemed too long, too white against blood-cracked lips.
"Soon," he muttered. "Soon, Maze will belong to the dead."