An Enchanting Tale

  Chapter Eleven

  Upon reentering the burial chamber, S’maash heard once more the distinct sound of a casket lid coming apart. At the center of the chamber, a bony hand emerged from the black coffin. A crowned figure rose. It was garbed in lilac robes with golden plates covering bony arms. The dragon priest, little more than a glowing skeleton, floated from its former place of resting. Long, matted hair stuck to remnants of skin.

  S’maash’s quick thinking led him to believe dual casting a lightning spell was in his best interest. He fired several rounds of thunder bolt in the hopes of draining the priest’s magicka. Violent streaks of purple electricity collided with the dessicated being. The dragon priest, however, had risen with his staff in hand- a twisted emblem of dragon worship.

  The figure slowly listed towards S’maash, floating inches from the ground. By pointing its dragon-headed staff, it hurled repeated snow storms. The spell casters meandered about the room, trading magickal blows. Dust from the ancient floor raised in small clouds. Rubble was sent sailing from powerful blasts of ice and lightning.

  Wracked by pain and drained of health, S’maash switched tactics, utilizing fast healing with his left hand as he took his blade in his right. He charged at the enemy, and closing the distance, he swung, but the enemy easily swayed backwards, free from impact.

  With a modicum of magicka returned, the priest conjured a flame atronach. The newly summoned fiery harlot skated around; she swayed in a dance-like fashion as her curvaceous, flaming body pulsated with raw power. Fire ball after fire ball went hurtling towards the dunmer. With no alternative, he silently prayed to his ancestors while continuing his advancement towards the ever-fleeing dragon priest.

  Wavering fires enveloped the wizard’s body. His ancestor’s wrath was with him. Feeling the burning desire for victory consume his form, S’maash redoubled his efforts; he lunged with blade, flung mighty spells, and relentlessly chased the fleeing priests in circles, and all the while trying to avoid the flaming castigation coming in from his rear.

  Finally, he managed to corner his enemy. It was evident spells had little effect, but his sword dealt enough damage, so he swung overhead from one side then the other. Sword strike after sword strike landed upon the bony figure. Then, the blade swung through air, hitting nothing.

  In the heat of battle—and with all the magick crackling—S’maash had lost sight of his opponent. Altogether too many fire balls crashed over his body. Screaming elven curses, he spun circles, searching for the priest, yet the atronach was closer.

  Grunting, he smashed his blade across her horned head. She gripped his arm with a searing hand, so he butted her with the pommel of his blade as snow storms swirled around; the priest continued a frosty assault. Trying to remain focused, the wizard unleashed a flurry of sparks. Magickal reprisal shattered the atronach; she sizzled and popped, banished to Oblivion.

  Another snow storm crashed over S’maash’s back, and he was brought to a knee. He scrambled behind a broken casket, where he switched to fast heal, and for only a second, he wished he was back home and safe at the mages’ workshop, yet he grit his teeth, and peeked from behind cover.

  He saw the greater portion of the chamber had frozen over. Clenching his jaws, he spotted the enemy. With thunder bolt in one hand and snow storm in the other, the wizard made his stand.

  Pieces of caskets flew from magickal impacts. Dust from the ground swirled about, froze over, and fell back to the stony floor. Blue and purple, crackling energy ricocheted off walls, floors, the ceiling; the two wizards moved slowly, keeping a firm gaze upon each other.

  “Just die, N’wah,” S’maash shouted.

  “Aav Ko Dinok,” the Priest replied in his ancient tongue.

  He was cold, hurt, tired, and his vision was tunneling, but the dark elf held out just a bit longer. The enemy’s magicka reserves waned. S’maash healed himself once more, and then, he redoubled his efforts.

  “Nust Fen Funt, Jul,” the undead creature said.

  With one final push, S’maash screamed, and walking forwards, he maintained both palms pulsating from dual snow storms. An awful tension rocked his knotted arm muscles, yet the dragon priest let out a hallowed scream, floated a bit higher, fell over in the air, and fell to the ground as a pile of glowing cinders.

  S’maash dropped to his knees. Have I exhausted myself? An impact jarred him violently. He passed out after his face smacked upon the hard ground of Labyrinthian’s burial chamber.