RuneScape:Wiki Post/Fan fiction/Scourge of the Battlefield

I present to you the third installment of my series on the Mahjarrat. The previous story can be found here.

Scourge of the Battlefield
With the help of the Mahjarrat, Zaros effortlessly conquered most of eastern Gielinor to build a kingdom unlike anything the Mahjarrat had laid their eyes upon. Resources abounded, cities thrived, and the land flourished under Zaros's reign. Eventually, the great city of Senntisten was established as the capital of the empire. There seemed to be no limits to the kingdom's continued expansion; this presented the Mahjarrat with endless opportunities to engage in battle with other races and reinforce their reputations as the strongest creatures ever to walk on Gielinorian soil. Despite all this, not everything was well. The Mahjarrat relished their newfound influence on Gielinor, but some of them were not completely satisfied. Driven by a desire to exercise their power, several Mahjarrat began to work clandestinely with a number of allies to achieve their own goals. The most notable of these Mahjarrat was called Zamorak.

***

The man kicked the wall in exasperation. It was not here. The room had been searched from top to bottom, the boxes and shelves thoroughly examined. He did not know whether it was in this old, dingy temple in the first place. Arms akimbo, he strode the length of the room one last time before turning around and heading out the door. He appeared in a dark chamber with a passageway to the right. Walking quickly, he entered it and followed the winding path. As he neared a glowing torch on the wall, he reached his arm out, wrenched it from its clasp, and moved on without stopping. The light from the torch soon revealed the end of the tunnel. In front of him was a bridge in a small cavern, stretching over a crevice about twenty feet wide. As he walked closer, he noticed that the bridge was made of bricks, most of which were discolored and deteriorating. Even as he inspected it, a brick on the underside of the bridge fell loose and dropped into the crevice. Four seconds passed before he heard a distant splash. He looked around but saw no other way around the crevice. Then a thought occurred to him; it was risky, but it was the only option available. With the torch on one hand, he lowered his bag from his shoulders with the other and pulled out a pair of light blue, feathery boots, which he placed carefully on the ground. First, he tossed the torch over the crevice. It landed with a clank on the opposite side and continued to burn. His bag and hiking boots followed soon after. After some consideration, he removed his hat, coat, and leggings and flung them over as well. Wearing only a shirt and his underwear, he looked at the eccentric boots in front of him. He had never worn them before, but they supposedly possessed the ability to make the wearer nearly weightless. After some hesitation, he stepped into them. Almost immediately, a strange sensation of giddiness and elation swept over him, as if he had just drunk several beers. He walked forward and giggled; he felt like he was soaring through the air with each step. A sense of purpose took over him then, and he resolutely placed his left foot on the bridge, and then his right, and then his left again. Before he knew it, he was on the other side with the bridge intact behind him. He grinned at his success. Although he wanted to keep the boots on, something told him that the job was done. Reluctantly, he bent down to remove them. As he pulled them off, his feeling of happiness abruptly disappeared, leaving him slightly crestfallen and the cavern gloomier than before. After gathering his things, he held the torch above his head and moved on, passing through a series of tunnels that seemed to lead deeper underground. Soon, he found himself in another chamber with multiple openings along its circumference. He chose the one closest to him and ventured inside. This was it! Unlike the previous room, this one did not look like an old storage compartment, but rather more like a dining hall or meeting area. An unlit chandelier hung from the ceiling, blemished and forlorn. Underneath the branched light fixture was a round oak table, once glossy and elegant but now lackluster from ages of abandonment. The chairs were lined haphazardly along either side of the table, as if the former residents had left in a hurry. And there, propped against the wall on the far side of the room, was the staff. A brilliant emerald, set between a pair of sculpted gold wings, adorned the top of the polished black wood. Incomprehensible symbols ran down the length of the staff, ending at a gold base fused to another smaller green gemstone. Although this room had been long forsaken, the staff looked healthy and animate, emanating a soft light that outlined its contours through the darkness. Placing the torch on the ground, the man walked toward the ancient weapon. Was the staff intended to be hidden in such plain view? he thought to himself. Could it really be this easy? Some hidden impulse told him to look around. He stopped, listening carefully before turning his head. No one was there. He started to turn back, but from the corner of his eye he saw a tiny glow from one of the candles on the chandelier. Puzzled, he moved closer to the chandelier, squinting at it. Suddenly, the candle roared to life, making each of the other candles light up in quick succession. The man stumbled back, bewildered, as a stream of fire poured from the chandelier to the ground, spinning in place like a small cyclone. Then the flames dissolved, leaving behind a strange humanoid with burning red skin and yellow eyes. "I am Lesarkus," boomed the fiery creature. "Do not touch the staff. It stays here." The man glanced to his right, where the staff rested against the wall a short distance away. "Do not touch the staff," repeated Lesarkus. "Leave this place." The man looked at the creature irritably. He did not come here just to have some fire demon order him to leave. Tensing his muscles, he edged closer to the staff. "And what if I don't?" he asked boldly. Lesarkus did not answer. Without warning, the creature raised its hand and released a blazing sphere of fire at the man, who leaped away just in time. The flames missed him narrowly and struck the wall, hissing from existence. Now the staff was right next to him. He grabbed it and instinctively jumped again as Lesarkus blasted a second ball of fire at him. Breathing heavily, the man whirled around and pointed the staff directly at Lesarkus. Lesarkus's eyes widened as he took a step back. "Put the staff down, human..." The staff seemed to shiver in delight as the man smiled. "Sorry, but I must do this for Saradomin."

***

Atop an icy peak northwest of Senntisten stood a fortress, imposing with its lofty spires, overlooking the snowbound land for great distances in every direction. A purple flag emblazoned with the symbol of Zaros waved proudly from the topmost tower. On the battlements, a sentry dressed in heavy wool garments shivered as he peered into the vast expanse of white around him, the wind swirling past his numb cheeks. From the crest of the eastern horizon, a dark shape emerged and rapidly approached the fortress. The sentry squinted at it and, realizing what it was, hurried over to the edge of the battlements and looked down at the two guards at the main gate. "Oi there!" he called out hoarsely, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Dragon rider comin' from the east!" The guards glanced up and indicated that they had heard him. They simultaneously drove the butts of their halberds into the ground and waited for their guest's arrival. Like a descending gale, a fearsome black dragon swooped down from the sky and spread its wings, flapping them with tremendous force to slow itself down. Nevertheless, it landed on the mountaintop with all the strength of an earthquake. The ground trembled visibly as chunks of snow shot into the air, briefly masking the dragon and its rider from view. As the snow cleared, both guards watched uneasily as a reptilian creature dismounted. He resembled a smaller version of his dragon, except that he stood on two legs, wore robes, and brandished a dark red spear along with a heavy shield imprinted with draconic features. Despite the large hood concealing his head, the creature's snout was visible, displaying jaws lined with small, sharp teeth. Without hesitation, the guards pulled open the metal gates, allowing him to enter the fortress uninhibited. Humans! Their scent was everywhere, pervading the fortress's interior with its blight. Wrinkling his snout in distaste, the creature made his way across the spacious foyer to the main staircase, ignoring the fearful looks cast in his direction. "Strisath?" The deep voice came from behind him. Recognizing it, the creature stopped and turned around. "Ah, there you are, Zamorak." Zamorak acknowledged Strisath with a nod. Like all Mahjarrat, he had glowing orbs which seemed to float within the cavities of his eye sockets. He wore a simple red tunic and carried a silver spear with curved barbs and a long, tapered point — a weapon which symbolized his prowess in physical combat. "What do you want?" asked Zamorak quietly. Clicking his claws, Strisath looked at the Mahjarrat with some surprise. "Can you not see them?" Zamorak shook his head. "Your thoughts? I perceived your general intentions, but you are of a unique race... your exact thoughts are difficult to comprehend." "That is good for us then," laughed Strisath. "Well, Zamorak, I came here to inform you of a skirmish occurring along the border of the Hallowland. The outpost we erected on their land seems to have provoked the Saradomists, including those strange angel-beasts. The forces currently at Kharyrll are insufficient to drive them back. They need one of you there." Zamorak tilted his head inquiringly. "Why did you fly all the way to the opposite side of the empire? Surely there must others of my kind at Carralangar or Senntisten." "It was not me who decided to come here," replied Strisath. "The Great Lord has taken notice of you, Zamorak, and he wishes to see you prove your strength once more. I believe he has a reward for you if you do." Zamorak stood there for a moment, looking away. Strisath thought he saw the Mahjarrat's eyes flare bright orange for a second before they returned to their usual red glow. Then he replied, "I shall go then. Thank you for the message." Strisath watched as the Mahjarrat clasped his skeletal hands together in preparation to teleport. "Is something troubling you?" "Oh, no," replied Zamorak. "I am simply... excited." And with a glimmer of light, he vanished.

***

Nibbling on a biscuit, the man sat at the base of a tree with the staff lying on his lap. He gazed at it, admiring the perfectly cut emeralds on either side of the naturally contoured wood. The look of fright that had distorted Lesarkus's face confirmed that this staff was the staff — the legendary artifact which once belonged to Armadyl, the god of justice. It was supposedly the most powerful weapon in existence, capable of elevating the holder to a state of near-invincibility. He had half a mind to keep it for himself, but that would be much too dangerous; now that the staff had been removed from its hiding place, it was vulnerable to detection by creatures of magic. He had to bring it to Saradomin. He started on his way, whistling quietly to himself. Suddenly, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching him from behind. Spinning around, he caught a glimpse of a masked figure before something descended upon him and struck his head hard. The world tilted dangerously as his vision faded to blackness. The last thing he heard before he fell unconscious was a gleeful chant: "Rennard's got the staff! Rennard's got the staff!"

***

Miles to the east, Saradomist forces had laid siege to the Zarosian fortress of Kharyrll, the construction of which was ongoing. They had set up camp a safe distance away, under the cover of a thick forest, and were now periodically assaulting the fortress in an attempt to prevent it from being completely built, forcing the Zarosians to arm themselves in preparation for imminent attacks. The courtyard bustled with activity as creatures gathered and transported resources to various artisans, human and nonhuman, within Kharyrll: ores and metals to blacksmiths, wood to fletchers, and hides to crafters. Finished products would then be quickly distributed to the fighters and defenders near the weak portions of the walls. A male warrior stood alone on the eastern ramparts, watching the Saradomin camp. Short and rugged, he bore an air of fierceness with the red paint decorating his face and the scar running down his left cheek. A long beard flowed down his chest, separated into two ends by a pair of knots. "Viggora!" called out a voice behind him. "The Scourge of the Battlefield is here!" The warrior briefly raised a hand in acknowledgement. He continued to study the Saradomist forces, taking note of the different creatures present in the camp. One hundred strong, they consisted mainly of humans, wizards, and centaurs. Also in the camp were five angel-beasts, who seemed to be the leaders of the group. Viggora cast one last glance at the camp before turning around. Just then, Zamorak floated over the wall, supporting himself with magic, and landed lightly on the ramparts. "Ello, Scourge of the Battlefield," said Viggora with a wide grin. "Is that what they call you nowadays?" Zamorak returned the smile. "I will have to get used to it." "So, my friend, what d'you think about the reward that the Great Lord is offerin' to you?" asked Viggora, lowering his voice to a murmur. "It does not matter," answered Zamorak, shrugging. "I only wish to gain his trust. The more highly he thinks of me, the heavier the blow will be when the day comes. But even if half of his army were to turn against him, he would still be too strong. We need something... something which would provide us with the means to defeat a god." Viggora winked roguishly. "We'll find a way. Remember, me an' Drakan are on your side." Zamorak nodded, pleased. Together, they walked toward the northern battlements and joined the rest of the fighters, who had started formulating a plan now that Zamorak had arrived. "We need some of you to stay behind as archers," announced a tall, pale-skinned vampyre who exuded an aura of authority. Surprisingly, he did not speak in the hissing accent that was characteristic of most vampyres. "We cannot allow the angel-beasts to fly over our walls, so shoot them down if they come close. The rest of us will give Saradomin a message that he will not forget." Then, noticing Zamorak, he added, "We only have one magician, and he is coming with us, so you archers had better stay awake." Zamorak raised a hand. "Would you like me to transport everyone, Sir Drakan?" "Of course," replied the vampyre. "Ah, and I should inform you that the Great Lord wants you to lead the charge, Zamorak." Then he looked at the others. "Everyone is ready, I assume?" There were murmurs of affirmation from the congregation, which included humans, vampyres, vyrewatch, and demons. They watched in anticipation as Zamorak spread his arms and used the energy in his body to perform a teleportation spell. In the blink of an eye, the Zarosian forces found themselves outside the walls of Kharyrll, approximately fifty feet away from the Saradomin camp. The angel-beasts were the first to notice them. Shouting warnings to the others, they took to the air and flourished their swords, lining up side-by-side like sentinels in front of the camp. With their impressive wings and feather-shaped swords, they were an amazing sight to behold. "Those angel-beasts..." murmured Zamorak as he moved to the front of the group, next to Drakan. "They are properly called the Icyene." "What do you want, scum?" called out one of the Icyene, a male with long brown hair that oddly resembled feathers. Drakan stepped forward and bared his pearly white teeth. "We want you gone, obviously." "Ha!" laughed the Icyene. "You do realize that you are building something on our land, evil one? Unless you wish to suffer the wrath of Saradomin, I suggest you turn around and leave." Drakan shook his head slowly, almost pityingly. "If we can take your land, then it is ours. The passive will never see power… never forget that." The Icyenes' eyes flashed angrily at Drakan's remark. In unison, they beat their wings and ascended higher into the sky. Suddenly, one of the Icyene dove toward the Zarosian forces, propelling herself through the air like a cannonball. Zamorak adopted a fighting stance and held his spear at the ready. However, to everyone's surprise, an arrow zoomed from the fortress walls and pierced the Icyene's left wing. With a cry of pain, she plummeted from the sky, flapping her wings to no avail. The other Zarosians quickly scattered to get out of the way, but Zamorak remained where he was. He held his spear with a steady hand, its tip pointing upward. The Icyene's body passed cleanly through the spear, barbs and all. Zamorak's eyes glowed with bloodlust as the other airborne Icyene gaped at her body, stunned. After retrieving his weapon, he let loose a wild war cry and led the charge toward the Saradomin camp.

***

The four Icyene confronted Zamorak head on as the rest of the Zarosian forces rushed by. They attacked him from all directions as he fought them off, twirling his spear in blindingly complex patterns. Zamorak was well known for his patience; even when outnumbered, he could turn the tide of the battle, slowly but surely. As the Icyene's blows faltered, the Mahjarrat seamlessly converted his defense to offense, thrusting and slashing instead of blocking and evading. Like a snake, his spear flashed from one Icyene to the next, delivering quick but nonfatal blows that progressively increased in power until three of the Icyene dropped to the ground. Once beautiful and majestic, the winged creatures had been reduced to masses of bloody holes. The last Icyene, the same male that had shouted at them earlier, retreated a short distance and glared at Zamorak. He was breathing heavily and had lost the energy needed to stay airborne, but he had managed to avoid many of Zamorak's deadly attacks. Folding his wings on his back, he renewed his grip on his sword and raised it in the air, forming words on his lips. A powerful burst of energy arose from the Icyene's core and traveled up his upraised arm, visibly manifesting itself as a bolt of white lightning that crackled around the feather-shaped blade of his sword. Zamorak did not think; he reacted. As the lightning blasted through the air from the tip of the Icyene's sword, a magical aura appeared around the Mahjarrat and deflected the bolt. It bounced off the shield, as if it had hit a bubble, and shot back toward the Icyene. Nearly simultaneously, Zamorak jumped into the air and glided after it like a wraith, leaving his magical shield behind as a false indication that he was still there. As the Icyene sidestepped the electric missile and shielded his eyes from the light, Zamorak stretched his arm, spear in hand, as he flew past the Icyene. Zamorak landed lightly on the ground as the Icyene crumpled behind him. Without a second glance at the creature, Zamorak cleaned his spear and walked away as if nothing had happened. In the time that Zamorak had fought and killed the four Icyene, the other Zarosians had made short work of the Saradomists. The camp, which was littered with bodies, smelled thickly of blood. Like crows, several demons descended upon the corpses to partake of the fresh meat. Zamorak averted his gaze. Had a human been in the Mahjarrat's position, he could not have seen what Zamorak saw at that moment. Deep in the woods to the left of the camp, Zamorak spotted a vampyre kneeling in front of a bush with a thin tree growing out of it. To his amusement, the vampyre seemed to be talking angrily to the tree: "... managed to carry it here without anyone noticing? Liesss! Then show it to me, human!" And Zamorak quickly realized that the tree was, in fact, a dark-skinned man wearing a guise of leafy foliage. "I do not lie. I have it with me. Please, I only wish to see the one who calls himself—" "Zamorak?" The vampyre flinched violently, but the man gazed in awe at the Mahjarrat, who had suddenly appeared in their midst. Zamorak sensed an immense power emanating from the man — a foreign power. It did not come from the human, but from one of the human's possessions. "You are Zamorak?" "I am," replied the Mahjarrat. "What is that you carry, human?" The man reached under his outfit to retrieve it. "An artifact of great magic! My boss, Rennard, stole it from a Saradomist explorer and then told me to sell it to someone. I want to sell it to you, Zamorak." Zamorak watched intently as the staff was unveiled to him. Elegant but sturdy, it resonated with a low hum, as if it were struggling to contain something. The man offered it to Zamorak, who accepted it carefully, almost lovingly. For just a moment, the Mahjarrat's eyes burned ravenously as he looked at the power he held in his hands. With it, he could gather many followers. With it, he could lead a rebellion against his master. And with it, he could conquer this world. "I am sure we can reach an arrangement... friend."

-
 * By: Tienjt0

Did you like this story? Loved it! It was okay. No.