Pestilence and Strife

[Atzar]

Breaths came in labored gasps. His gait had slipped from spirited jog to dogged shamble, and knives twisted in his acid-burned arm through the poultice that sought to numb it. Atzar fixed his gaze on William’s back. The demon had slowed his pace in consideration for the mage’s condition, but even so, it was all he could do to keep up now. He tried not to think about the sickly veins that spidered out from his wound, but he knew what they meant.

Their path threaded along a narrow string of land that rose out of a lake of sap. The foul fog swirled around them, oppressive as ever; beyond it, silence. Arztschlange’s plagued remains loomed larger with every step. Despite his physical condition, Atzar’s magic was still strong. His globs of acid spun and bobbed alongside, and the bubble of air floated steadily around his sweat-drenched head. He could use a rest, to be sure, but his magical fatigue was of little concern considering the circumstances.

They arrived before the elder dragon’s head. It rested on its side, lower jaw to their left, upper to the right. Patches of scaly hide had been cut away by the hardiest of adventurers, exposing the bone beneath. The wizard had designs on staking his own claim, if he didn’t… well. Involuntarily he glanced at his arm. The lines had already snaked halfway up his forearm, and the flesh closest to the wound was gray and crackled. Atzar suspected that it was no longer a question of 'if.' He felt the strength leaving him; every step was a labor now. Stubborn, angry pride was all that fueled him now. This hellish place might kill him, but it would not defeat him. He would do what he set out to do if it took his last breath.

“In we go,” William rasped without breaking stride. The great beast’s throat was large enough to allow them comfortable passage even standing at full height. Atzar wondered at the titanic power it must have taken to kill this thing.

The pestilent fog was even thicker inside the dragon’s corpse, and a faint slithering sound made the mage uneasy. The pair picked their way along the bones toward the chest cavity. One side of the throat had been stripped and exposed to the elements. A blanket of interlocked scales draped over the other side. The flesh inside the maw had long since rotted away, but time alone could not erode Arztschlange’s armor.

They reached the dragon’s vast ribcage. It rested in a pool of acid, ribs curved up into the mist at intervals; Atzar and William stood upon a breastbone as wide as a highway. The miasma hovered as thick as ever, and the shelter provided by the remaining scaly armor rendered the cavity quite dark. Again something slithered in the gloom.

“You’re up, mage,” William growled. “You know what you need to do?”

“Yeah,” he croaked. Kind of. In truth, Atzar had never opened a portal to another plane before, but William had explained the process. The mage had to draw two glyphs in an alternating series until they formed a circle. The first allowed the wizard to reach into the Realm of Pestilence and grasp the magic there; the second gave it a place to stabilize once summoned.

“Then get on it.” More noises pierced the veil of mist, closer this time. The demon turned toward the noise and drew his scythe. “I’ll stand guard.”

The mage took a deep, ragged breath. “If I die, demon, let it be by your hand,” he told William. “I have no interest in joining a horde of fungus men.” Then on shaky legs he knelt and began the ritual. He tossed two of his acid spheres into the muck with a splat and a hiss; with the third, he began to paint on Arztschlange’s breastbone the symbols that would open the portal.