Clad in dark, heavy armor, the Illrigger checked his position and surveyed the room. Despite the heavy plate, he was silent as a cat. The armor was heavy enough to stop a gelugon’s spear, light enough for him to conjure a lightning bolt, quiet enough to garrote a dryad. Various corpses littered the floor: bleeding giants, oozing troglodytes, a pair of seared minotaurs, and a blue dragon whose soul had been burned away. The death knight fixed his eyes on the creatures that still moved: a mind-flayer, a lich, an armed and armored erinyes, a dark naga, and a pit fiend. He wasn’t expecting a pit fiend. That one, he thought, will probably give me the most trouble.
I wish Eclavdra were here, her assistance would be sorely appreciated. She had business elsewhere. He thought about their shared research, their fights, and their passionate struggles. Foreplay usually started with a duel, until one disarmed the other. An exhausting, bloody melee with spiked gauntlets usually followed. From there they joined each other in flesh, healing their wounds with spells of dark, necromantic energy. Sometimes a bound wraith would be on hand to assist. The dark knight closed his eyes briefly, sighed and remembered.
Sir Tristan Greymalkin, infernal knight, Dark Seneschal and husband to the drow necromancer Eclavdra and Lord of the Shadow Tower of Reaver Hall took his position and at the head of the room. He wrapped his spiked chain around his mailed fists and held it aloft. The wickedly barbed chain had felled many enemies… living and dead, mortal and outsider. Its ends dripped with acidic ichors and it glowed with a faint purple light. The unholy host around him waited with measures of anticipation, amusement, and disdain.
“Be seated!” Tristan shouted.
His voice reverberated through the hall and the assembled monstrosities took note. The creatures picked their way past the pillars and around the corpses to the front of a huge hall of black and red marble. They each sat at desks of varying size and accommodation. The naga wrapped herself comfortably around a pillar and a hobgoblin slave scurried up beside her with a small table, quill and paper. The pit fiend snapped his fingers and several fire mephits appeared and busied themselves around the hulking devil’s roll top. He strode over to the lich, whispered a joke in the withered sorcerer’s ear and pointed at the erinyes. The erinyes, larger than most of its kind, had a strange glowing mark on her forehead that she tried to keep concealed. Tristan recognized it as a wizard mark; the erinyes had been bound by a mortal spellcaster. The lich and pit fiend shared a burst of laughter. The lich moved his desk closer to where the pit fiend was set up and they continued to snigger together. The erinyes knew her place and gritted her teeth.
Sir Tristan Greymalkin greeted each of his students individually and made his way to the collection of corpses.
“Zombie troops are slow, stupid, and obviously have no instincts or knowledge of tactics. They can, however, be employed effectively by a master that is shrewd enough to understand their role in combat support. While your enemy is busy with your charging regulars, a zombie giant can smash their flank. Observe…”
The Illrigger went through fell incantations and raised the troglodyte corpses. A contingent of imps and bearded devils arrived to play the game pieces necessary for the lecture. The class watched intently as Sir Greymalkin moved the pieces around the hall, animated corpses, and explained the tenets of terrain, initiative, surprise, combat power, and timing. The erinyes, Tiyru, thumbed her weapons as she watched. She wore chainmail and had both a longsword and heavy mace hanging from her belt. Tristan could see they were both well worn but carefully maintained. A sparring partner, he thought.
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