Part 2: The Apple of Irithyll

The man breathed shallow breathes, his skin cool and his face flush behind the mask. Wind battered him from all sides, the clouds swirling around darkly, threatening to encompass him within the mist. Nothing but the sound of war and clamor sounded out, echoing high into the air, drowning out the thudding beats of his flying stead. To his sides rose graceful wings constructed of feather and flesh, fighting against the powerful wind that stank of death and decay.

The man could not help but look down, his purple gaze drifting to the ground below. Thousands battled, embroiled with combat and rage, surging against the other. It was like watching two titans fight, a slug fest that lasted hours, a contest between two mighty animals. It had raged for two days, and it even still refused to die. More and more arrived to support their faction, and more and more wasted away with every passing moment.

But it did not matter.

"Wizard!"

The voice boomed over the battlefield, filling the air with a telltale tremble. The man upon the falcon twisted, his gaze searching for whoever demanded his attention, hands gripped the rungs of the saddle tightly. Magic followed such a projection, and magic was always dangerous. He knew from experience.

A shadow fell across the battle, one far larger then his own. Within the clouds to the south rose a mighty being, a dragon large and terrible to behold. Its wings covered hundreds of a men with each passing second, and its broken scales spoke of age and hardship. Its rider was no different in that regard. Little more then a skeleton within armor, it held a spiked mace that even from a distance gleamed with dried blood. It was wreathed in a red cloak that shone with magic, and worse still, it gazed directly upon him.

The mage tensed within his saddle, peering over his shoulder at the new found enemy. It was not the speaker, but for now it was the challenger. One he would face, if it became necessary.

And it seemed he would.

A dragon of such size could have ended the battle below with but a pass. Its breath could melt entire legions of men. But it, and its rider, only had their eyes set for the wizard so far away.

He tried. Tried to get away. The mage knew his limits, knew his abilities. A dragon he could take, but a dragon with a lich-rider? He was powerful, but not strong enough to fight such daunting foes alone within the air. His stead was made for speed, not war. In that capacity, and many others, he was beaten.

Within minutes the creature was upon him, firing its horrible breath from hundreds of feet in the distance. The sky burned alive, the heat shearing and painful, even from so far away. Sweat beaded along his forehead as his stead swerved to the side, narrowly dodging.

But by then it was to late.

The air vibrated, rattling the masked man's teeth within his skull, shaking his sword within his hilt. He peered over his should, hood flapping against the win, only to witness the shrinking distance between him and his foe. It narrowed quickly with each passing second, and before he knew it, the dreaded lich-rider raised his mace high into the air, and brought it down.

Instinct saved his life. His hand yanked his sword from its hilt, revealing its silvery length to the world, before baring it against his foe. The two weapons clashed, ringing against the other, shimmering of magic and bright-steel. It was the only reason his blade did not shatter within his, tempered as it was. Its make saved his life.

The two foes struggled for a moment, testing the others strength. The lich did not breath and did not rent, fueled as it were with magic.

"Where is it?!"

The voice sounded out, demanding an answer to the question. The wizard reeled, surprised with the demand. The voice spoke from within the dead body, using some means of magic that he did not know. The engagement lasted but a second before the two were separated at last, with their two steads flapping away. The lich continued to stare at the mage from afar, wrath and hatred filling its glare.

And soon enough, the two were joined yet again.

It happened as before. The lich raised its mace, the object trembling with magic. Its every motion spoke of doom and death, but it did not matter. The masked wizard rose, gripping the saddle as he did, and delivering the first strike. His blade lite with spell-fire, glowing amber as it did. It split through the air, leaving a trail of heat behind, before encountering the enemy.

Pain struck the lich-rider as its hand was cleaved from its wrist, the smell of singed flesh and boiling blood filling the air for a single second. An inhumanly screech filled the wind as the mace fell from its grip, the creature to shocked and surprised to keep a hold of its weapon.

The falcon rider's moment of victory did not last, however. The undead leaped across, emptying its seat upon the dragon and wrenching the wizard from his own.

And together, they fell, tumbling through the clouds and racing downward to the earth below.

Its spare hand reached, grabbing the mage by his neck, strangling him as best it could. The man fought against the action, his own sword having fell too within their tumble from the saddles. Fingers pushed against the lich who leaned closed, shaking him as it did. Through the whipping of the air and the screaming cries of the battlefield below it demanded only one thing with its terrible voice as the ground grew larger below them.

"Where is the apple?!"

It never received its answer.

Only the teasing laugh, of a dying man.