As the group had gone farther and farther away from civilization, receiving message spells in the last days of their journey to the Spire had become harder. Messages got disrupted - if they even managed to reach them at all. So, the wizard and the witch had turned their ears away from the bad news that they would surely receive later. From the start of the journey, the plan had been to use the place where the two friends were now standing.

There must have been twelve communication spheres around the room to allow the wizards of old that garrisoned the Spire to communicate with the Realm’s armies and the other Spires. Each sphere had its own dedicated writing table or set of tables, but many of the specially-sculpted mana crystals were dark and din, fractured and spent. The spheres were built in pairs, forever linked, and when one of them was destroyed, the matching one ruptured. Only a third of the spheres when the pair made a cursory examination.

But they weren’t there for the communication spheres - they were there for the amplifier sphere. A lot rarer and more expensive than the former, the amp’ sphere was a beacon to message spells casted in a radius around it, and they had the capacity to store the messages. It also boosted the message spells casted with its use. A truly useful resource, and one they could only be thankful that the remiss Guardian hadn’t completely neglected, like he had some other facilities.

“Well, this isn’t good,” said Garner after they had read a small fraction of the messages..

“Your talent for understating things is as fucking sharp as always,” she replied distractedly while she kept on reading.

“You shouldn’t swear so much, Lowa, it’s unbecoming of a lady of your age.”

Lowa didn’t bother to reply, just sending a rude gesture his way. Unfortunately, Lowa was pretty much correct. The situation had worsened considerably. Some places had started arresting all kinds of mages preventively to curry favor with the Lotharians, or with the argument of a protective custody. Wizards and mages hadn’t simply gone with the flow, obviously. One irascible old wizard that was supposed to make his way to the Spire had been spotted and chased by a nearby city’s guard and surrounded. The bodies were completely incinerated, and it had generated a big commotion, which meant more support for the Lotharian’s Purge.

A couple of magical craftspeople that would join them had completely stopped communication, which boded ill for their safety. Another Wizard had reported that his Tower was breached, the Order of Kalidor fanatics heavily engaged with his avowed warriors, sparing no one they came across. The woman’s last report was that she was activating a self-destruct spell, vowing to take all of the attackers with her. Maybe some of her people had escaped, but Lowa and Garner thought it unlikely.

Though these news of deaths and confrontations were grim, the news coming from Arburgh were worse. The city’s lord had been betrayed or his city had been infiltrated, either way, the gates were opened from the inside, and Lotharian soldiers rushed forwards, occupying the main part of the city. The lord was holding on to his keep for now, but the besieger were ruthless, and it seemed to be a matter of time before Arburgh completely surrendered. With the biggest city in the far west defeated, the Lotharians could hunt wizards and their associates freely.

Every stubborn wizard and mage with a brain worth a damn would probably come looking for the safety of the Spire, and right on their trail would be the Lotharian’s troops. There were many, many Towers on the area, and most still stood, but they would be of little help. Garner had sought to create a refuge for wizards and other practitioners, but they would have to fight to protect it. The golems, of course, would be extremely helpful.

“Guardian,” he called, the spirit materializing his translucent body besides him in a moment’s notice, “tell me your inventory of golems, and your capacity to build and repair them.”

“There are sixteen Aerk’var…” the Guardian began listing.

“A what?” Lowa interrupted.

“Aerk’var? Those balls with scythes?” replied the Guardian, uncertainly.

“You mean the Scythers? That’s their official name now,” commanded Garner.

The spirit groaned at the new name, “You have no knowledge of the Common tongue?”

“The common tongue is not common anymore. Let’s fix those stupid names, describe the other types to us…” said Lowa.

The Guardian groaned again, and the friends exchanged a grin. It seemed they had found another way to harass the unruly thing.

“I was so much happier when I was alone,” muttered the bound Warlock’s spirit. But he hadn’t, not really. Even murderous half-insane Elfey spirits needed some company from time to time. The new annoying residents helped him restore the parts of his minds that were beginning to fray, the ones that caused half of his experimental golems to be useless and broken junk. Still, he was far from being one hundred percent functional. Maybe when he was, he’d be successful where he’d failed before. After all, Captain Lamart’s men hadn’t been assigned to guard the Spire from people - but to prevent people from reaching the Spire…

***

“What the hells is this thing?” asked Tealdin, intrigued.

The two apprentices had decided to descend to the depths of the Spire, as that creepy Guardian-thing had assured them that there was nothing that would harm them. Leanor wasn’t so sure they she should trust anything that that thing had to say, but she relented after Tealdin insisted on going down. She hated heights, after all. The blonde would let others explore it the higher parts for her, if she could help it.

They had explored the lower parts of the Spire, and discovered that there were three underground levels. The first one held servant’s quarters and one huge kitchen. Tealdin had joked that they could have cooked for half the people in Arburgh if they needed, and she couldn’t disagree looking at the size of the cauldrons spread through the kitchen. What they didn’t realize is that each higher kitchen would be smaller, the rationale behind it being that if they needed to use the kitchens on the higher levels, a lot of people would be dead already. The apprentices were yet too naive to ever imagine such a callous calculus had oriented the plans for the ancient Tower.

On the second floor there was a huge cellar, cold and dry, perfect to store various kinds of foodstuffs. The problem was that most of the things store there were already long rotten, and the nauseous stink made they descend to the third underground level in a hurry.

The third floor was sectioned in two, though, one were small rooms - filled with dust like most places in the Spire. Leanor’s mother would have died seeing so much filth accumulated, she had a bit of obsessed with cleanliness.

“What is behind that door?” asked Tealdin, whispering for some reason.

Before answering, Leanor stopped to take a good look at it. It was a completely black metal door, and she could feel heavy magic emanating from it. What could there be in the last floor…

“Dungeon. That Guardian said there was a prison here.” she whispered back. “Why are we whispering, Tealdin?”

“I don’t know… There’s something really off about here. Something making us feel wary for some reason, I think?” He said, looking at the raised hairs on one of his arms.

“Doesn’t it remind you of that magical boar we found?” She asked, making the connection suddenly.

“Yes, but far, far worse than that.” He replied. “Hey, Leanor, are you hearing what I’m hearing?”

“No?” she replied, uncertain. But then she heard the sound, coming from the locked prison-gate - something massive stirring. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Tealdin,” She said, instinctively understanding that they be very quiet, least they wake whatever had been sleeping for close to a hundred years down here.

Tealdin nodded slowly, and together they silently made their way back to the entry hall, feeling more and more pissed as they went. That damned spirit had tricked them, and things could have gone really wrong if whatever beast lurked there had awaken. For how long hadn’t its magical prison been recharged, after all?

***

Balmia and Valena, on the other hand, decided to explore upwards. Climbing a random set of long stairs they had picked, the fast friends talked, bantering and taunting each other occasionally.

“I wish that godsdamned golem hadn’t smashed my boar apart… He was the most powerful undead I have ever raised!”

“Ah, come on, Valena. You know that living creatures could never deal with live ones of the same power. Your little pig was just a distraction.”

“That true, Balmia? Where’s your live boar then? You must be kind of shoddy for a Druid here around your Commune - I haven’t seen a single familiar since I’ve met you,” Valena ribbed back.

“I do have some good pets, you know. It’s just we like birds around here, and they are often flying around because they can, or to scout out the forest when we ask them too.”

“Birds? Small, weak-boned, not that strong. Not worth for much, treehugger.”

“You say that because you’ve never been hit by an enraged flock of birds. Talons, beaks, it’s terrible.”

The entire Spire’s interior was made of that same nearly shiny stone, which matched real well with the magic-powered ensconced torches around. Though it was a bit on the dark-side, they could see perfectly well where they were stepping, and the stairs had beautifully decorated guardrails. The ones on the stairway they were in, coincidentally, had an eagle motif, gracefully swirling around it.”

People said that the interior of a Tower could be wacky, and not really have a perfectly logical explanation, and the Spire was a prime example. Though they ascended for a long time, the stairway a comfortable caracole that hugged one of the Spire’s wall, they had a hard time noticing when they could exit it for another floor. The floors they passed through were barely visible, and they needed to make an effort of will to cross through the opaque barrier that accompanied the stairs if they wanted to exit before reaching the top.

The duo finally arrived at the end of the stairwell and found a ruined room, with an space open to the outdoor of the room. There were some trees one medium sized ledge that extended form the Tower’s walls, and there were big trees on it. Inside, though, it seemed there had been cages and divided spaces.

“What the hell is this?” asked Valena, confused.

“I think I know,” smiled Balmia confidently, “this was the Spire’s Eyrie.”

But then, it was Valena time to smile. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Druid, aren’t those some big eagle bones? Maybe we can put your boast to test”

***

Romer was nearly apoplectic, though the warriors would never guess looking at his impassive face. Layers of dust covered shelves and walls, cobwebs filling every nook and cranny, and a the air was barely breathable. Unacceptable. This isn't just a daily chore, a routine task. This is war. Romer steeled himself for the arduous task. Master Garner, in his wisdom, had brought the right man for the job. It could take the rest of his life - hell, it could take his life! - but he would see this gigantic place swept clean of every and any smudge of dirt. When he was over with this place, it would be spotless.

He looked to his superbly-trained cleaning crew, and they could see the fire on the dignified majordomo’s eyes. They suppressed groans, for they had an idea of what herculean task they had ahead of them. “Cleaning supplies,” said Romer with no apparent emphasis, but a maid and a groom hurried back to the horse-cart, stationed ahead of the doors.

***

“Hey, Guardian-demon-spirit-whatever,” Mons called impudently.

“What is it, foul human?” the Guardian said, appearing before the group of warriors.

“Do you have somewhere for us to stash the carts and the horses?” asked Orwin.

“Don’t bother the Elfey, brother, I hear they take a secret pleasure to being treated politely, with that fancy old speech.”

“Oh, is that right?” asked Mons. Even a reasonable linguist would have executed Maia on the spot if he were to know what kind of atrocities the Realm’s language would suffer that day, just for shits and giggles. “Well, m’chap, if thy would kindly guide us?” He said, making language teachers around the land turn on their graves.

“Thee, if thee would,” the Guardian corrected, shaking his head sadly. “Follow that ramp, and never call out to me again, *please*.”