The Black Tower was situated in its own grounds on the border between the human port town of Gaggleswick, and Ainderbury – a province of the lands of the Faery known as Sylfrania. More than three hundred years ago, it had been the home of the infamous Black wizard, Ulvarius. Widely regarded as the most powerful and dangerous renegade in history, he terrorised the continent, humans and Faery alike, routinely abducting innocent people and subjecting them to the most horrific and torturous of magical experiments. Vast, powerful forces of might and magic assailed him, but he brushed them aside. His power consumed vast acres of land, burning whole towns if but one person defied his will.
It is even said, gentle reader, that Lake Quernhow was formed when a baby dared to cry in the middle of Ulvarius’ speech to the people of a town that existed there in his time. In response, he used his magic to make everybody cry.
Now, that may not sound so bad, but let me clarify: every human and Faery, every adult and child, every animal and plant within the boundaries of that town cried. Water poured out of every living creature until they were nothing but dried-up husks and the ground sank under the weight of the water, forming the lake.
Whether that story is true or exaggerated, I can’t be sure. It’s another Temporal Black Spot, off-limits to even observation-only Time travel. Good thing, too, for if the legend is accurate, and I bore witness to it, then I fear that I too would cry and never stop. Except perhaps to tear apart the fabric of reality to stop the bastard that did it, plunging the universe into the maelstrom of chaos.
By the end of his time, Ulvarius’ influence had expanded until he had virtually the whole of Elvaria in his grasp, and it was only a matter of time before he conquered the world. That is, until one day he did the world a favour and took his own life by jumping off the roof of his tower. No-one knew – or cared – exactly why. Perhaps he was simply consumed by his own power, going the way of so many powerful Dark mages before and since. But there was another legend that said he had learned a prophecy saying that no matter how powerful he became, there would be one other, yet to be born, who would be more powerful still. That brought him both figuratively and literally to the edge, or so the story went.
Whatever the truth of it, in the process of taking his own life, even as he fell, he cast out his magic, cursing the tower and its land. All life within his grounds became twisted under his power, forming devastating defences against any future intruder and casting the Tower under a thick blanket of darkness that had never once abated in more than three centuries since.
Adventurers and knights, wizards and clerics tried to enter the grounds over the years, but none got very far before they were struck down and killed, or worse: absorbed into the very defences that had defeated them.
*****
The red-robed figure materialised in the centre of the town of Gaggleswick, teleporting from Xarnas’ home, and gazed at the Black Tower in the distance. It was an impressive, imposing sight. Enshrouded in her hood, Dreya breathed deeply and allowed herself a small smile at the sweet caress of magic all around her. All the power at her command, under her control.
She began to walk, unhurriedly, along the streets of the town, pausing along the way to buy a juicy red apple. Eating it calmly, she threw away the core just as she reached the gate. Typically, people stayed well away from the border of the Black Tower’s gardens of torture, so the sight of this lone, red-robed young woman heading for it with purpose and intent attracted a good deal of attention. Many called out to her, warning her, even begging her to go no further, not to throw her life away.
Her only response was, “If I die, I die in the magic. Magic is all.”
Taking one more breath, she opened the gate and entered the grounds.
Immediately, she was assailed by spells of fire, ice and lightning, but they bounced harmlessly off her shields. She was sprayed with poison and disease, but none of it could touch her. Animated skeletal warriors attacked her by the dozen, but they were soon dust beneath her feet as she walked. Her pace never wavered, as she encountered animated corpses containing the twisted, tortured souls of former champions who had tried and failed to approach the Black Tower. They wanted to drain her of life and magic, but instead, she drained them, restoring whatever power she had so far expended, freeing their souls in the process. And all the time she drew closer to the tower.
Hellhounds beset her with their teeth, werecats with their claws. A single piercing of her skin would mean the end of her life, but she held out a hand, and all cowered, whimpering before her. Demons that had been trapped there for three hundred years, came at her, desperately. Jealous of her sweet life, shining like a beacon, they sought to snuff it out. Half of them she destroyed, while the other half fled back to the lower planes in terror.
Ulvarius had been a master of the True Undead, in his day. Autonomous creatures with sufficient intelligence to follow complex instructions, yet still enslaved to their creator’s will and equipped with regenerative magic. Those that still guarded his tower were the most powerful ever created. Rather than waste her energy trying to kill them – most likely impossible without the use of Holy Water – she focussed her power on the control magic and wrested it from the long-deceased tyrant. From now on, they would serve her, instead.
None of Ulvarius’ defences could stop her or even slow her down until, finally, she reached the steps leading to the door of the tower itself. The ragged remains of a robe of black fluttered in the breeze, revealing the bones beneath it: the cursed, skeletal remains of Ulvarius himself. Remains that, the moment Dreya put one foot on the lowest step, picked themselves up off the railings, took on shadowy flesh, wrapped in that tattered old robe and drew itself up to a height of seven feet, looming over Dreya in the form of a lich.
A sibilant voice in Dreya’s mind said, ‘Long have I waited for thee. Faery blood, no less. Excellent! You see, Ulvarius planned this all along: Ulvarius achieved much before, but that shall be as nothing to what I can do with thy power and mine combined. Thy body and thy magic shall serve Ulvarius for a very long time to come. Now, kneel before Ulvarius and submit thyself!’
The horrific sound of the lich’s laughter carried for miles around. Dreya's hood fell from her head, seemingly blown back by the power of the lich, and the wind its laughter created.
Dreya sank slowly to one knee…
…and casually picked a single black rose, bringing it up to her face to smell, deeply.
Standing once more, she said, calmly, “Get out of my head, go to hell and take your pretentious speech with you. Referring to yourself in the third person is impressing no-one.
“Now is the time!” she declared. “I choose the Darkness.”
Her red robes darkened and lost their colour until they were the deepest, darkest black. Her Realignment complete, Dreya pricked her finger on one of the thorns on the rose’s stem. Watching her blood trickle down her hand, she allowed her magic to mingle with it and flow through her veins.
“You are weak, Ulvarius. This is now my home, and you have no place in it.”
The lich had now stopped gloating and begun to back away.
‘Blood magic? That’s impossible!’
Ignoring him, wasting no words, Dreya cast out a beam of dark energy, slamming into the lich, who began to disintegrate before her eyes.
‘But blood magic is unstable!’ it cried, even as it faded.
“It is perfectly stable,” Dreya countered, still never raising her voice. “It just…requires…” The lich exploded and vanished into nothingness, banished to the depths of hell. “…control,” Dreya concluded.
With nothing left to impede her, she climbed the remaining steps, opened the door with a look and stepped inside her new home.
*****
Over the next few days, Dreya was seen strolling through her grounds, re-examining Ulvarius’ defences, either changing them to better suit her, to ward and protect rather than maim and kill, or eradicating them. She even set the undead guards to work on tidying the gardens. The once perpetual dark sky was banished, giving way to a blazing sun amid high, fluffy clouds and Tempestria’s typical swirling vortex of energy.
Most of the people of Gaggleswick adapted, as people often do, and seeing no immediate danger, they continued with their lives, regardless. Once they learned the name of the new Mistress of the Black Tower, a nickname began to surface. When it reached the ears of the sorceress herself, she decided that, while not particularly imaginative, it did have a certain ring to it, and she found she rather liked it. From that day forward, then, it became her official name: Dreya the Dark.
However, the Squire and local assembly were not so content. They all knew the history of the Black Tower and Ulvarius’ reign of terror, and they feared that with this new occupant, the violence, horror and bloodshed might begin all over again. The squire filed an objection with the Council of Wizards, but his complaint was thrown out.
He received a reply:
Dear Sir,
Further to your complaint against Dreya the Dark, Black robe sorceress currently occupying the Black Tower.
After due consideration, we write to inform you that the Council of Wizards has ruled in her favour. She has broken no laws of magic, and as such, we cannot countenance any action against her. As for her claim of ownership of said Black Tower, the only former owner of the tower, Ulvarius, has been declared officially deceased for three centuries, so Dreya has merely chosen to make use of a vacant property. Border disputes are generally outside our jurisdiction; however, our research suggests the Black Tower was never officially part of the town of Gaggleswick, being instead its own private estate.
Therefore, on the matter of your complaint, we find there is no case to answer.
Yours in magic,
Laethyn, Justaria, Maia,
Council representatives.
*****
Given this ruling, the Gaggleswick Assembly resigned themselves to their new neighbour, but Squire Johanssen himself was not so easily swayed. He sent an envoy to the ruler of the neighbouring Faery Kingdom of Sylfrania, King Theodorus, to seek his views on the matter. Again, most Faery were inclined to let things be. A Balance-aligned Faery wizard had been a curiosity; a Dark-aligned one was a scandal, but no-one was interested in doing anything more than gossip about it.
Except for one.
The King’s youngest son, Prince Travarin of Ainderbury, the closest Sylfranian province to the Black Tower, was incensed by the ruling. He believed a Dark-aligned Faery was an affront to all that was good, and that Dreya the Dark was already having a corrupting influence on the purity of his daughter, Princess Zarinda, who seemed fascinated by her. The two leaders, then, agreed to launch an attack, before Dreya, having removed most of Ulvarius’ defences, had time to build her own.
*****
Three days later, a quad of the bravest holy Knights from Gaggleswick and a trio of the most devout White clerics from Ainderbury entered Dreya’s lands, intent on wiping out this dark stain on their community. To their surprise, no magic assailed them, no hellhounds tried to bite them, and the only things the undead warriors were interested in attacking were the weeds. It seemed to these righteous defenders that Dreya had made a grave mistake in leaving herself unguarded. They finally reached the Tower itself, where Dreya the Dark was sitting quietly in the sun, reading a book and sipping a glass of wine. As they cast their shadows over her, she finally looked up.
“Greetings,” she offered, pleasantly, “and what brings you to my door on such a fine afternoon?”
“Surrender or die, Black Witch!” the knight leader declared.
“‘Black Witch’ is it, now?” Dreya remarked with raised eyebrows. “And I was just getting used to ‘Dreya the Dark.’ I do wish you’d make up your minds about my nickname, it’s getting hard to keep track.”
“Your tower is a blight on the land!” insisted one of the clerics.
Dreya looked hurt as she glanced around her grounds.
“Well, I agree it’s a bit of a mess right now, but ‘blight’ is a bit harsh,” she pouted. “Be fair, this mess is three hundred years in the making, and I’ve been here about three days. I’ve got my best people working on it.”
“You are the scourge of the people, and you must die!” another knight declared.
“Or surrender,” Dreya suggested. “At least according to your friend here.”
The knight blinked, confused. He had expected a fight, not a debate.
“Well, yes, I suppose you can surrender instead. Do you wish to surrender?”
“Well…” Dreya closed her book and seemed to consider the question. “…I’d say that rather depends on what happens after I surrender.”
The knight leader answered, “You will be taken to Gaggleswick, where you will be tried, sentenced and executed.”
Dreya slowly stood. “On what charge?” she asked. “I believe I am entitled to know that, am I not?”
“You are a threat!” said the cleric spokesman, as if it were obvious.
“I’m sorry,” said a puzzled Dreya, “who exactly have I threatened?”
“That’s for the court to decide,” a knight asserted.
“But according to you, the court has already decided, since I am to be tried, sentenced and executed. So, it seems to me as if you are giving me a choice between dying here or dying in the town square. That’s not much of a choice, is it?”
“Well, it’s the only one you’re getting!” the lead cleric insisted.
“In that case,” Dreya’s voice gained an edge of steel and her gaze sharpened to match. “Let me give you a choice: leave my lands and never return or enter my service and never leave.”
“We will not leave until you die!” the knight insisted; the others murmured their agreement. All readied weapons.
“Very well, I accept your choice,” Dreya replied.
With that, she unleashed her power at her enemies. She tore out the knights’ souls and discarded them, turning all four into her very own death knight bodyguards, each with the strength of ten mortal knights, unyielding, untiring. Meanwhile, with the clerics, she took the opposite approach. Discarding their lifeless bodies and corrupting their souls, so they became ghouls, floating on the breeze as insubstantial as light and sparking with the power of the gods of Darkness, each one more than a match for any dozen mortal clerics.
“Tell me,” Dreya said, “whom do you serve?”
“We serve our Mistress, Dreya the Dark,” they chorused.
“And when will you leave my service?” she asked.
“We will not leave until you die,” they said.
“Excellent,” Dreya approved.
*****
You see, gentle reader? Aunt Dreya gave them a choice – a far better one than the non-choice they gave her – and she accepted their decision. They would serve and protect her, and never leave until the day she died, and technically, gentle reader, a thousand years later, she still hasn’t.