Armoured

A deep orange hue swept across the dust-choked tiles as we pushed open the door into the derelict mage's tower. Shadows hastened back, cowering from our torchlight, like one seeing an old friend back from the dead. Although the previous occupant had allowed their home to fall into disarray, their wards and locks had kept more fearsome creatures from staking their claim. All that was broken had succumbed to the ravages of time and rot. We were certain there would be something of value amidst the remnants.

Our picklock, Lyran, shut the door behind him, muffling the rising winds outside. A storm was brewing. Tumultuous gales would soon sweep across the desolate landscape of the Ash Blightlands, blotting out the pale grey sky with chalky dust. It could be hours before the weather settled, or it could be months. Either way, we thought ourselves lucky to stumble upon a lonely spire lost in the wasteland. The shelter was more than welcome. I shook the clumps of ash from my boots and trudged over to an old bookcase. Under a thick coat of dust and cobwebs, hefty tomes stood tightly packed. The matt hues of their leather had faded from centuries of neglect and the inscriptions on their spines were hardly comprehensible. As the wind began to hurl specks of grit against the window, I pulled a reddish book free from the shelf.

Its weight caught me by surprise. Reams upon reams of paper sagged from the covers, bulging outwards as if desperate to escape. With a laboured groan, I heaved the tome onto a nearby table. It landed with a thud and a cloud of dust. We were not here to look for literature or spellbooks, especially not specimens as heavy as this one, but it seemed like a good place to start looking - the scholarly type have a penchant for writing things down. As the others surveyed the room, I flipped the tome open.

If there was any rhyme or reason behind the diagrams, sigils, and scrawlings inside that book, they were not apparent to me. The pages tore easily, some even falling to pieces at the slightest touch. A disgruntled sigh told me that Janos, our wizard, had witnessed my wanton vandalism. I offered a guilty smile and apologised but was only greeted with a scowl. He marched over, practically shoving me aside.

"You have been here not even five minutes and have already butchered a mage's spellbook." Janos murmured disdainfully.

I knew better than to retort, instead meeting Lyran's impish eyes which he rolled mockingly, before returning to fiddling with a sealed lockbox. Outside, the wind howled. We were very lucky to have found this place when we did. Being caught in a storm like this could bury a soul alive, encasing its victim beneath thick layers of stone grey. Armeya, our survivalist, crouched by the hearth and attempted to grant the fireplace its first flame in centuries. She always insisted on keeping us warm. If it were not for Janos, we would have plenty of fuel for the fire, but he would never let us burn the books. He would insist on using magic but the heat he conjured always felt hollow. I suppose warmth feels better when it is earned.

"There's an illusion in the fireplace." Armeya called.

We all hurried over, keen to investigate. She pointed past the smouldering kindling at the stonework behind. A solid wall of grey.

"A fascinating find, Armeya." Janos mumbled, as he flicked through his spellbook. "Perhaps we will see what our host hoped would remain unseen."

He flicked out his hands, muttered some incoherent words and, as he did, the back of the fireplace disappered. A toothless maw took its place, the black void within hoping to swallow us into its gullet. All eyes fell to me.

The tunnel down into the bowels of the tower was dark and claustrophobic, but thankfully brief. As I neared the bottom, a dreary cellar opened up. Here, the dust was so thick it resembled snow, and tiny specks hung in the stale air. But this peculiar wintery scene had some equally strange residents. Every seasoned adventurer has a tale or two about animated armour, ranging from the harrowing to the hilarious, and so it was no great surprise to see a small crowd of iron suits here. Perhaps they were actually mundane, but it was wiser to assume not. I warned the others of what laid ahead and waited for them to join me below: first Lyran, then Armeya, and finally Janos.

A gentle crackling and a soft red glow filled the room, courtesy of our wizard. The light revealed an unusual trait of the armour before us. Typically, they would be left standing with arms at their side, whether they were animated or not, but these ones had all manner of poses. Some leant to the side as if propped up by some invisible wall, others had arms outstretched as if feeling through the darkness, and one was on its hands and knees as if it had fallen. Furthermore, their armour was remarkably bare. No engravings or gilding or liveries to speak of, just sleek, unblemished iron. There was no cohesion in their sizes either. Each suit seemed fashioned for a different wearer. Something felt very wrong.

My warning came too late.

A startled gasp cut through the room. Lyran had grazed a curious hand across a gauntlet and paid the price. Metal swamped over his body in an instant, enveloping him entirely. His shape became clad in armour in the blink of an eye. Lyran's movements became stiff as he tried to move back, falling to the ground with a thunderous clang. Muffled screams echoed from his new casket. Armeya succumbed to the curse next. Her heart snatched the reins of her mind as she darted forward to help Lyran. The moment her hands grasped the picklock's arms, the iron engulfed her too. Through the layers of metal, I swear I could hear her pleading.

"Do not touch them!" Janos shouted, desperately flicking through his spellbook. "I should be able to-" his voice stopped suddenly and was replaced with a shocked whimper.

One of the armours had moved. An ironclad glove had lurched from the crowd and clamped itself around his throat. His spellbook fell to the ground and the gentle red glow vanished. I was plunged into darkness, hearing only the smothered screams of my friends. Then, a dreadful cacophany of scraping plates. Heavy iron footsteps advanced towards me. I span round towards our entry point, hoping to find it amongst the shadows before those things found me. Cold stone walls greeted my hands. I desperately clawed along the wall, as if the bricks would part and grant me reprieve. Terrified wails seeped from behind sealed visors. I could do nothing but flee.

Salvation. The tunnel welcomed me back. I dived into its narrow passageway and began to scramble for the surface like an earthworm in a rainstorm. Behind me, the clanging and scraping of metal continued. I clambered back through the fireplace and to the safety of the library. Books and dried inkwells toppled to the floor as I hauled the table in front of the hearth, and began looking for more furniture to barricade the hole. But then I noticed the scraping had stopped. All at once the suits of armour had fallen calm. I steadied my shaking breaths and slumped to the floor.

Outside, the storm raged on and on for two long weeks. Wind lashed the tower with unmatched ferocity, but not even its relentless bombardment could stifle the howling from below. Alone, tired, and hungry, I listened to my unfortunate friends in the cellar. Their words were indecipherable, but the suppressed screams said enough.

Eventually, they stopped, and the silence they left rang even louder.