Desperation clawed at Myron's chest. There was only one thing left to do.
"O Darkness that fills the air, O Undead that thirst for blood, I call upon you in the name of the Demons! Arise, children of the Shadows!"
He thrust his Obsidian Staff into the ground, summoning forth the monsters that inhabited the Fourth Level of the Black Rock Spire. It was a crude spell compared to his ritual, one that drained his strength severely, and it would take him over a year to recover from the loss of energy.
But what choice did he have? There was no other way.
Why was his luck so damn miserable today? To fall here, to die to this insignificant Knight; it was unthinkable.
He was Myron, the Dark Sorcerer, the one whose name struck fear into kingdoms. To perish here, at the hands of a no-name adventurer, would be a disgrace beyond words. Even in death, even cast into the sacred abyss, his spirit would never find peace.
