A chill wind blows through the jungle, a thick mist driven forth upon it. The Black Phantasms ride through it, unflinching as always. The enemy tower is in sight. They shall put an end to this heretical weather.
Suddenly arrows whistle out from the darkness. Dark riders fall from their saddles, a pained grunt escaping their normally silent lips. More arrows rain down- only to be blown aside by a sudden gust. One of the riders throws off his cloak, revealing himself to be non other than al-Mutriqa, his bright robes and glittering scale lighting up the night. Like a loyal hound, lightning is at his beck and call, raining down around -but never on- the Black Phantasms. The Arstotzkan archers who are fortunate enough not to be hit by the bolts of plasma are unfortunately illuminated by them, allowing the sinister horsemen to charge into the underbrush and cut them down with their wicked scimitars.
The battle is decisively in the Phantasms's favour when a new source of light appears- a stream of fireballs cuts through the night, blowing up trees, rocks, and occasionally a horse and its rider. al-Mutriqa turns towards the source, and spots the by-now familiar face of his rival lurking amongst the foliage.
"Coward! Lurk no more in the darkness, my friend, for the light is here to bring you salvation!"
Myark rolls his eyes at this predictable spiel, but emerges nonetheless. The Phantasms are busy fighting archers and other Arstotzkan soldiers, leaving the two wizards to once again fight alone. They size each other up; Myark in his humble garb, al-Mutriqa in his opulent robes. al-Mutriqa seems to have a new piece of equipment; an ivory staff, covered in fine engravings. Myark regards it suspiciously, but has no time to make a comment before al-Mutriqa charges forth, golden mace raised high.
He quickly conjures a wall of flame between them, bringing al-Mutriqa to a halt just before the eldritch flames.
"Are you so desperate to avoid redemption, brother? Is it not written, 'Fear not the righteous man, for his embrace brings you closer to me.'?"
It may well be written in Moskurg's heathen texts, but it matters little to Myark, who starts summoning a massive fireball to finally end the annoyance that is his rival. He pours ever more power into the spell, until the flickering orb is almost a meter wide. al-Mutriqa, meanwhile, makes no efforts to flee.
"Now it ends", the grizzled mage whispers.
"Now it ends", al-Mutriqa replies, and raises his staff.
Myark prepares to launch the fireball and incinerate his rival, but moments before he does al-Mutriqa finishes muttering under his breath with a shouted "TUBIKH RRAHIM"
With that, the fireball disappears, along with the firewall, the mists, and the unnatural chill. Myark stares at the space between his hands where a fireball once sat, dazed, almost too late to notice the oncoming al-Mutriqa. Just in time he raises his sword to block the downwards swing of the shining mace. The weapons bounce off each other with a clang. Myark staggers under the force of the blow, but maintains his footing. al-Mutriqa is already winding up another swing, and he prepares to summon a crystal axe- remembering just in time how fruitless that would be, and raises his mundane weapon to block the blow instead. Another clang, and once again Myark shudders as the force of the impact runs up his arm.
"Heed my words, man of the north! Only from god comes salvation forth!"
Myark grits his teeth. al-Mutriqa is annoying enough
before he starts reciting battle-poetry. He must end this soon, before the incessant chanting drives him insane.
He dodges the next blow, then lunges forth with his own weapon. al-Mutriqa knocks it away, dancing backwards. Myark presses the attack, but is blocked time and time again.
For what seems like hours (but is more realistically five-ten minutes) the two duel, locked in an eternal struggle where neither has the advantage.
Then Myark stumbles- just for a moment, but a moment is all al-Mutriqa needs. He swings wildly- and has his blow knocked away effortlessly, for it was naught but a feint on Myark's part. The spartan spellcaster strikes whilst his opponent is (for real) off balance, striking them in the chest with the pommel of his sword. al-Mutriqa gasps, winded, and Myark wastes no time in laying into him, blow after blow raining down upon the majestic mage. Several make contact, severing the scale covering al-Mutriqa's body, until he is bleeding profusely. A particularly savage blow sends the mace spinning out of al-Mutriqa's grasp, and the wizard falls backwards into the mud.
Myark stands over his prone rival, sword aimed at his neck.
"Any last words?"
"Qad 'illah yurhim ealaykum
*", replies al-Mutriqa.
"Heathen nonsense", snarls Myark, and raises his sword for the finishing blow.
...and then spins around to instead block the strike of one of the Black Phantasms, whose scimitar deflects harmlessly. A second rider appears, then a third, and soon Myark is forced to retreat, as the horsemen surround their leader protectively. He spits one last insult at the bleeding wizard, then backs off into the jungle, returning to his tower.