Sovereign (The Gods' Game, Volume IV)

by Vider, Rohan M.

  “A strange ringing?” asked Mirien, with a concerned frown. “I heard nothing of the sort.”

  “None of us did,” said Gaesin.

  “What could it have been?” asked Adra.

  “I don’t know,” Kyran replied. He brushed off snowflakes from his armour while he thought. “It wasn’t like anything I’ve felt before. It was almost as if I was the one vibrating.”

  Mirien tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her scepticism. “Are you sure? You certain you didn’t imagine it?”

  “I felt it too,” said Aiken. “Kyran’s spirit quivered in time to another’s.”

  The bear’s confirmation banished the others’ reservations. “Sorry,” Mirien said, looking contrite.

  He waved aside her apology. “Don’t worry about it. I would have been sceptical too.”

  “Could it have been the necromancers?” wondered Gaesin. “Or their wards?”

  Kyran shrugged. “I don’t see how, but perhaps.”

  Adra scratched her chin. “Are the chimes dangerous? And what do we do now?” She met Kyran’s gaze. “Do we still search out the necromancers?”

  Kyran bowed his head. “Yes,” he said finally. “We keep going until we find signs of the necromancers and the slain ivoranors—or the chiming returns.”

  ✽✽✽

  Hours later, the party was huddled within another ruined building while they studied the squads of passing ghouls.

  “I think we can say for certain now that we know their patrol patterns,” Mirien said.

  Kyran nodded in agreement. The party had long ago established the undeads’ routine. Despite that, Kyran had insisted on observing the creatures further before proceeding onwards. He was concerned less about the undead changing their behaviour than he was about the strange ringing reappearing.

  But as the hours passed and the vibrations did not reoccur, he relaxed. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s time to move on.”

  Adra grunted. “We can’t slip the entire party through those patrols,” she said.

  Kyran nodded again. By their estimate, there were at least a hundred patrolling ghouls—too many for the party to take out quietly. If they tried to fight their way through, it would surely bring down reinforcements down upon them, and Kyran was not willing to risk that, at least not until he had a better idea of what those reinforcements were.

  “I will slip through in worg-form,” he said. Before the others could protest, he added, “Whoever scouts ahead, needs to be ready to flee on a moment’s notice. We don’t know what the necromancers are capable of, and while Mirien is better suited to do that, she can’t communicate with the rest of us through the battlegroup. With teleport, and worg-form, I’m the next most qualified.”

  None of his companions looked happy, but after thinking through the matter themselves, they withheld their objections. “Be careful, Kyran,” said Adra eventually.

  “I will,” he replied. “I won’t do more than scout out the area beyond,” he assured her.

  Kyran dropped into a crouch, then shifted. Stepping into the mindscape, he recreated his physical-form and emerged as a worg.

  Kyran has shifted into a jade worg.

  Active magical spells have dissipated.

  Kyran didn’t transform into a normal worg, but instead into its jade variant. It was the first time he had assumed the shape of a jade worg, and he inspected himself carefully.

  The distinctive, rippling black fur of a worg was gone, replaced instead by the armoured jade coat of one of Aiken’s clan. He felt squatter, less sleek, but that was only his imagination. The jade skin had not changed his worg-form’s shape, though undoubtedly his present form was heavier, weighed down by its stone skin.

  Kyran reasoned that given the startling whiteness of the surroundings, the worg’s night camouflage served little purpose. Safer to be better armoured.

  Across the mind-link, he tasted Aiken’s amusement. “You look like a cub, brother. If a small one.”

  Kyran chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Drawing on his will again, he buffed himself.

  Kyran has activated mind-over-matter (+44 strength, dexterity, and constitution).

  Kyran has cast boost speed (+44% speed, duration: 44 minutes).

  Even though both psi abilities were only novice-ranked, they boosted his body traits appreciably, and were long-lasting. Pleased, he inspected the changes to himself.

  Name: Kyran Seversan. Race: Jade worg (elf).

  Combat level: 30. Civilian level: 32. Health: 721*.

  Stamina: 1040*. Will: 1020. Essence: 1200.

  Attack: 67* (piercing), 61 (psi wave).

  Defences: Physical* (48), psi (32), spell (32).

  * Denotes values modified by active spells.

  Beastform traits:

  Blocked-pathways: Cannot cast spells from any school of magic.

  Hidden form: Your true form is concealed from others.

  Inherited traits from jade worg-form:

  Jade armour: +1 armour per player level.

  Diseased bite: May infect the bitten foe with a rabid disease.

  Rending bite: Physical attack that inflicts wounds and bleeding damage.

  Night hunters: Unimpaired night vision.

  With an open-mouthed doggy smile to the others, Kyran whirled around and dashed outside.

  ✽✽✽

  Boosted, and in worg-form, slipping past the patrols was almost laughably easy. It took Kyran little less than a minute to pass unseen beyond the ghouls’ sight. Inside the cordon, nothing stirred. Visibility was poor, though, with the driving snow blanketing everything in white.

  Kyran raised his snout and sniffed in deeply. Following the familiar scent on the breeze, he swung north towards the Ivory Tower.

  Humans lay that way.

  Mingled with the man-scent was the smell of blood, death, and pain. Kyran wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I found the necromancers’ trail. And the ivoranors, too. I’m heading closer.”

  Padding silently forward, Kyran slipped deeper into the city. For the next few minutes he encountered no one, neither undead nor living. It seemed the necromancers had spread their ghoul cordon quite wide. I wonder why.

  Finally, once he was almost at the very centre of the city, and a stone’s throw away from the Tower, the wind carried the muted tones of a conversation to him. He stopped and dropped to all fours.

  Straining his sight, he pierced the snow-filled whiteness and picked out a weak glint of a flame. Approaching closer, he saw that the flickering light was concealed beyond a flapping piece of leather stretched across a darkened doorway. The necromancers had taken shelter inside. “I’ve found the death mages.”

  With his senses extended for any hint of a threat, he inched forward again. The voices grew louder, but remained too faint to understand. He realised the building had to be muffling the sounds from within.

  He continued his cautious approach. When he was almost up against the building’s walls, a Game message unfurled in his mind.

  You have entered a shielded area. This location is protected by a rank IV death ward. No undead may enter this area until the ward has been destroyed.

  Kyran froze. There was no reaction from those inside. Still, he waited a full minute before relaxing. It seemed no detection spells had been woven into the ward.

  He scanned through the Game message again and his nose wrinkled in confusion. Why would necromancers shield their own camp against undead? Weren’t the undead shackled to their will?

  His eyes roved over the building. It was a squat, single-storey structure and mostly whole. That explained why the necromancers had chosen it for their camp. The roof and four walls were largely intact except for a few gaping holes, all of which had been patched over with pieces of leather.

  The covering over the door and two of the windows had come loose and now flapped idly in the breeze.

  He had a way in.

  But he hesitated. Should I go in? He was sure he h
ad located the necromancers, but he still knew nothing of their numbers or purpose here. And until he did, he would not act.

  Based on the Mare’s sendings, he was inclined to believe what the death mages were doing was wrong—he would even go so far as to describe it as evil—but he would not act rashly or make false assumptions. Experience had taught him better.

  Another muted sound carried to him. He paused, listening intently. The sound came again. It was a despairing moan of pain, he realised after a second. Someone was being tortured. He needed a closer look.

  Standing up on his haunches, he put his front paws on the nearest windowsill and poked his head through the leather flap. When he saw the way remained clear, he sprung off his hindlegs and slipped inside.

  Chapter 6

  01 Novo 2603 AB

  The famed watchtower of Celne, the Ivory Tower, was built by elven druids from Aldanna and has stood watch over the southern Elder Forest for centuries. The tower walls, constructed from ivoranor bones and orichalcum, was said to rival that of even Durn Duruhl’s mighty gates. Indeed, during the cleansing of Celne, despite bearing the brunt of the city’s magical bombardment, half the Tower survived nearly unscathed. —Rosalyn Teramis, cartographer.

  Kyran dropped silently into a darkened room. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, he studied his surroundings. The inside of the building was a single large, wreckage-strewn chamber, with a sunken rectangular area in its centre. A bathhouse, he realised.

  Inside the drained pool, thirteen black-robed forms were huddled around a roaring fire. Besides the campfire, the rest of the room was unlit. That suited Kyran just fine. His entrance had gone unnoticed.

  Edging closer to the rim of the sunken bath, Kyran dropped to his belly while he tried to make sense of what was going on. On a stone plinth next to the campfire was a stone tablet. The tablet appeared so ordinary that if not for the faint ley lines radiating out of the stone in the ether, it would have escaped his notice entirely. Curious, he cast insight on the object.

  Found: Wardstone.

  Type: Enchanted item. Rank: Adept. Requirements: Adept death magic.

  Remaining charge: 3021 / 3200 essence.

  Special properties: Creates a death ward in a forty-metre radius around itself.

  Description: While the wardstone is charged and active, it will maintain a death ward over the nearby vicinity

  So, he had found the source of the death ward. But he still didn’t know why the necromancers needed one. He turned his attention to the rest of the room.

  Off to one side of the emptied pool, densely flowing lines of magical runes had been carved into the floor. Arranged in a circular pattern, the glowing inscriptions surrounded a blood-streaked creature—the source of the cries that had carried to him.

  Another two black-clad figures stood on the edge of the scribed circle. Reaching out with his will, he probed the first with insight.

  Name: Sivero. Race: Human.

  Level: 41. Health: 380.

  Stamina: 500. Will: 560. Essence: 720.

  Attack: 52 (death).

  Defences: Physical (41), psi (41), spell (61).

  Class: Necromancer (journeyman).

  Traits and abilities:

  Unholy binding: Can bind spirits in service to the caster (bound spirits = 0).

  Raise dead: Can compel the dead to serve the caster.

  Pain aura: Strength of the caster’s death magic is boosted by the suffering of those nearby.

  Vulnerable against the divine: +50% holy damage received.

  Description:

  Across Myelad, necromancers—deservedly—have a dark reputation. They are death mages who specialise in the murkier aspects of death magic. While death magic in itself has no inherent affiliation with either good or evil, death magic as practised by necromancers thrives on the pain and suffering of its victims.

  As Kyran watched, Sivero raised the gleaming wand in his hand and flicked it in the direction of the captive.

  Sivero’s deathfire has hit a stag for 40 damage. Remaining: 60 / 160 HP.

  The mage’s deathfire drew a line of red down the bound stag’s torso, adding to the many other cuts already marring the creature’s coat. At its tormentor’s latest attack, the stag jerked its head erect and moaned pitifully before sagging back within its bounds.

  Kyran bit back a snarl at the animal’s anguished cry. The stag had clearly been tortured for some time. And from the encrusted blood soaking the floor, it had not been the only creature tortured here.

  The magical inscriptions flared briefly before dimming again, causing the second figure at the circle’s edge to sigh dramatically. “It’s not enough, Sivero. Not nearly enough.”

  Beneath his cowled hood, Kyran saw the first figure grimace. “Let’s try that again, then.” Raising his wand, he struck at the stag once more.

  Sivero’s deathfire has hit a stag for 38 damage. Remaining: 22 / 160 HP. A stag has sustained a moderate wound.

  Only by iron will did Kyran prevent himself from dashing forward and ripping open the necromancer’s throat. The gratuitous infliction of pain revolted him, but there were too many mages below for him to confront.

  The stag crumpled to the floor and its sides heaved desperately while it gasped for breath. The creature was bleeding out and didn’t have much time left.

  “Still not enough,” said the second figure as he peered intently at the runes which had momentarily flared to life again.

  Sivero stared down at the twitching animal and frowned. “Luteria, come here!” he called over his shoulder. “We need you to heal it again.”

  One of the seated figures raised her head. “Why are you two still bothering with that, Sivero? It will never work, you know.”

  “Stop questioning me, you fool woman,” Sivero snapped. He didn’t bother looking around. “Do as you are told!”

  Luteria’s own face shifted in annoyance, and she looked ready to snap back at Sivero, but a low-voiced whisper from another figure to her right stopped her.

  Kyran’s worg ears twitched forward, his acute hearing picking up the whispered comment. “Shh, don’t antagonise him. Otherwise he will tell Sula.”

  “I don’t know why Sula left him in charge in the first place,” Luteria grumbled, but in a voice just as quiet as her companion.

  Her friend’s look turned wry. “He is the journeyman, remember? While the rest of us are only lowly apprentices.”

  Luteria made unhappy noises, but didn’t respond to her companion. Clearing her face of expression, she rose to her feet. “Coming,” she called to Sivero.

  Kyran felt his face scrunch up in thought. He still was not sure what the necromancers were up to, but it was clear they were performing some sort of experiment on the stag. And from the smell of the blood coating the floor, they had done the same to the ivoranors before.

  His gaze swung to the stag. How many times had the poor creature been healed and restored already? And for how long will the necromancers keep torturing it? His heart twisted. He could not save the stag, but perhaps he could spare it further pain.

  Dipping his consciousness into the mindscape, he weaved together a roiling ball of psi and launched it towards the stag. “I’m sorry, fellow,” he whispered in farewell as the psi projectile tore through the weakened animal’s mind.

  Kyran’s mind shock has hit stag for 40 damage. A stag has died.

  The stag heaved a last sigh then fell still. “Damnit,” Sivero muttered as he saw the life drain out from his captive. No hint of suspicion coloured the death mage’s voice as to the true cause of the creature’s death.

  Kyran heaved his own sigh of relief. He had taken a small risk in launching the mind shock, but with none of the necromancers being players, or seeming to have any psionic abilities, he had counted on the mental attack in the mindscape being undetected.

  “It’s dead?” asked Luteria, coming up from behind Sivero.

  “Thanks to you,” groused Sivero. “Could you have move
d any slower?”

  Luteria opened her mouth, then seeming to think better of what she was about to say, closed it again and walked back to the campfire without comment. As she did, Kyran caught sight of a scarlet scythe symbol stitched on the back of her robes. Running his gaze over the other necromancers, he saw they all bore the same symbol.

  “Curious,” said Sivero’s companion as he knelt down to inspect the stag’s corpse. “I would have thought it would have lasted longer.”

  “Bah, useless creatures,” said Sivero, kicking the body in frustration. “We need more of the ivoranors. At least they endured better.”

  The kneeling figure looked up. “You still haven’t found the ones who ambushed your ghouls?”

  “No,” replied Sivero. “But when I do, I promise you, Fuvio, they will pay.” He barked a laugh. “Perhaps we will even give them a turn in the pain ring.”

  Fuvio smiled as he rose to his feet. “They, at least, we should be able to turn into wraiths.” He glanced sidelong at the other necromancers seated around the campfire. Lowering his voice, he continued, “You don’t think these experiments of yours will actually work, do you?”

  Sivero laughed again. “No, I don’t. But what else is there to do while we wait for Sula? At least this way we get to entertain ourselves.”

  “That we do,” said Fuvio with a chuckle. The two began walking back to the campfire. “When do you think she will return?”

  “Not for another week at least,” said Sivero. “She is determined to shackle every last wraith from the Tower.”

  “I wish I could do that,” replied Fuvio, his voice tinged with envy. “Imagine the power she will gather.”

  Sivero laughed, with genuine humour this time. “That’s why she’s the master and we’re the lowly students, my friend. But never fear; one day we’ll get our chance too.”

  “I look forward to it,” said Fuvio with a sigh. The two fell quiet as they rejoined their companions at the campfire.