by Steve Vera
“From what I’ve seen of Asmodeous the Pale, your necromancer-ness, nobody’s safe. Not even you.”
Are you on crack, Skip? Amanda thought fiercely. She wasn’t the only one. Even Gavin gave him a crazy look. Almitra detached her eyes from Gavin and fixed them on Skip without moving her head, but unlike last time, her head rotated slightly to the right like a dog listening at the door.
“And from what realm do you hail, morsel—” she reached out and grabbed the green dyed Napa leather of his Philadelphia Eagles jacket and rubbed it between long, tapered fingers that ended with nails so narrow and pointy they looked like claws, “—that is in possession of such bizarre garments?”
Somehow, Skip didn’t flinch. “I uh, hail from Rolling Creek, Montana, United States of America.” He gave a quick shrug to his shoulders. “Earth.”
Almitra’s smile started off small but widened. It made her even scarier. She put her face next to Skip’s and sniffed. “Madness,” she breathed, which made him wrinkle his nose. “And yet you speak the truth.” She looked at Dwensolt and then at Gavin. “Tell me your name, Knight of the Shard,” she ordered.
“I am Sur Stavengre Kul Annototh, of the House of Annatoth, Knight of the Shard, First Rune.”
For a long moment there was no reaction to his words and although they were standing in open space, for some reason Amanda felt as if there were bodies pressing in from all directions. And then Almitra began to laugh. Hard. What made it all the more surreal was how human it sounded.
“Of the famed Seven Apprentices!” she said after her outburst. “I know who you are, my sweet. Come, yours is a tale I have yet to hear. Tell it well and mayhap—” Almitra turned around and began walking away, “—I’ll show you mercy. There are few things on this world that I do not know.”
* * *
Almitra led them past twisted corridors and stairwells that seemed to spiral right down into the abyss, past decaying tapestries and closed brooding doors. Pools of stagnant air whirled out of their way like startled dust devils. Gavin noticed that Almitra left no footprints.
He wasn’t quite sure why, but one image kept flashing behind Gavin’s eyes—the lone Captain of the Southern March, serene and noble in the face of death. How many lives was this abomination he was following responsible for destroying? A thousand? A hundred thousand? A million? Almitra had been here since the first memories of Men, and here they were, walking into the very heart of evil.
Almitra represented everything a Knight of the Shard stood against.
The desire to decapitate her evil, graceful head from her shoulders twitched his fingers. Even hatred and fear can serve you, came the voice of his childhood Seneschal. Wield them and let them not wield you, for they are as part of your arsenal as joy and serenity; command them and they will warm you in the coldest dark, wrapped in the cloak of righteousness and honor.
It is good to hate evil.
Almitra spoke a spidery syllable, and a pair of hulking double doors of petrified ironwood swung open on hinges that had not seen oil in an eon. She strode into the room with posture that could have balanced a car on her head.
Gavin locked eyes with Tarsidion. The big man shrugged his eyebrows. If they could actually talk their way through this, convince her that it was in her interest to let them pass, that if she didn’t, all of her prey would be usurped by the Drynn...they just might get out of this alive.
And yet, part of him just wanted to kill her. Avenge the countless she had consumed. How could they not? To leave such monstrous evil unmolested...of course, if they failed and she killed them all, not only would they die horrible deaths but the world would be unwarned about the return of the Drynn and an age of neverending darkness would descend.
It took six thousand years of glittering gold to penetrate his concentration. Roughly the size of a football field, the chamber she led them to was an immense, drunken pentagon gleaming with treasure. In contrast to the perpetual darkness they’d been trekking through for the last eon or so, the glow of so many hoarded possessions was nearly blinding. Laying strewn across the rock-tiled floor, twinkling in electric purple and pale-blue light were warhammers, shortswords, battle-axes and hundreds of artifact-quality weapons scattered through rotting chests and piles of coins.
The longest wall—the back wall—was dominated by a throne made of skulls and bones. It sat up high on a black stone plinth, overlooking the glittering treasure. In front of that throne were six steps, each the length of the plinth leading down to a long, warped, rectangular table large enough to accommodate twenty or so people. Inlaid in the center of the warping wood was a distinct yet fading black orchid. There were no actual chairs around the table, just their skeletons—stone legs and a few petrified splinters of wood and rusted hinges.
“Clearly not a fan of Feng Shui,” Skip said under his breath.
Almitra went from the base of the throne to sitting upon it in the span of a single wink. She rested her porcelain arms on side rests made of femurs as if she’d been waiting for hours. “Forgive my etiquette,” she said in her echoing sarcophagus. “But it has been...long since I have entertained guests.”
Gavin was careful to keep his face achromatic, denying the sense of wonder that seemed ingrained in the DNA of every human being when subjected to so much gold. Impressive as the tens of thousands of glittering gold and platinum coins might be, it was not what garnered the most interest. Gavin’s attention was on the arsenal behind the throne.
Unlike the casual indifference in which the other weapons and coins were strewn across the grand chamber floor, there was a meticulous sense of pride and arrangement in how these masterpieces behind her were arranged. They were the best of their kind, the weapons of legends, relics of renown. All whom had fallen to the Necromancer.
Trophies.
“Oh my God, look at the ceiling,” Amanda gasped.
Gavin tipped his head back and caught his own breath. Staring down at them like a graveyard of gods were a thousand skulls impaled on stalactites fifty feet above them, fleshless and forever screaming.
That’s a bit disheartening, Gavin thought. Directly behind Almitra, bracketing the throne, were two huge double-handed battle-axes, one in the style of the Old Northmen, wicked and battle-notched, crossed against another ax of equal girth, though crafted by a different race from another time. The D’worves, aka Dwarves on Earth. Beyond them and fanned to the sides were elaborate broadswords and elegant longswords angled toward each other in aesthetic harmony, punctuated by the occasional flail or lance. There were even a handful of Elverai bows, each as magnificent as the one beside it. One in particular caught Gavin’s attention, not because of its beauty, though it was a magnificent specimen, but because it was set within the D-shaped space between the string and limbs of another larger bow—a legendary, seven-foot Centaurian monster.
Nobody had seen a Centaur in centuries.
“You have succeeded in intriguing my interest, Magi.” She crossed her legs. It was a very human gesture, feminine even. Out poked a delicate foot clad in a once stylish slipper. “Entertain me with your words.”
Gavin looked at his companions. His brethren had donned their hoods. Skip was coiled, head slightly down, eyes constantly roving. Amanda had sheathed the tanto in favor of the Glock. Every time she breathed a plume of steam came out, and Donovan...he just stared.
“Neesh,” Gavin murmured, and the blade sank into its hilt. Once in repose, he holstered his Quaranai into the scabbard clipped to his hip. He didn’t miss Almitra’s hungry stare. There were no Quaranais on her trophy wall.
“If I tell you of Earth, will you let us pass?” he asked.
Almitra chuckled and for just an instant it was possible to hear what her voice might once have sounded like. She stood. “I will consider it, gallant knight.” She turned and began to evaluate her wall, going so far as to tap her chin
in contemplation. “I would have wagered the heads of all my servants that I would never again get the chance to adorn my wall with a sacred Shardyn Quaranai.” She looked over her shoulder at them. “Or head, for that matter.” He could hear Jack’s voice: How you wanna handle this, Stav?
Almitra reached out and grasped a long, masterfully forged machete-like blade inscribed in a language Gavin could only guess at, examined it and then flung it across the throne room dismissively. It landed with a clinksh, point down, in a pile of gold.
“Speak, Shardyn, you test my patience.” This time she grabbed a massive mace with flanges that were edged in silver and hurled it backward, not bothering to see where it landed. The metal head plowed through coins like an airliner crash-landing in a field. “Tell me of this land of myth and fable. Tell me of Earth and I will consider letting you live.”
* * *
Almitra had a soul. It was different, certainly, than anything Donovan had ever come across before, including Asmodeous and the other undead, but it was there and he could see it.
Unlike the colors of the souls of other sentient beings, which encompassed the entire color spectrum, Almitra’s colors were monochromatic—the same deep-purple, ocher-green that burned in her eyes.
And she was going to kill them all. He didn’t need his Othersight to figure it out either; her malice was like gasoline fumes, unmistakable and permeating. All around them in the darkness were thousands of her children waiting for her permission. He could feel their hunger, see their purple-green spirits lurking beyond.
He had another problem. Donovan had no idea what was being said. He could guess, of course, could read their souls and deduce some of it, but the circumstances unfolding around them were too unique for context to be useful enough. He needed to know precisely. To his frustration, when he’d taken Amanda’s translation ring the Druid had given her and put it on his finger, there had been no change, no sudden epiphany of understanding of their “High Common” or whatever the hell they called it. Annoyed, he’d tossed it back to her and contemplated what it might mean, why Dwensolt’s magic should not work on him when it worked for her and Walkins.
What did it mean? More to the point, what were they saying right now?
There was only one way they were going to walk out of here. Almitra was not going to give them a pass, and if her own supernova of a soul was an indication of her strength, there were about a thousand presences within the walls of this chamber eagerly awaiting her command.
Donovan broke off from the rest of them, who’d assembled around the warped table, and without invitation casually mounted the stairs to Almitra’s throne. She looked down at the others with the imperious expression of a queen about to crush an insect.
“What the hell do you think you are doing—”
“Are you out of your mind—”
“Donovan, you’ll kill us all—”
“Stop—”
“Shut up,” he responded and continued to climb.
“Byel, antast eh niev vool sah-mbat,” it sounded like Almitra said. Legs crossed.
When he reached the top Almitra didn’t even bother to stand, just watched him with raised eyebrows and a bemused smile that he was looking forward to ripping off her face.
“I have something for you,” he said in English. She cocked her head ever so slightly, the imperious smile never leaving her lips. A shimmer in the outer bands of her soul flickered in what he interpreted as lack of understanding. No English in the realm of the dead apparently.
“Tell her what I’m saying, Gavin.”
After a long hesitation, Gavin acceded and translated. Her smile widened.
She responded but it didn’t matter. When he was two feet away from her, Donovan slowly pulled the Mitsutada from the makeshift sash he’d wrapped around his waist and held it out to her. In its scabbard. Two hands.
“Tell her it’s something no entity on this world possesses. A treasure from Earth.”
“Donovan, what are you doing?” Gavin demanded through locked teeth.
“Something you don’t have the balls to do. Tell her.”
“It’s not yours to give.”
“Just fucking tell her, Gavin.”
Almitra watched in interest, went so far as to swivel her throne toward him so that they were now facing each other, her sitting, him standing. She dragged the nail of her forefinger over the skull that comprised the end of the armrest. A dry, scratchy scrape. Gavin translated.
She stood. There was a flitter of light in her large, glassy eyes, a dart of attention to the grips of his pistols poking from their holsters, to the muzzle of his rifle slung across his back. This close he could actually smell her breath, like fish rotting in the sun. He simply stood in front of her, offering the sword.
One slow lick of her lips later, she reached out and closed her fingers around the scabbard of the Japanese Katana. Donovan detonated.
* * *
Only Donovan would actually grab the Lord of the Dead by the throat and try throttling her, but right there in front of Gavin, that was exactly what he did. Not only did Donovan succeed, he did so with authority. Almitra’s eyes flared in true astonishment. That shock changed to rage. She seized his arms and buried her nails into the flesh of his forearms, tried to wrench them away, but Donovan, whose eyes burned like molten lava in a face contorted by intent to kill, squeezed harder. From shock to rage to alarm, Almitra opened her mouth to scream but all that emerged was a dry, strangled rasp.
“I figured you fuckers out,” Donovan said, lifting her head up off the polished stone plinth and then ramming down, throttling tighter and repeating. Almitra’s black-robed body disintegrated into black smoke and for a moment Donovan was strangling a cloud, but it didn’t dissipate. In seconds it re-solidified back into a thrashing Necromancer.
Gavin and the others went back to back in expectation of the hordes of ghastly minions that most surely would rush to their mistress’s aid, but nothing came. Only the sound of a gurgling rasp breaching the stale air. Almitra grabbed his choking arms again, clawed at the flesh, tore furrows into it, but Donovan’s cheerless smile just broadened. His arm was turning blue. Veins began to pop out and crystallize but still he grinned, kept ramming her head against the stone, shuddering at each impact, licking his teeth. Her body seemed to shrink in on itself, stretched, pulled and then burst into purple flames the color of a black light, writhed around him like an angry solar flare. But to no avail. Now he was straddling her, choking, squeezing, ramming. Almitra arched her spine, released her grip on his arms and thrust her blistering and blackening fingers into his stomach and sides, penetrating his flesh to her knuckles. Donovan screamed. It was like the sudden hiss of steam out of an overheating boiler room. Strangled, gagging, Almitra nonetheless managed to smile and dig in deeper, twisting her fingers.
“How long are you dumb fucks going to just stand there?” he roared.
Almitra arched her back high enough to flip over, but Donovan rode her, clung to her like liquid napalm on a bucking bronco and landed right back on top of her, squeezing even harder.
That broke the spell. All four Shardyn blurred up the steps and as one, four burning blades sunk into her thrashing body, three in the chest and one—Noah’s—right through the middle of her face. Almitra tried to scream but not even a whistle emerged.
“I win, you lose,” Donovan snarled.
Like the senators who’d fallen on Caesar, each of the Shardyn wrenched their blades free and stabbed again and again into her flailing body.
When finally the Necromancer stopped struggling, thirty stabs later, she shuddered, glared at them with fading incredulous fury and then...exploded.
The shockwave would have killed anybody but their cocoons whipped up around them before it could inflict any damage, though their bodies were still catapulted back. As for Donovan.
..it was nothing more than a breeze through his hair. When the shockwave was gone and her body was dust, he rolled onto his back and looked up at Gavin. “I always win.”
Chapter 26
“Are you dead?” Walkins asked.
The flesh to Donovan’s forearms was shredded, furrowed so deeply that it was possible to see through the layers of fatty tissue and muscle and catch a glimpse of his ulna. Some of the flesh had begun to...crystallize.
“Do I look dead?” Donovan growled. He was in no mood for Walkins’s stupidity.
“I’d say you look mostly dead. Of course around here you might be undead, which wouldn’t be good, or all the way dead—which might be good, for us at least...geez, that’s gotta hurt.”
Not only was the pain in Donovan’s arms significant, he also had ten circles of liquid fire—five on each side—searing through his nervous system. The bitch had impaled him with her fingers and it hurt worse than gunshots. “Fuck off,” he grunted.
Skip was unfazed. “I don’t know whether to cheer for you, man, or shake my head at you. That was by far the single most damnedest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”
Elbows tucked to his sides, Donovan slid his knees beneath him and pulled himself to a kneel. The movement cost him and blood poured out of the finger holes, pooling around his knees.
“Whoa, Donovan, you’re bleeding out. Lay back down.” Walkins put both of his hands on Donovan’s shoulders, a gesture that normally would have resulted in catastrophic damage to the police chief, but today...was an exception. “We gotta get pressure on those—Gavin! We need a blanket or something and water, or better yet, some of that purple stuff Dwensolt has in that belt of his, c’mon!”