“I’ve told you, boy, they didn’t tell me a damn thing. But, I was so smitten with your Mum that it didn’t matter. Love is strange that way, I suppose.”
Ryris smiled as the old man spoke of love—and his life with his mother before he came along. It was in rare times like this, when Maxx was relaxed and loose-lipped, that it was hard to imagine him as the hard-nosed bull he really was. He hoped what he was about to reveal to his dad would interest him.
“Well…I have information now.”
Maxx kept working, using a small pipette to fill vials, never looking up to his son.
“The man my amulet was made for was the highest-ranking battlemage in Kaia’s army. He enchanted her sword.” Ryris lit a burner underneath a crucible. “Guess what his name was.”
“Maxxald.”
“Come on, Dad. Be serious.”
“It’s an old, honorable name!”
Ryris sighed and poured base fluid into the rapidly-warming bowl. “It was Ryris...”
Maxx set his pipette down, and laid his hands on the worktable. “That wily old bat…”
Ryris looked to his father with confusion.
“Your Gran. She chose your name. Said we didn’t have a say in the matter. I would have smacked her for being so forward, but there was something in your mother’s eyes that melted me—and I agreed. She put that amulet around your neck the minute you were born. Looks like she knew something we didn’t, eh?”
“Destiny isn’t just some cliché—it’s real.”
Maxx stared at the flame under the crucible. Ryris knew Maxx to be a man of few words, so when he was quiet like this, he knew better than to interrupt his train of thought and just let him continue at his own pace.
“I know you think I was always trying to keep your Gran from filling your head with all her gobbledygook. Truth is, I knew deep down there was something about your ma’s family that was bigger than just some story. I…was selfish—and afraid. Afraid that if I let you get too enthralled by her stories, that you’d forget all about me and want to run off to who-knows-where and try and prove what she said was true. That’s why I tried my damndest to teach you the craft…” Maxx covertly rubbed moisture from his eye. “… to make you see that alchemy was the way—not those tall tales.”
Hearing his father speak so candidly made Ryris proud of him. He knew it had to have been hard to admit it all—to himself and his son. “I’m still an alchemist, Dad. I would have been one regardless of the history she taught me. I wouldn’t want to be anything else, it’s in my blood.”
“But so is destiny, it would seem.” Maxx grabbed his son’s arm, squeezing firmly. “I’m sorry I kept you from learning about family. I suppose your mother would be awful ashamed of me right now.”
“Don’t say that. You raised me, taught me everything I know. You’ve ensured that I had a happy life, a good head on my shoulders, and the know-how to make a name for myself outside our gates. I couldn’t have done anything I’ve accomplished in my life without you.”
“And now you’re off to save the world…”
Ryris realized how absurd it sounded coming from someone other than his companions. “You could say that, I guess.”
“You’ll do the family name proud. And not just ‘Bren’, either.” Maxx’ hand lingered on Ryris’ arm for a second more before his demeanor changed back and he pursed his lips. “Now back to work. If I’ve only got you for a day, I’m damn well going to work you to the bone.”
~~~
The house was quiet, Maxx dozing in a chair beside the fire after a satisfying dinner. Kaia and Jaric had been dragged off by Grildi on a tour of the village, leaving Ryris alone—and bored.
He knew he could have gone with the trio on their walkabout, but truth be told, he really didn’t want to mingle with the townsfolk. Answering questions about the business in Keld seemed so futile at this point, and he didn’t feel like feigning interest when his mind was occupied with much more important matters. He needed a distraction. Looking around the empty house, he decided there was only one thing he could do.
A little alchemy.
Grabbing his personal alchemist’s satchel filled with various ingredients procured on his adventure, he quietly made his way into the shop, mindful not to wake Maxx. Back in the familiar confines of his father’s store, he got to work. Yes, he had spent most of the day working with Maxx, but that was business. What he had in mind was for fun.
He dug into his knapsack and retrieved the rare dragon’s talon seed pods. Ryris wasted no time in cutting through the leathery skin of the pods with shears. He dumped the kernels out onto the workbench and sorted through them, picking out the withered or discolored pieces. Knowing he had to work quickly to ensure the room air wouldn’t spoil the seeds, he began to concoct his deadly poison. It was a recipe he knew by heart, even though the ingredients were rare. Maxx had always told him he needed to commit one poison recipe to memory, just in case he ever needed to whip one up in a hurry. Ryris had always laughed at the prospect of having to concoct something so lethal on the fly, and purposely mesmerized an obscure reference. But now as he stood there making the very poison he had locked away in his mind, he had to marvel at his father’s wisdom.
Gathering the other components of the poison, he cooked with dazzling efficiency, preparing the tincture in record time. As it cooled on the countertop, he readied a small vial and label. Marking it “DRAGON TALON POISON” in large, bold letters, it would ensure that no one would accidently imbibe the deadly mixture.
His father snored loudly in the other room.
~~~
That night, Ryris slept sounder than he had in months. Snuggled in his childhood bed, under his old, warm blanket, he cuddled the bear Grildi had brought back for him that evening. Professing he had indeed kept him safe, the town guard gave the toy one last hug before relinquishing him back to his previous owner.
And, even if it was just for one night, Ryris ceased to be destiny’s apprentice—and enjoyed being a simple alchemist from Blackthorne.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Do not fear the dead, for they are the catalyst of a new beginning.
--Necromancer’s mantra, origin unknown.
Roann soared high over the once-proud nation of Ashal.
Having left the searing heat of the volcanic lair for the last time, he swooped in and amongst the clouds. He clutched a wooden box close to his scaled breast, his long claws careful not to let the precious cargo tumble to the earth below. Contained within was the last piece of the puzzle—the final ‘ingredient’ to make Lyrax whole again.
Diving down toward the ruined cathedral of the dead king, he landed on the crumbling steeple, half the size of its former glory. The statue of the goddess that once adorned it had long since crashed to the ground, taking the bulk of the spire with it. He dove through the hole in the roof, landing gracefully on the marble floor below. Setting the crate down in front of the altar, he quickly regained his human form before approaching the holy table.
Roann hadn’t been in contact with Lyrax for days. The font had gone dark for the last time, instructions having been given.
…“The king’s shrine to his whore goddess will be of greatest use. Taint that which is holy to one man—and make it holy to another...”
Roann had questioned his master—albeit carefully—about his plan to use a religious relic. He didn’t believe in its power, nor did Lyrax. So what was the point?
“It is not the inherent believed power of such a piece we seek—we know that to be fraudulent. The witching stone adorning it…it is the power of the gem that will herald my rebirth. We shall poison the font—an ultimate insult to the bastard king and his false goddess—and use it for ourselves.”…
He was to wait until this day—when the moon would be new—to start the ceremony. Their combined fates were riding on everything going smoothly. And now, circling the altar in front of him, the emperor knew destiny was close at hand.
Lyrax’ bones
lay on a silken sheet, exposed to the dry air of the chapel. They were blackened and burnt, centuries of baking heat and splashing lava rendering them nearly destroyed. Staring at the skeleton, Roann’s gaze lingered on the haunting skull, the eye sockets devoid of any life. He knew that soon they would once again harbor the ability to see. Lyrax’ limbs would move, his heart would beat. Breaths would fill his lungs and give him a proper voice. The blade Roann had retrieved from the necromancer’s coven lay beside the skull, ready for use. A human heart sat in a bowl, still warm from that morning’s procurement. Roann rearranged the pilfered alchemical ingredients: solutions shimmering in their bottles, small pouches of various dusts protected from any breezes that might blow through the forgotten church.
The disciple looked up to the heavens, taking note that the sun was beginning to set. Knowing he needed to work quickly, but efficiently, Roann lit the candles surrounding the altar with a wisp of his mind. Carefully cupping the heart in his hands, he reverently laid it within the charred ribcage before him. His hands sticky with coagulated blood, he made sure it was precisely placed before moving on. He took a moment to clean his palms on a linen handkerchief, knowing he mustn’t sully his next step in any way.
The ornate wooden box sat at the young emperor’s feet, waiting to be utilized. It contained the final piece of what would become Lyrax’ new body, and it had been obtained through messy means.
Perched in the trees, the leaves obscuring his scaled form, Roann had waited, peering down at the man hunched in the underbrush, aiming his bow at an unsuspecting doe. Just as the hunter waited for the perfect moment to strike, so did the beast.
Before the man could take his shot, the winged creature was on him like lightning, pinning him to the ground. The woodsman struggled, his bones shattering under the monster’s feet. He screamed in agony, writhing as his captor readied the death blow. Hesitating for just a moment, it seemed to the man that his attacker may have had a change of heart, for it suddenly released the vise-like hold on his body and retreated, disappearing into the darkness of the surrounding woods. Lying helpless on the forest floor, the hunter prayed the beast had changed its mind. How he would get home with broken limbs, he didn’t know, but he was sure a villager would find him in the morning—if he survived that long. He could smell his own blood soaking into the ground; feel the chill of death creeping up on him. Turning his head while searing pain coursed down his spine, he tried to locate the being that had attacked him. Unable to see clearly in the dark, he tentatively breathed a sigh of relief, believing the monster to be gone.
After a long moment, he saw a figure approaching—that of a man. Relieved to the point of tears, the hunter called out to the mysterious person for help. When he received no response, he called out again—but was met only with the sound of foliage crunching under boots. Squinting in the darkness, the man saw long blonde hair cascading over the person’s shoulders.
“Please help me!”
The person came to his side, kneeling on the cold ground. The hunter was taken by surprise as he realized he was in the presence of his emperor. Blood loss clouding his ability to think rationally, he never once questioned what the sovereign was doing so far away from Keld.
“Your Grace…I’ve been attacked…”
“Yes, I know.”
“You…know?”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be over soon.” Roann’s voice was soothing and calm. He brushed his hand over the top of the hunter’s head.
“Over…soo—?”
A knife pierced the man’s heart, ending his life within seconds. Roann wasn’t concerned with the woodsman knowing his identity; there was no one around for him to tell. Truth was, he always found pleasure in revealing himself to his victims right at life’s end, so they had just enough time to process their fate at the hands of someone they revered. He also had a practical reason this time—his task was not easily accomplished with the hands of a beast. No, what he needed to do required dexterity and steady fingers, something only human hands were capable of.
Setting a wooden box down on the grass beside him, he drew his blade and cut through the man’s clothing, removing them to be burned along with the remains after he finished.
Now, that very box in his hands, Roann opened it, revealing the thin, peach skin of his victim. Carefully removed from his body, the pieces brought forth had no rips, no blemishes; save for the small puncture wound that ended the hunter’s life. Divided into several flaps, it wasn’t enough to completely cover Lyrax’ bones—the huntsman had been more difficult to skin than originally thought—but it would complete the ceremony nonetheless. Roann took his time positioning the flesh atop the charred remains before him, draping it over the skeleton like bed sheets. When he was finished, he took a step back and marveled at what lay on the altar. Soon it would be so much more than old bones and stolen skin.
With the days’ light almost completely gone, he continued to work. With no moon present, encroaching darkness was fast taking hold. Gathering the alchemical ingredients in a small basket, he approached the shrine, Oleana’s feminine form still beautiful even after centuries of neglect. The jewel embedded in her stone tiara shimmered, the inclusions within beginning to react to the arrival of the new moon. Soon they would shine brightly, giving the goddess a haunting crown. He took a moment to push the tilting statue back completely upright, ensuring none of the precious solution he was about to concoct would spill over the sides of the bowl.
His measurements were precise, each ingredient commanded by Lyrax himself. Most were common, found in any alchemy shop in the empire. Roann snickered as he poured in dusts, oils, and pastes, amused by the fact these everyday items could be used in something so out-of-the-ordinary. Nothing seemed amiss, and it would look to anyone gazing in from afar that the young man was simply creating a potion for something as simple as insomnia—not necromancy.
But it wouldn’t be until he added the final ingredient that the tincture would show its true nature. He removed a beaker, filled with black, sludgy liquid. He grimaced as he remembered how he came to have it in his possession. Changed into his beast form, Lyrax had instructed him to pierce his own flesh, allowing his life blood to trickle into the font within the volcano. As soon as it had come in contact with the sinister vessel, it smoked, changing from deep red to jet black—boiling until it resembled sooty syrup. The blood loss had been significant, but Roann was honored to become part of his master.
Now, standing in front of a statue of a goddess he did not believe in, Roann was moments away from changing the course of history. The emperor looked up through the hole in the cathedral roof, the heavens dotted with hundreds of stars. The dark, moonless night had finally arrived. He turned around to once again face Lyrax’ body. Spreading his arms wide, he chanted the mantras his master had instructed him to commit to memory, the words foreign to him. The gem in Oleana’s crown flared with incredible brilliance as the incantation continued. A veil of snow white fog enveloped the statue and the young man at the altar, as the witching stone fought to keep peace. Once finished chanting, he laid out a series of talismans and scrolls around the body. The lettering on the parchment immediately began to glow, the paper charms fluttering on the stone bier.
Knowing the next step needed to be completed in a timely manner, Roann turned and poured his blackened blood into the bowl. It swirled within the mixture. The ground trembled as the potion bubbled, and Roann found himself needing to grasp the statue in order to remain standing. The gem flared once again, a small crack racing down one of the facets. The mist surrounding Roann turned ice-cold as it ebbed and flowed, taking on a red hue. He hoped it meant the stone was losing the battle to purify the tainted tincture. The freezing fog assaulted him, blasting against his face with frightening intensity. The color of the mist kept changing as it fought with the sinister aura quickly overtaking the chapel. From red to white and back again, it held on. The mist tried to seep into his nostrils, icy knives of wind pricking his skin and
making his hair stand on end. He would not allow it to win, however, and stood his ground. Hands tightly gripping the smooth marble goddess, he rode out the bitter-cold storm. The quaking continued, threatening to spill the mixture from the bowl before him. Finally, the witching stone shattered, sending glittering shards in all directions. Roann had only a split-second to shield his eyes from the crystalline shrapnel. The red fog coalesced into a roiling mass and hovered over the font before plunging in and mixing with the liquid. It churned on its own, producing a thin film on the surface, which immediately caught fire. The dancing flames illuminating his face, Roann watched as they burned themselves out, leaving a clear blue solution in its wake. He was amazed that something so beautifully colored could have such a sinister use.
Dipping a bottle into the well, the liquid bubbled inside, filling within seconds. Turning to face the altar, he wasted no time in dousing the skeleton and flesh with the potion. It seeped into the dried bones, beaded on the fresh skin. The heart drank it greedily, the tincture pouring into the open end of the severed aorta, filling it to the brim. Making sure he coated every last possible surface, he let the empty bottle fall from his fingers, shattering on the ground.
And then he waited.
~~~
Hours passed.
Roann sat vigil as the skin draped over the skeletal remains began to glow a deep blue. Little by little, the pieces had knit themselves together, pulling taut over open holes, covering the bones until no recesses could be found. A face formed, eyelids sealing over the hauntingly empty sockets. No hair adorned the bald head.
And finally, long after the stroke of midnight had passed, the recombination was complete.
He stared at the naked body before him, the flesh wrinkled and desiccated. It resembled a man, true, but one that had been mummified and left to disintegrate in the hot desert sands. It definitely was not what he had expected. But then again, he had never witnessed necromantic rituals.
The Alchemist: Dawn of Destiny Page 33