The Alchemist: Dawn of Destiny

by L. A. Wasielewski

  He knelt before the altar, paying his respects to the man whom he had resurrected. A chill breeze blew through the open door of the cathedral, and Roann whirled around just in time to witness a ghostly blue fog whip in from the night. It flew over his head, the force of the wind nearly knocking him down. An eerie spectral scream accompanied the disturbance, so loud it hurt Roann’s ears and pierced into his very soul. He jumped to his feet, hands covering his ears, and watched in awe as the apparition circled the body on the holy table. The mist hovered before seeping in through the corpse’s nostrils. Over in a matter of moments, the chamber fell still and silent.

  Cautiously approaching, Roann licked his dry lips. A frail, shaky breath echoed off the walls, and Roann was finally able to look upon his living master. Fingers twitched, limbs jerked as the nerve endings in Lyrax’ new body jump-started. He began to shiver, as the chill wind of the moonless night assaulted him. Roann just stared, unsure whether or not his master required help—or would even accept it.

  Several quiet moments passed, all while Lyrax’ soul reacquainted itself with a living vessel. A pained groan escaped the necromancer’s lips as his new muscles constricted. He arched his back on the stone altar in an attempt to straighten his spine. The new joints popped and cracked as he feebly raised his arm above his body. His eyes still closed, he called out to his protégé.

  “My child…”

  “Master, what do you require of me?”

  The hand rose, reaching blindly for the young man. “…help…me…to sit…up…”

  Roann leaned down, his loose hair falling around his face. Without warning, Lyrax’ hand shot up and grabbed the golden locks, tugging with might the emperor didn’t think he possessed. His first instinct was to pull back from the threat. But before he could react, Lyrax’ other hand grabbed the ceremonial dagger his protégé had retrieved. The etched runes on the weapon glowed red. Lyrax’ eyes were jet-black and bottomless.

  The blade pierced Roann’s throat, quickly severing the main artery.

  The emperor’s eyes widened in both surprise and agony, shocked that his master had lashed out. He instinctively reached for the hilt of the knife jammed in his throat to wrench it away, only to find Lyrax suddenly possessed the strength of two men. There was no way Roann could force the newly-strong hand away. As the blade dug deeper into his neck, his vision blacked out, and he barely noticed his own lifeblood spilling down over Lyrax’ face. The pain was unimaginable. Lyrax opened his mouth, allowing the crimson liquid to flow down his throat. Roann gagged as the knife slipped and punctured his windpipe.

  Still tightly grasping Roann’s hair, Lyrax flew into the air, hovering over the altar. Roann hung limply in his mighty grip, weakly kicking his legs as he grabbed for the knife in his throat. Lyrax removed and dropped the blade, the young man’s blood splattering on the floor as the dagger tumbled out of the air.

  “M-mas…ter…” Roann struggled to form words as his ability to breathe waned. “Wh-why…?”

  Lyrax repositioned his pawn in his arms to allow him better access to his slashed throat. Forcing the young man’s head back, he used his free arm to hold him steady against his own body while keeping the other planted firmly in Roann’s hair, the flaxen locks becoming damp and stained with his own blood. Wrapping his lips tightly around the wound on the emperor’s neck, he imbibed until he required no more. The color drained from Roann’s face, his skin turning a ghostly gray. His limbs no longer had strength, and hung loosely at his sides. One of his boots slipped from his foot and fell to the floor.

  Lyrax hung in the air, feeling incredible power seep into every inch of his body. The nerve endings jolted, sending electricity coursing through his veins—along with the healthy blood of his obedient disciple. His skin flushed and his veins plumped. A red aura enveloped them both as Lyrax took advantage of the young emperor’s life force.

  He hadn’t lied when he told Roann the dagger would be integral to the ceremony. Without it, Lyrax wouldn’t be able to drain the emperor of his life essence, which he so desperately needed to complete his transformation. The blood had to be strong and viable, and certainly not from some lowly peasant. Time and time again, Roann had accomplished his tasks for his master, and this one was the crowning achievement. Without knowing it, the young man had not only fulfilled Lyrax’ destiny, but his own as well. Everyone would remember their names.

  Lyrax released his mouth from Roann’s neck with a satisfied, ecstatic groan, bringing his own head close to stare into the young man’s lifeless eyes. The green irises had taken on a dull hue, losing their once vibrant color. Roann’s eyes were pleading and confused as he gagged, trying desperately to breathe.

  “You have been a faithful servant, Roann. Your sacrifices will ensure a new dawn for our people.” Lyrax’ voice was virile, echoing off the walls of the crumbling cathedral. He smoothed the emperor’s hair down with a soothing hand. “Do not fear. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded.”

  Roann whimpered, his eyes fluttering as he struggled to remain conscious. A moment later, he fell from Lyrax’ hands, the necromancer letting him drop like a rag doll. His body crashed onto the altar, both legs snapping upon impact.

  Lyrax remained hovering in the chill night air of the chapel, a red glow surrounding his body. The final transformation was complete. His body was strong, his mind sharp. No longer would he have to rely on others to communicate, to do his bidding. He was ready to reclaim that which had been stolen from him centuries before.

  He floated down to the ground. Steam rose from his head, electricity crackled over his skin. As he moved, a set of clothing took form on his body from seemingly nowhere. Regal attire, befitting of a king. Supple leathers and satiny silks, ornately cobbled boots. He had no need to make himself a royal robe, for he would feel the weight of Roann’s vestments soon enough. When he was fully dressed, he turned from the altar and faced the statue of Oleana. With a satisfied sigh, her head exploded with only a flutter from his mind.

  Behind him on the stone altar, Roann’s gasping weakened as he entered his final death throes. His body convulsed, what was left of his blood trickled from the gaping wound on his throat. Eyes that had once been a vibrant emerald were once again deep ebony pools. His last breath came with a feeble whimper, his body falling still seconds later.

  The cathedral was eerily quiet and consumed by utter darkness. Lyrax laid his hands on Roann’s chest and uttered a few mantras. One of the scrolls on the altar burst into flames as the words exited his lips. A shudder ripped through the young man’s body before falling still once again. When Lyrax removed his hand, a sigil appeared underneath on Roann’s skin. It flared once, the geometric pattern etching itself into his body above his heart. Tiny wisps of smoke rose from the new mark, permanent black lines adorning the dead emperor’s chest.

  Lyrax disappeared into a cloud of red fog, leaving Roann’s body behind. His protégé’s lifeless, black eyes stared out into the empty church. Wind blew in from the far door, blowing his blood-matted locks around in a frenzy. After several minutes, the gash on the young emperor’s throat began to knit itself back together.

  Hours later, as the sun rose, a single, gasping breath broke the silence as Roann returned to the realm of the living.

  The emperor writhed on the altar, his heart thumping back to life. New blood flowed through his veins and his brain flashed back into consciousness. All his nerve endings erupted with sizzling feeling, sending painful jolts cascading through his muscles. He screamed out in agony, every inch of his flesh feeling as though it was on fire. Roann sat bolt upright, clutching at his chest, his hand lingering over the rune on his skin. His again-green eyes sparkled in the dawn light. Confusion overtook him, and he was unable to remember what had happened. His mind cried out for some semblance of recollection, only to be met with blackness. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity, listening to his heartbeat whoosh in his ears, trying to recall how he came to be on the altar.

  Roann brought his
knees to his chest, his legs no longer shattered beyond repair. Fleeting images began filtering into his mind.

  A blade.

  Pain.

  Blood…

  …his blood.

  All at once, the shocking memory came flooding back and he brought a tentative hand to his neck, expecting to find a gaping wound. Surprised when he found no such laceration, he tried to come to terms with what had happened. Lyrax had killed him…and yet here he was. Alive. He tried to reason with his conflicting emotions. He had been betrayed—and yet he felt the need to return to the necromancer. The unyielding yearning to follow his master, to make him proud. After all, Lyrax had assured him he would be rewarded, and they were now bonded by his life essence.

  Roann brought his hands out in front of his body and stared at them, his skin no longer deathly gray. His signet ring glittered in the light of the rising sun. He had been reborn, just as Lyrax had. A wave of peace washed over the young emperor and he smiled to himself in the silent cathedral. The sigil on his skin pulsed once, sending a jolt through his heart. He looked down just in time to see the red glow fade. He was neither confused nor afraid, and never questioned the new addition to his body. It was as if it had been a part of him since birth.

  He scrambled from the altar onto wobbly legs. After regaining his balance, Roann flashed out of the chapel in search of his master.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  STOP! TRAVELING FURTHER INTO THE WOODS MAY RESULT IN YOUR DEATH. STAY CLEAR OF THE TEMPLE COMPLEX AT ALL COSTS.

  --Warning placard placed at the boundary of the Tandlewood Grove, east of Blackthorne

  “Grildi Amzod, you put me down right now!”

  The burly man trotted out of the Brens’ shop, Ryris thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The alchemist kicked and screamed, pounding his fists into his friend’s muscular back.

  “No can do, Boss! If you won’t let me come with, I’ll just have to punish you!” Grildi laughed like a naughty child, mischief gleaming across his face.

  “I mean it! Don’t you dare!” Ryris tried in vain to wriggle free, his raucous behavior attracting the attention of a good portion of the village’s residents. They emerged from their houses; some still in their nightclothes, dazed and confused at the unwelcomed interruption of their early morning routines.

  “What’s that, Ryris? I can’t hear you over the sound of all this cold, rushing water!” The town guard came to a stop a couple feet from the banks of the river bisecting the hamlet. He turned to allow his captive one quick look at his icy fate before tossing him in.

  Ryris spluttered and splashed in the water, his clothes immediately soaked, his mood irrevocably altered. He had been thrown in the river more times than he cared to admit, but this morning he wasn’t in the mood for a soaking. His ire was stoked even more by his companions—and his father—laughing hysterically at his frozen misfortune.

  “You look like a drowned skellin!” Maxx pointed at his son, not trying for one minute to hide his jubilation. It was obvious he was enjoying his son’s discomfort way too much.

  Ryris waded to the shore, the water coming up to his waist. Steam rose from his body as the cold morning air interacted with the waning heat of his drenched skin. He glared at his massive friend with fury in his eyes. “You’re definitely not getting any presents from me for a very long time!”

  Grildi stood on the bank, wiping his hands together with a determined look on his face. “Doesn’t bother me, Lad. Because I’m going with you—end of discussion. I can buy myself as many presents as I want on our adventures. I have a whole pouch of gamm saved up.”

  Ryris hobbled out of the stream, his clothes dripping with the frigid water of the Whispering River. His teeth chattered as the cold air wicked what little heat was left from his body. He rubbed his hands furiously over his arms, his chattering teeth making him quite hard to understand at times. “It’s too dangerous. I can’t in good conscience ask you to risk your life. You need to listen to me.”

  “Protectin’ you means more than my life.” Grildi’s voice was determined.

  Ryris couldn’t help but feel loved in that moment. The sincerity in Grildi’s voice, the yearning in his eyes as he spoke of protection—Ryris knew it was a lost cause trying to convince him to stay in Blackthorne.

  “There’s nothing I can say that will talk you out of it, is there?”

  “Not in a million years. Now, can I come with, or am I going to have to push you in again?” Grildi approached Ryris, hands out, ready to dunk the young man if the need arose.

  “Now wait just a minute.” Jaric stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t we get a say? This isn’t a picnic excursion in the park, you know.”

  “I promise I won’t get in the way.” Grildi’s eyes were hopeful, then turned mischievous. He cracked his knuckles and approached Jaric, hands in prime dunking form. “Besides…”

  “Not another step!” Jaric reached around and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Ryris, do something about your over-eager friend, here.”

  Kaia interjected, coming between the giant man and the warrior. She took Grildi’s hand in her own and stared up at him. “It’s going to be very dangerous. There’s a chance we could be killed.”

  “All the more reason to protect Ryris…and you, Lass.”

  Kaia offered a warm smile and released Grildi’s hand. She turned to Jaric. “Not another word.”

  Shivering, Ryris finally spoke again. “I guess it’s settled then.”

  Grildi lunged forward, Ryris flinching in expectation of another dunk, and embraced the alchemist in a giant bear hug. He didn’t care one bit that his own clothes were beginning to dampen. Grildi finally released him, trying to smooth the wrinkled, wet fabric hanging limply on Ryris’ shivering body.

  “Looks like our departure will be delayed…I need to change clothes before we head out or I’ll die of pneumonia before we even get out of the province.”

  ~~~

  The forests outside Blackthorne were dark and foreboding, even when the sun blazed above in the clear winter sky. Snow piled on every surface, covering the underbrush in a blanket of white. No one could deny why the legends surrounding the area persisted as long and as strong as they did. Anyone walking this deep into the woods would be hard pressed to linger any longer than needed. The logging trails ended miles ago, the companions leaving the relative safety of the prized tandlewood groves and emerging into the eerie unknown. The birds stopped their calls, the wind ceased blowing. Grildi noticed the abrupt change and immediately began to panic.

  “I don’t want to go no further, Boss.” The hulking man anxiously wrapped his hands around his club, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed.

  “Grildi, you have to. We can’t turn back.”

  “But Ryris, there’s spooks in there.” He pointed into the dark emptiness of the forests before them, the black trunks blending in with the darkened background. Even the snow seemed to turn gray. Jaric grumbled under his breath behind them, Ryris immediately shooting him a stern glare. The warrior rolled his eyes and quieted, leaning against the remnants of a rotten tree with an irritated sigh.

  Ryris put his hands on Grildi’s biceps, squeezing firmly. “Yes, there are spooks in there. But you have to be brave. You wanted to come with us, to protect me and help find Ealsig.”

  The large man shook his head, tears threatening to spill from his frightened eyes. “But…”

  “Remember what you would tell me when I was scared as a boy? ‘You have to stomp away all your fear and find your inner lion’.”

  Grildi took a moment to process his friend’s words. He finally steeled himself, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Aye. My inner lion.” He pounded his chest with closed fists. “My inner lion! I’m brave!”

  Jaric cleared his throat. “Can we go now? I’d like to get there before it gets dark.” He looked up to the canopy with a scowl. “Although you can’t much make out the difference around here.” />
  “Yes, we can go.” Ryris looked deep into Grildi’s eyes. “Right?”

  “We can go. We’re brave!” Grildi forced a smile, still keeping his hands tightly clasped around the handle of his tandlewood club. He followed his companions deeper into the forest.

  Hours passed, the increasingly-tired party delving deeper into the unknown. No sunlight penetrated the thick canopy, and they had to resort to torches to light their way. Ryris was beginning to think the stories of the ghosts were myth—because they hadn’t encountered anything but the occasional lost skellin.

  Jaric, obviously sharing the alchemist’s skepticism, chimed in with his irritation. “Who exactly said there were ghosts out here? Because all I see is dead trees.”

  “Oh, they’re here. The ghoulies are watchin’, that’s for sure.” Grildi stuck close to Ryris, partly to protect his friend—partly for his own protection.

  “Well they certainly aren’t as menacing as we’ve been led to believe, now are they?”

  All Grildi could muster was a soft, stern, “You’ll see…”

  And see they did.

  Another hour passed and soon they spied the crumbling ruins of a great temple complex. The first thing the companions noticed was a ghostly aura hanging over the entire area, a thick yellow fog clinging to the air currents. It ebbed and flowed, leaving one to believe either their eyes were playing tricks on them—or there were indeed ghosts parading within the mist. The buildings were old—older than Ryris had ever seen. The architecture wasn’t that of the Vrelins, or of any style he had ever witnessed in his travels throughout the Empire. Short, squat walls of quarried stone with flat roofs made what appeared to be a ring of buildings sprawling out from a central core. The complex was quite massive, with several outbuildings surrounding the main fortress. Forges, storehouses, and barracks dotted the landscape—all long abandoned. Hard to discern in the dim light of the deep woods, the walls were covered with intricate carvings of beasts, some recognizable to the friends, some lost to history. Who built them and what they were for, no one knew. The only thing that was known was that suddenly, they felt as if they were not alone. A low rumble, like a spectral voice that spoke no words, reverberated from somewhere within the complex, prompting Grildi to seek cover behind his friend. A chill ran up Ryris’ spine and he suddenly wanted to be very far away from this place.