Necrophobia

by Devaney, Mark

  “They’re enthralled!” Alvar shouted. His left hand tracing complicated patterns through the air as he prepared a spell.

  Cynthia dodged the first thrall’s lunge and sent him flying backwards to the floor. The spear aimed at his throat did little to dissuade his attempts at attacking.

  “I don’t like it either but it’s them or us.” She replied before driving her spear downwards with a muffled thud.

  The distant crossbowman fired again only for the bolt and crossbow to fly towards the floor from a powerful blast of conjured wind. Alvar gave a worried smile and advanced behind his Captain. It was an effective spell but it was clear Alvar’s heart wasn’t in it. Reiner knew Alvar was capable of far stronger magics, almost equal to his own. Perhaps sometimes even surpassing his own, not that he’d admit it. Clearly the young Caelite hoped to avoid bloodshed or reason with the attackers but one look at their eyes said it all. You can’t reason with enthralled and brainwashed victims; only offer them a kindness with a merciful death. As Reiner advanced he felt the air temperature drop as an ethereal light surrounded the blank-eyed thralls. Tendrils of arcane energy lashed behind them as they cast a spell in concert, heedless of the rushing Caelites. With no way to know what foul magics to expect Reiner took no chances. With all his will he tapped into his own magic and unleashed an overwhelming wave of displaced air surging forwards throwing the cultists backwards like rag-dolls. The force of impact cracked the walls and tore light fixtures and heraldic banners off the walls as they spiralled and landed with a sickening crack. The gathered energy dissipated as their spell-casting ceased. Seizing the initiative he impaled the closest thrall through the chest with his spear; noting the lack of reaction upon their blank faces even as they died. He felt no triumph or joy, only a deepening contempt for whomever had enthralled and sacrificed them. As Cynthia had so succinctly said, it was them or us.

  “Show-off.” Cynthia remarked with a sly grin. The smile was a forced one. There was no glory in what they’d done.

  “Always keep a spell ready.” Reiner replied keeping his own face impassive. “Alvar, don’t hold back. Or it’ll be you down there next time.” He softened his tone a little.

  The boy’s nervous face, quiet demeanour and unruly black hair betrayed the confidence and ability he showed during training; it was familiar to Reiner, he just had to find the right way to bring out his potential.

  “I will, sir.”

  They continued onwards without incident. The main hall was a towering circular chamber surrounded by balconies around the edge on each floor. Dominating the centre of the wall opposite the entrance was a beautiful marble statue comprised of multiple interlocking dragons and wyverns wrapping around lightning bolts and storm clouds reaching upwards though all eight floors. At the tip Saint Gudrun, first follower of Caelus depicted ascending above the maelstrom below. It was a breathtaking sight that filled Reiner with pride and admiration for his order every time his errands took him through the hall. By some mercy of the gods or by some stroke of luck the statue remained undamaged despite the battle raging below on the ground floor. Reiner, Cynthia and Alvar stood overlooking the balcony on the eighth and highest floor. Caelites and their undead counterparts exchanged bolts of lightning and magical blasts; the undead aided by their enthralled allies vastly outnumbered the defending Caelites.

  “Looks like we’re needed. You two! With me.” Reiner commanded as he leapt over the stone balcony and fell eight floors towards the ground like a meteorite made from steel.

  With the stone entrance ravaged by explosives and recent signs of battle the burial tombs lay open and unguarded. Fresh falling snow swept in carried by the strong mountain winds coating the fallen warriors in a thin sheet of white and blowing out the nearby braziers. The decorated arches though cracked and burned remained standing as if by some minor miracle. Over the cloying scent of incense came the sweeter smell of rot and decay emanating from the now empty side rooms and chambers. Coffins lay ripped open, burial shrouds torn and scattered throughout and fresh blood splashed across the ancient walls. The finest and most devout warriors of Caelus entombed and preserved for centuries within the holy necropolis were absent. Claire retrieved a fallen sword from one of the tombs and tested its weight in her hands. With her quiver almost empty and the tight corridors she’d need a different weapon to defend herself. Whilst the hunting knife was an excellent weighted weapon gifted to her by her father; its short range would soon see her skewered. She could hear bodies dragging their weight in the distance over the constant whistle of the winds stirring the once silent tomb. Beside her Alvis Razakel paused to study a mural etched into the wall depicting one of the many victories the Caelite order had in their history; his arms folded and his face unreadable. From his posture and heavier breathing alone she could feel the toll magic use was having upon him. Even the simplest of spells she’d attempted in the past had been more tiring than she’d anticipated; between the difficulty in learning how to utilise magic and the physical and mental demands of actually using it sometimes it was intensive than doing the same task without magic.

  “Something on your mind?” She asked watching him with interest.

  “Only select members of the order will ever see these murals — these works of art. It’s a shame they’re locked away here.” He shook his head with a thin-lipped grimace.

  Above them came a loud crash reverberating through the tiled ceiling followed by the sounds of fighting from deeper in the undercroft. Overhead lay the greatest Caelite heroes and leaders. Their bodies closer to the sky and their god, each lay enshrined within the labyrinthine catacombs built into the mountain. With a quick nod they hurried towards the source; for the most part the blood trails and lightning-scorched walls and floors showed them the route. Always empty of bodies but the air around it was charged and ripe with gathered magic; other times the corridors were empty with no signs of struggle but Razakel carried onwards tracking their prey without a word. She reasoned he could sense them with magic, following some invisible thread weaving through the almost identical cross-ways and stairwells. She prided herself on her own tracking ability but with the constant burning incense from the nearby braziers mulling her senses and the absence of tracks across the stone floor left her few options. Instead of the cobwebs and centuries of dust she’d been anticipating each chamber was well maintained and clean. They came to a sudden stop and the sorcerer placed a finger to his lips and pressed up against a supportive archway. She did the same, watching the corridor ahead of them with bated breath. Two figures wrapped against the cold in traveller’s cloaks emerged from one of the tombs carrying long curved knives and talking in hushed whispers despite the stillness of the air. Trailing behind them came three shambling figures, one bloodied Caelite clad in full plated mail stumbled forth. He’d been handsome and possessed a strong bone-structure and jawline but now the contorted grimace and the spectral flames burning behind his eyes robbed him of any beauty. His spear dragged across the stone behind him scraping the unblemished tiles; behind him two more bodies emerged both wrapped in their burial shrouds and burned with that same emerald light. Despite the preservatives their faces were shrunken with tight pale skin forcing a rictus upon their faces and holes — perhaps the wounds they’d suffered in life glowed alongside their eyes. That ghastly spectral light seemed to glow within all the undead she’d seen so far — prominently behind their eyes but it also seeped out of open mouths and wounds; somehow it seemed infectious and made her recoil on instinct. The corpses shuffled off out of sight leaving the cloaked humans behind, their heavy footsteps soon faded.

  “They’ll be here soon. This is taking far too long.” One of the figures spoke, panic crept into his voice and he seemed nervous and twitchy.

  “Better here than at their Temple. Don’t fancy those odds.” The other said. He toyed idly with the ritual knife in his hands, poking the tip of it with an exposed finger. This seemed to focus his mind somewhat as his shoulders relaxed. “This is safer.�
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  Claire moved back behind the archway as quietly as she could as the first figure turned towards their direction. Her heart raced as she waited pressed against the wall.

  “The others aren’t going to make it out alive. If we stick around here neither will we.”

  “I told you. We were chosen! Chosen above the others to accompany them; rather than throw our lives away at the temple.” The second voice replied edging closer to the archway. “Besides they wouldn’t abandon us here. Not after all we’ve done.” He continued but some of his confidence faltered.

  “We could run for it! Into the forests — no one would ever know we were here.”

  The duo passed the archway oblivious to the two lurking figures; their hoods reducing their peripheral vision — a beginner’s mistake. Claire tensed and held her breath; opposite her she saw Razakel smile and gave a brief nod. With a flick of his wrist the two figures slammed into a wall by some invisible force. The impact knocked their breath out of them and their weapons fell to the floor in shock. The sorcerer strode towards them with his arms behind his back to the pinned figures; eyes wide with panic. Claire followed him keeping her sword drawn and aimed between them.

  “Gentlemen.” Razakel’s pale blue eyes watched them for a few moments before he continued. “It’s clear to me you’re in way over your heads.” He paused as he watched them squirm against his magic. “Tell me why you’re here and who sent you and perhaps… we can make a deal.”

  The elderly sorcerer spoke in a calm measured voice, each word clearly enunciated and polite — almost amiable. But there was no mistaken the unspoken threat or the effortless way he could freeze them with place without a sound.

  The more nervous of the two twitched and looked around for an escape, struggling to free himself from the invisible chains; the other caught his breath back and tried to project a confidence she knew he didn’t feel. His eyes darted between Claire and Razakel and his fallen dagger, even if he could move there was no way he could have reached it before Claire’s sword impaled him. Not taking any chances she picked up the dagger with her spare hand and kept the other aimed at his chest as she backed away.

  “My offer still stands.”

  With great reluctance and avoiding eye contact with his co-conspirator the nervous figure spoke up. “You’ll let us go? If we tell you?” He glanced at Claire perhaps hoping for some confirmation or reassurance but she denied him any; her face remained determined.

  “That depends on what you tell me, Sir.”

  “Shut up—” The other tried to break free before another hand gesture silenced him. His lips bound shut against his will.

  “What is your name?” Razakel asked the more sensible intruder.

  “Ivan, Sir.”

  His comrade glared daggers at him but remained silent.

  “Who sent you here Ivan, and why?”

  “I don’t know why exactly but…” He hesitated, despite his limited mobility he seemed to shrink a little from Razakel’s gaze. “An Inquisitor hired us. He promised us things. Power, wealth…”

  “Immortality?” Razakel asked leaning forwards, his tone almost conspiratorial. Claire watched the accomplice with suspicion; he’d stopped struggling and remained still with a look in his eye that she didn’t like. He was planning something, of that she was sure.

  “Yes.” Ivan replied, his voice meek. His face flushed red.

  “This Inquisitor? Tall man was he? Greying hair. Sharp face?” Razakel continued as Ivan nodded frantically. The accomplice eye’s narrowed at the description but otherwise remained immobile his breathing slow and controlled.

  “What is he after? How many of you are there?”

  It all happened so fast. There was a bright flash and yelp of pain — Ivan lay crumpled on the floor. Razakel shielded himself and Claire with a translucent blue barrier of energy as the unidentified man unleashed a blast of magic. He shoved past Claire and sprinted down the corridor where they’d came. He was fast and Claire cursed herself for not being faster — she’d never catch him. Instead she threw aside the sword and grasped her bow in one hand and an arrow from the quiver in another before lining up a shot. The fleeing man looked over his shoulder and threw blasts of energy and flame backwards forcing Razakel on the defensive. He was nearing a corner almost out of range when she fired into the darkness; with no wind it was an easy shot. The arrow struck into his leg and he stumbled forwards cursing at the top of his voice, trying to seek cover behind the corner. She grabbed the fallen sword and ran towards him ignoring the shouts and grunts behind her. In seconds she covered the distance now almost on top of the whimpering figure on the floor dragging his bloodied leg around the corner. Another fireball flew from beyond the corner exploding onto the wall. She’d expected it and ducked under the heat back-blast and caught him, her sword pressed right under his chin.

  “Try that again and you’ll regret it.” He complied though not without cursing her and her relatives. He soon stopped once the blade bit deeper into his flesh. She wasn’t sure if she had it in her to kill him but he didn’t know that and she prayed she wouldn’t find out today.

  Razakel appeared behind her with surprising stealth.

  “Were that wound treated soon enough you’ll live. You might even walk.” He said watching the squirming cloaked man. “All you have to do is answer my questions.”

  “Not interested.” He managed through gritted teeth. “I’m dead either way.”

  Razakel shook his head in disappointment.

  “What about Ivan?” Claire asked, keeping her sword steady and risking a glance back at the fallen figure.

  “Dead.” Upon seeing her shocked expression he continued. “Our friend here had another knife.” He retrieved a second ritual knife from somewhere on his person, buried within his black robes. Beneath them the man struggled and tried to crawl backwards; his eyes filled with hate.

  With a shrug Razakel knelt down beside him with the dagger still gripped in his left hand. “We’ll continue this later I think.”

  Before Claire could say anything he reached out and touched the man’s face with his free hand. The air around them chilled and the man froze, the colour drained from him in seconds and his skin gained a rough hewn texture. He’d transformed into solid stone.

  “He’s still alive?” She asked watching the blank expression upon the old man’s face.

  “Yes. I’ll question him once we have more time.” He rose and smiled at her. “Innocent people’s lives are still in danger. Let’s go and do something about that.”

  Reiner landed on the cold marble of the main hall without a sound, his legs braced for impact. To anyone outside the order an eight-floor fall didn’t end well, but Caelites have their advantages and secrets. Through training and their magics they could survive most inhuman falls with relative ease and clear obstacles in a single bound. The difficulty and focus required to perform such a manoeuvre was unforgiving and never taken lightly but it was one of the aspects they were most famous for and often exaggerated to the point of absurdity. As far as he knew no Caelite could clear the stronghold in a single leap let alone an entire mountain. The stronghold and training grounds reflected a casual indifference to height as a result. Cynthia landed beside him the impact dulled by potent aeromancy; she rose with a nod towards her superior. The battle raged on around them — lightning blasts tore into the walls and shattered nearby tiles. They channelled their magics in concert to deflect and dissipate hostile attacks whilst they waited for their comrade to land. The strain began taking its toll as more and more bolts flew their way, unlike them the undead did not tire or falter and advanced regardless of incoming danger.

  “He’d better get here soon!” Cynthia said through gritted teeth. “We could do with his magic.”

  Reiner nodded, his attention focused on trying to reflect anything he could towards his attackers. At least one blast struck its target — incandescent energy burning straight through the chest of an approaching undead neophyte. He
recognised the face despite those hateful flaming eyes but felt shame as the name escaped him. The enemy stumbled and fell but survived; those eyes never straying from its target. Even as the neophyte fell three more took its place. Among them were former monks twisted and resurrected by unholy magic; their robes stained with fresh blood. Others were the embalmed and naked corpses risen from the mortuary, though unarmed they possessed inhuman strength. Without the brain’s protection their muscles exerted all their power; he watched in horror as their gnarled rotting hands clawed through plated mail and bent metal swords and spears. Seeing their Captain and comrade in danger more Caelites rallied and renewed their assault stabbing into the horde of putrid flesh and turned-allies.

  “Up there!” Cynthia struggled to shout over the deafening exchange.

  Above them brother Alvar tumbled in an uncontrolled fall struggling in vain to throw off a cloaked thrall gripping him. His spear useless in extreme close range. He punched and shoved but the blank-eyed thrall hung on tight as they accelerated towards the unforgiving ground.

  Reiner cursed and threw aside his own spear. He braced himself and with both hands focused his will; directing his energy towards the tumbling bodies. With immense difficulty he managed to grasp Alvar and channelled his mind towards slowing his descent. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he focused; with precious few seconds left before impact. As he realised what was happening Alvar kneed upwards into the thrall — the hardened steel meeting vulnerable flesh, forcing the cultist to release his grip. He lashed forwards with his own magic — though weak and without preparation it was enough to separate them. The thrall freed from Reiner’s grip accelerated and slammed into the ground face first. Alvar hit the floor without elegance and winced upon impact; even with Reiner’s magic slowing his momentum.