Necrophobia
Page 3
“I’m sorry Captain.” Alvar managed as he caught his breath back and forced himself upwards unsteadily.
“Forget it.” Reiner grunted as he reclaimed his fallen spear. “We’ve got work to do.” The effort of preventing his fall alone was a test of will and endurance; a full-armoured marathon across the forest for both mind and body.
“Can you walk?” Cynthia’s gaze flickered back towards them, as she struggled to maintain a defensive shield.
“Don’t worry about me.” He eased himself forward steadying himself with his spear and lending his magic to Cynthia’s shield as they approached the battle. They formed an impenetrable spear line with the surviving Caelites. Each warrior cutting and stabbing their way through the undead lines; gaining ground with each step. Despite their resilience and unflinching nature the undead lacked the fine control over their movements they had in life and the tactics drilled into them by captains like Reiner’s nonstop shouting. Their magic unrefined and erratic — often burning themselves in the process as they failed to control the arcane energy lacing through their armour and fingertips. The battle continued for some time and not without casualties but the undead were finite in number the mortuaries below limited in size and capacity. Their enthralled human allies fought to the last despite the strength of will demonstrated by their Caelite enemies. Shards of ice and nausea-inducing waves of green energy faltered against the warriors of the god of storms and skies. The vast quantities of magical energy discharge in such a concentrated area soon reached unsafe levels — the air around them distorted and crackled with nascent energy threatening an explosive release. The shimmering air drew hairs on end and static sparked between metal; a sense of foreboding was palpable. Undaunted Reiner and his allies pushed on and regrouped with Knight-Commander Rhae. Lead by their commander their purge became nigh-unstoppable clearing room by room, corridor by corridor with overwhelming efficiency. The fighting continued for over an hour before simmering down.
Reiner and the other captains stood to attention as Knight-Commander Rhae entered the desecrated library. The shelves once filled with religious texts, historical accounts, weapon maintenance and strategy and magical lore lay ravaged by intense fighting. Books strewn across the floor and the charred remains of shelves burned by wayward lightning spoke of a fierce battle. Knight-Commander Amelia Rhae watched her captains with a weary face; her intricate and beautiful armour dented and tarnished by flecks of blood. Reiner though tall himself always felt small in her presence; they were of almost equal height but she radiated an aura of dignity and honour he couldn’t hope to match. Her deep-brown hair tied back into a bun, with the odd errant strands of hair falling loose. Her green eyes lingered on the crowd and a slight frown crossed her face.
“No sign of Captain Carmine? Or Captain Falkner?” She asked.
“Carmine was killed ma’am. Taken by surprise during the opening attack.” Captain Laelia Remus replied, her own eyes unfocused and searching into the distance. “Then he came back and…”
“I understand.” Amelia offered a sympathetic flicker of a smile. “And Captain Falkner?”
There was another pause.
“Haven’t seen him in hours, Commander.” Captain Olivia Stavros replied after considerable thought. She looked between the others captains but they all shook their heads.
“Very well.” Amelia paused, looking at the ceiling but she continued. “The Temple is safe and I have you all to thank for that, you’ve won a difficult victory and at a high cost. But our fight is not yet over. The village of Caelholm is swarmed with undead and it seems there’s a disturbance up in the burial grounds. I suspect this fruitless and wasteful attack is a feint designed to keep us busy. I will not play by their rules.”
A murmur of agreement passed through the room. They gained nothing by throwing away lives and resources attacking the heavily defended stronghold. He’d wondered whether perhaps their enemies bore a grudge or were not of sound mind but an attack this large and widespread showed considerable time and resources.
Amelia waited until the noise died down and continued. Her arms clasped behind her back.
“Captain Remus, Captain Lewis. I need you to take a squad each and reinforce the village. Drive back the undead — we cannot abandon the people. Go now.”
They saluted and made the symbol of Caelus with their hands before departing. Reiner could hear their voices shouting towards the members of their squad down the halls.
“Captain Soranus, Captain Stavros. Take a squad each and clear the burial tombs. I suspect that’s the true goal of our enemy so be prepared for anything. I’ll have a squad standby should you require assistance.”
Reiner nodded and saluted, feeling a hot flush pass down his neck.
“The rest of you with me. Let’s reinforce our defences to prevent further attack.” She said to the remaining captains.
Reiner and Olivia left the library and hurried down the corridors towards the rest of their order. With the battle over the other Caelites began to move the bodies of the fallen for identification and their burial rites. Shattered floor tiles were swept aside and pools of congealed blood were being mopped up.
“Now’s your time to impress her Soranus. Don’t screw it up.” Olivia teased. A mocking grin widened across her face.
“Likewise.” Reiner replied refusing to rise to the bait.
“Oh don’t give me that. I’ve watched you, I know what you’re up to. It’s cute.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Olivia.” Reiner said keeping his voice even. He shouted towards Alvar, Cynthia, Linus and Erwin signalling them over. He lead them towards the armoury; returning the salutes of the guards as he passed.
“New orders. We’re to head up to the burial tombs. We leave in ten.”
“Sir?” Alvar’s tremulous voice spoke up.
“Yes?” Reiner replied without turning. He rummaged through the storage crates and unlocked the seals with his key.
“We’ll never get there in time.”
Reiner turned and saw the similarly confused faces of the other Caelites. The burial tombs were almost two miles away up difficult terrain. The rope bridges across the streams and rivers collapsed by their enemies. He smiled. He tossed each of them a metallic object stylised with draconic wings and straps. “We fly.”
Leaving the petrified body behind them Claire and Razakel ascended throughout the tombs towards the peak following a trail of corpses and waves of foul magic. Despite the hundreds of chambers few undead attacked throughout their trek; Razakel speculated the rest headed towards the summit but to what end he had no idea. Their encounters rare and brief — Razakel preferred burning through their heads with precision blasts of magic fired from his finger tips. Claire managed a few kills of her own with her borrowed sword. They paused in an archway where the tomb opened to the outside air. Razakel paused to survey the vista of the surrounding mountain side and gather his bearings his arms held behind his back. Between the strong freezing winds blowing throughout the halls and heavy snowstorm forming above them, Claire sought what cover she could from the elements. The sorcerer whilst tall and wiry didn’t seem to feel the bracing cold and stood motionless staring into the distance.
“You seem to know this Inquisitor they mentioned.” Claire stated after a prolonged silence. “Tell me, what does an Inquisitor gain from this?”
After a noticeable pause Razakel replied. “Former Inquisitor. Andras Haures went rogue some years ago. It’s possible some of his followers and associates don’t realise that. As for your second question I admit I’m not sure — this isn’t his usual mode of operation.”
As usual she suspected he knew a lot more than he let on. She knew it wasn’t a personal distrust; just the mindset of an old man driven paranoid and distrustful over the years but it irked her regardless. Her own experiences taught her not to act without the full details and to temper enthusiasm with caution; and though she struggled with the latter she knew its importance.
“Well, I agree — the temple’s a diversion. Their real goal is at the peak of this mountain and they want it bad enough to sacrifice a lot to keep the Caelites at bay.”
He nodded and listened.
“The Caelites buried their treasure deep within the stronghold or so I’ve heard; so it’s not that. The mountain’s a sacred religious site but I doubt they care for that either.” She tapped her chin with her finger as she thought. “Besides the bodies, burial weapons and a stunning view of the island there’s nothing at the summit. It doesn’t add up.”
“I concur with you so far Claire, anything else?” Razakel replied. It occurred to her she’d never told him her name, but she supposed that added credence to his claims to have known her mother. Besides whether she wished to admit it or not she was enjoying this.
“The bodies of the former Caelite Commanders and their weapons are valuable but, this—” She waved a hand towards the distance smoke plumes. “Is a high price to pay for those. It’d make more sense to sneak in and steal those. Or, they could use their entire force to sweep through the tomb in minutes before anyone could respond.”
Despite the freezing air she was grateful, the fresh cold breeze cleared her head and freed her senses. The heavy burning of incense dulled her mind after a while. The sorcerer remained silent; watching her with a warm smile. He was intrigued. Once again she felt he was testing her — though to what end she wasn’t sure. She knew she didn’t have to prove herself to him or to anyone but there was something about his demeanour and his keen intellect that made you wish to try. Above them the clouds swirled around the peak and the snowfall increased as the storm intensified. The god of storm’s rage manifested in ferocious winds and bitter chills. The murals etched painstakingly across the walls of the tombs always showed Caelus as a dragon formed of lightning and blackened storm clouds descending upon the mountain; now more than ever she felt her belief justified. The encroaching storm may well be a prelude to the wrath of Caelus.
“Dragons!” Her sudden outburst echoed down the empty corridors and startled the sorcerer. He raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Ancient dragons of Caelus protect the summit. There are others in the mountains beyond but this one guards the tombs. Ancient and powerful. You’d need an army to—”
They smiled. “Yes indeed. But tell me, what does a dragon represent to you?”
“Power?” She shook her head. “No. If you can capture a dragon you’d need something stronger to subdue it. Freedom perhaps? But I can’t imagine any noble dragon offering a ride.”
“Freedom perhaps. A dragon could take you anywhere you wished. Even across the Endless Ocean I would imagine.”
“Wisdom.” She replied watching the smile widen on his face. “They’re wise and ancient, with knowledge passed down by the gods. The keepers of forgotten lore.”
“Precisely.” He said placing a hand upon her shoulder and grinning. He removed it after a few seconds and looked almost embarrassed as if he’d crossed a line and insulted her. “The Caelites may bury their treasure beneath their stronghold but their real treasure is knowledge.”
Claire rolled her eyes with fake mockery. “Spoken like a true scholar.”
“Trite I know. I know. Still — now we know what to expect. So tell me — are you still willing to come with me?”
She responded with a questioning look. “Of course.” Even without him she’d be too curious, too drawn to investigate. Life was stable on Caelholm; little of interest happened. Safe and stable. Safe and boring. Between her and her father there was little dangerous game to hunt that they hadn’t already bested.
“Even knowing we are marching towards a den of Necromancers, his enthralled cultists and risen army of undead?” He looked away from her and towards the vista as they storm raged overhead. “I don’t doubt your enthusiasm Claire, or your talent. But you have a choice. There’s always a choice.”
She grinned. “I’ve come too far to back out now. If we’re right that dragon will need our help. I’ve never managed to see a dragon up close either.”
Sevaur Soranus: Knight-Errant and disappointment by unspoken consensus ran through the snow-filled streets of Caelholm with his longsword in hand. The wooden and stone buildings thatched and shielded against the cold lay empty and silent — their occupants either evacuated or dead. Between the undead rising and tearing through the once peaceful village and the howling winds as a freak snow-stormed whipped up over the island the streets were chaos. He helped guide civilians towards the gated and stone walls of the church atop the hill in the centre of the village whilst fending off the clawing jade-flamed abominations swarming throughout. The graveyard at the base of the hill was now exhausted of bodies yet others crawled into the village from the forests and the sea port. A vicious battle between the restless dead and the warrior-priests, town guards and the few Caelites forced the defenders backwards towards the centre of the village. Despite lacking armour or weapons the undead made up for it in sheer numbers and resilience. Having ignored his elder brother Reiner’s constant suggestions Sevaur had never joined the Caelites. Despite this he still knew his way around a weapon and trained for years in learning magic of his own. His barrier-spell came in use frequently as he escorted the dwindling number of survivors towards safety; blocking the worst of the magical assault from the few risen bodies that could conjure magic. Their uncoordinated careless blasts of magic dissipated upon the translucent blue aura emanating from the outstretched fingers of his left hand whilst the other hand slashed, impaled and stabbed. With all immediate threats dead; Sevaur paused to wipe sweat from his brow, the biting cold did little to keep him from overheating. Tangled strands of black curled hair stuck to his forehead and blocked his vision; resisting his efforts to tame it and settling around his ears and jaw.
“Sevaur!” An unmistakable booming voice sounded across the street even over the constant clash of magic and undead.
Jorge Acestes, proud father of Claire and expert hunter ran towards him. Jorge was a bearded giant of a man, taller than even Reiner and wider too. His chest a barrel of muscle and hair. He towered over Sevaur. The Knight-Errant both younger, smaller and stockier even in the dull-grey plated mail and ramshead pauldrons Sevaur couldn’t match the width of the man.
“You seen my daughter? Been looking everywhere!” Jorge boomed again. His large brown eyes wrought with concern; framed by his bushy brown hair slicked back into an untidy ponytail.
“Sorry haven’t seen all her all day.” Sevaur replied. “Last I heard she said she was going hunting.”
“Blast it all!” Jorge cursed and shifted in place. Sevaur was grateful for the bulk of the man blocking out the worst of the cold wind. His thinning purple cape threadbare offered little warmth.
“Something wrong?”
“She’s after that damned wolverine. I warned her not to!”
Jorge was an uncomplicated man; not stupid by any definition but he kept his life simple. He lived to hunt and was always a friendly face in the village — always willing to lend a hand or an ear when necessary. His greatest concern was his only daughter, Claire. Even aged twenty-five and a hunter of perhaps equal or greater skill he was protective almost to a fault. He respected her independence but she was the only family he had left and like any father his daughter meant the world to him.
“Wolverine? She’s taken those down before. She’ll be fine.” Sevaur’s face cursed with a perpetual smile failed to reassure. Jorge did not share his amusement.
“It’s not a wolverine!” He yelled as another gust of wind whistled past them. “It’s a werebeast in the shape of a wolverine! I was trying to hunt it myself but—”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I
’ve been checking around, no wonder it’s so damn smart. Reckon it was someone from this village, years ago — decades even. Must’ve gotten cursed.”
Sevaur hesitated. Curses were almost unheard of in Caelholm. But a werebeast could have an easy time hiding on the island in the miles and miles of forest, the tundra to the north and the mountain ranges. All he knew were that they varied from person to person: some became werewolves, others werebears or any other animal you could imagine. The animal they became — the nature of their transformation all different depending on the person. No two werebeasts were the same.
“Even so, she’s a smart girl—”
Jorge reached into his hunting jacket and removed one of his many knives without a word. In a single fluid motion he threw the knife towards Sevaur spinning end over end. The blade spun passed him and embedded itself into the skull of a heavily decomposed body dragging itself towards them. Its shuffling and groaning advance lost to the overbearing sounds of the gale-force winds racing across the sea and cutting through the village port.
He mouthed his thanks. The hunter waved his appreciation away and clenched his jaw, the worry never leaving his eyes.
“Your brother up at the temple?” He asked staring at the distant shapes of the fortress-stronghold in the mountains. “I reckon they’re hit just as hard as us.”
“He’ll be okay.” Sevaur replied. His brother was a lot of things but when it came down to it — his dedication, almost obsession made him difficult to take down. Though never the bragging type he’d always won their duels and sparring sessions. He trained and perfected his craft to the exclusion of almost everything else.
“Soon as we’re finished I’m going to find my daughter. You’re welcome to join me.” Jorge yelled as he trudged through the mounting snow towards the church. Sevaur followed pulling his cape close around him, between the biting cold and the sweaty intense pockets of fighting he was at risk of exposure. He opened his left hand revealing his intricate metal gauntlet. Though dulling with age it was still intact and conjured a small ball of flame between his fingers. The heat washed over him blowing in the strong winds but refusing to extinguish. With careful control he tended to the flame as they turned a corner and stepped over the fallen bodies of the undead. As long as his concentration did not waver the flame would warm but not burn him. They neared the church defended by the few remaining warriors and guards, the steps littered with corpses and rotten brown flecks of blood. Fresh snowfall masking the worst of the horror.