Necrophobia

by Devaney, Mark

  “Looks like we’ve got our help after all.” Jorge yelled back to him. Pointing in the distance with his huge fingers at the two squads of Caelites rushed towards the village, spears drawn. “About time!”

  With the help of the fresh Caelites the last few pockets of fighting soon fell silent and the bodies removed. Cremation was uncommon in Caelholm — the followers of Adranos preferred it and few Adranites ever frequented the island of Caelumons. Given the circumstances the villagers made an exception. In theory all gods were worshipped here but most chose one god above the others to identify with; only paying lip service to the others. Captain Remus fresh from the Temple-Stronghold insisted with the Bishop on behalf of Knight-Commander Rhae that it was a necessary action. Sevaur couldn’t agree more; it made sense to deny their enemy any further resources. As the survivors constructed the pyre he left the village towards the gate where Jorge awaited him.

  “Hold up one second, Soranus!” Captain Laelia Remus appeared behind him and lifted her visor out of her eyes. “Looking for your brother?”

  He nodded.

  “Safe last I saw, the Commander sent both him and Captain Stavros to the burial grounds at the summit.”

  “What’s up there?” Sevaur asked, and realised how foolish the question was. It was a burial grounds. No wonder.

  “Trouble.” She replied. “Stay safe.”

  “Laelia, you seen my daughter?” Jorge cut in as he walked towards them. “She’s out there somewhere.”

  “No sign of her, sorry.” The captain replied. “Only people I’ve seen are within the order. Any idea where she is? We could perhaps spare a small search party?”

  “She could be anywhere.” Jorge bit his lip. “I’ll find her.”

  “Like I said she wasn’t at the Temple. Perhaps she took shelter in the mountains. She’ll turn up, don’t worry. I have faith.” She nodded and ran back towards the pyre.

  “Faith never helped me when I needed it most.” Jorge grumbled and trudged towards the forest; Sevaur trailing behind him and said nothing.

  With the final ascent visible atop hundreds of snow and ice soaked stone steps, Claire and Razakel advanced with caution. The ancient arches built into the mountainside shielded them from most of the biting storm winds. Ever thankful for her insulated hunting outfit, woollen undershirt and warm leather gloves as the snowflakes swirled around them.

  “We’re near the eye of the storm.” Razakel mused, his voice thin over constant barrage of blowing air.

  “Are they summoning this storm?” Claire asked. As the snowstorm swirled around the summit unleashing its wrath upon the surrounding mountainside she half-hoped Caelus would smite them from its sacred temples.

  He advanced forwards shielding his eyes. “Not intentionally. Magic of this magnitude tends to disrupt the weather.”

  “You sound impressed.”

  He turned with a wry grin. “Perhaps I am; I respect their abilities but I do not respect their actions. Their abhorrent blasphemy ends today. You understand that I can tell, you’re a hunter. You respect the prey you hunt that’s what keeps you clear, what keeps you balanced.”

  The elderly wizard had a point she conceded. Part of the hunt was the thrill of it — the life or death situation; the other was testing her skills against worthy opponents. She would always hunt the dangerous prey if she could and she respected them; she never hunted for fun. Always necessity — always for food or because of the danger they posed. Never wasteful; never indulgent. It was never a game.

  “I suppose so, but—”

  The loud unmistakable roar of a dragon silenced her. The roar deep and pained tore through the surrounding area reverberating through the solid rock and cutting through even the maelstrom of snow and ice above them. The ground shook in protest as the roar trailed off.

  “That’s not good.” Razakel shouted as he experimented with understatement.

  With astonishing speed and agility for an old man he ran up the steps towards the summit directly towards the distressed dragon. Claire followed; shouting at him to stop. Whatever subtle magic Razakel was using she lacked, instead settling for a more careful approach. One slip on the ice — one misplaced step would be all it took. She fought through both the rattling wind and the temptation to look down that steep climb. Snowflakes blinding her and stinging her eyes, her nose and face numbing from the cold. Exhaustion already rearing its ugly head. She realised it was the altitude; the thinning air robbing her of her strength. The mountain was far from the tallest on the island at least, she had some experience with high altitude but never ascended this high. Mountain sickness — the headaches and dizziness a constant threat; only the Caelites and their apparent mastery of the air and skies managed without difficulty. Ahead of her she saw Razakel pause and stoop to catch his breath — the altitude catching up with the stubborn sorcerer.

  “Take it slow.” She managed through ragged breaths. “You’re not a mountain climber.”

  He cursed beneath his breath. “Foolish of me. I should have known.”

  She laughed as she caught up. “It takes weeks of practice and acclimatisation. You can’t rush it.”

  He watched her, his worn pale face and icy blue eyes staring up at her with a twinge of embarrassment. “I have to—”

  “No.” She interjected. “You need to listen. You rush up there without getting your breath back — with no preparation. You’ll die. How can you hope to best them like this?”

  He coughed and spluttered; in an instant the confident wizard seemed ancient and weary. Old and tired.

  “Stay here. I’ll scout ahead then come back for you.”

  Claire turned and walked up the steps without awaiting a reply; leaving him to catch his breath. He was clever enough to listen at least, humble enough to accept her wisdom though he seemed more driven than stubborn.

  She passed through the eye of the storm at the top of the steps and slunk behind cover. The tip of the burial grounds relatively exposed to the open air. Whilst the tombs themselves were sheltered from the worst of the elements; different sections opened into the sky. The site was lined with ancient snow-covered statues of Caelite men and women standing proud. Resplendent in their draconic armour, their horned helmets, and spears they watched on in silence. In the centre a blasphemy unfolded. An ancient noble dragon of Caelus, a huge winged creature with black scales and extended razor-sharp spines tracing down its back. Those wings powerful yet almost translucent despite their thick scales with an unthinkably large reach lay stretched across the floor. It’s elongated face covered in wounds visible even from a distance, it’s eyes cold and unblinking staring upwards into the sky. It’s mouth lolling open revealing hundreds of pearl-white teeth, glistening like icicles and soaked with drying red blood. The dragon was dead. Surrounding it stood its tormentors and signs of a devastating battle. Nearby plinths, statues, arches and tombs lay shattered and burned. Hundreds of still smoking bodies lay around the creature, either burned to a crisp or torn to pieces by those powerful claws. An undead army had risen and fought the dragon and died in their hundreds but eventually the noble creature, overwhelmed and weakened succumbed to their weapons and magic. She crept closer, two men stood out amongst the bodies in front of the cloaked and kneeling forms of more cultists and thralls. They were an odd pair, one tall and dour with greying hair. Armoured in silver-grey plate mail and wrapped in a black travelling cape of his own he stood tall and proud. The other resembled nothing so much as the undead they’d fought throughout their ascent, his face shrunken and tinged with decay. His eyes sunken and darkened, his movements erratic and twitchy. His blonde hair thin and ragged. Rather than armour the grotesque man was wrapped in a leather coat strapped tight with bindings and straps, almost as if to keep his rot, his malice contained. Surrounding him leered the resurrected and twisted bodies of the Caelites and their best and brightest, their former commanders and any other that survived their climb. A small army awaited them.

  “Brothers and sisters. We�
�ve won a hard earned victory.” The taller, armoured man spoke. “Though not without sacrifice. Like all things—”

  She circled behind cover trying to get a better view. Some of the kneeling cultists were blank-eyed and watched almost without seeing. Enthralled and ensnared to the will of the two before them. Others seemed unaffected and fidgeted and looked around, some shivered in the cold.

  “—Our master ordered us to deliver the dragon and we will be rewarded.” The rotten man interrupted, eliciting a glare of pure hatred. His voice high-pitched and callous, somehow it felt colder and more chilling than the mountain itself. There was a cruelty, an indifference in his tone that left her on edge.

  “No sacrifice is too much. Our master conquers death itself. Pain and death are fleeting, temporary.” The man continued, cackling to himself. The other, dour-faced man winced at the mention of ‘master’, it was subtle. So subtle she’d almost missed it. Whatever foul pact they had it seemed there was an unspoken disagreement, a difference of opinion or goals. Interesting she thought.

  “Faith and sacrifice are the cornerstones of what we do today.” He smiled, or perhaps assumed he was smiling. The rotten man’s faced twisted and twitched, pulling itself into a pained rictus. “We shall be rewarded. Immortality is within our grasp. The master has promised it so. And it is with your aid we’ll accomplish this. And of course, our friends here.” He turned to face his Caelite army and bowed towards them with an out-stretched hand, gnarled and rotten almost to a claw. As one the assorted bodies mimicked his motions, jerking and twitching as they did so. Like a puppet controlled by less-practised hands, bowing towards the kneeling cultists. Their burning emerald eyes and leering death-masks remained static as they rose.

  “Enough Morveil. Before you talk us to death.” A low murmur of laughter passed through the kneeling cultists, or at least those with the free will to do so. The armoured man’s eyes never left Morveil’s scarred and rotting face. Barely restrained hatred shone through. “The deed is not yet finished. You—” He pointed toward a group of the nearest cultists. “Assist me in the ritual. The rest of you stand guard. The Caelites will figure us out soon enough.”

  He turned and stalked towards the slain dragon and knelt before it, ignoring Morveil’s petty and childish sneer. Dipping his fingers in its fresh blood he began a series of complicated symbols into the snow. Beside him four cultists stood watch around him, chanting in a language Claire couldn’t make out over the storm.

  “Claire.” Razakel whispered behind her. His breath and what little colour he had returned.

  “There’s too many of them. We should fall back and summon help.” She whispered, risking another glance. The cultists not assigned to whatever blasphemous ritual wandered in small groups watching the tomb, the undead too staggered aimlessly around.

  “Not quite. The undead far outnumber the cultists. We take them out it’s a much fairer fight.” He knelt down beside her. At least twenty cultists were still present, not counting the two leaders. Fair fight indeed…she thought.

  “We can’t take out the undead without raising suspicion.” She countered but the sorcerer smiled and shook his head.

  “We can. Use your bow and take out the rotting one in the coat. He’s the one controlling and summoning them. Take him out the undead will die with him.”

  She peered past the fallen plinth, the rotting man — Morveil stood near the other leader arguing over something. The kneeling man paid little attention to him and continued the ritual. The Caelites were miles away and she had no idea how long the ritual might take.

  “I’ve…” She hesitated, feeling foolish. “Never killed before. Not a person.”

  He smiled and placed another reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I envy you, I really do and I’m sorry to ask this of you. They’ll sense my magic, the air is too charged. We need to strike with the element of surprise.”

  “I know, I know. He’s evil. Just give me a few moments.”

  “I’d do it myself if I could. You’re a better shot than me and to be honest with you? My joints aren’t what they used to be.” He flexed his wizened fingers with a faint cracking noise on cue. She smiled at this. “Shoot Morveil, I’ll take care of the rest. If it helps he’s not really alive anymore. Or a person. He’s little more than the undead he’s commanding.”

  Looking at him she could believe it. The undead though disgusting were products of decay and poor preservation; but that man seemed twisted by something foul, something far worse. He lacked the flaming eyes of the others but looked no less dead.

  “I’ll do it. I know it’s stupid but—”

  “—No.” Razakel silenced her. “It’s not stupid at all. I understand completely Claire. I wish I’d hesitated half as much as you have. All these years, all the work I’ve done, always for the greater good. I’ve had to kill so much I forgot it should be difficult.”

  She smiled and nodded. Though not without noticing a curious emphasis on the word forgot. But she reasoned there was a time and place for things and they had a ritual to stop. She retrieved an arrow from her quiver and refastened her arrow-guard to her chest.

  “Once he’s down I’ll neutralise the cultists.” Razakel said. He walked across to another plinth staying out of sight. She could see him muttering beneath his breath preparing more spells and enchantments.

  She drew the bow back, the arrow primed and aimed at the lurching abomination still deep in argument with the other. In the eye of the storm the winds were less severe and the range optimal. She controlled her breathing, repeating training mantras within her head to calm herself and focused. She let loose and the arrow flew straight and true. Morveil twitched as the arrow stuck his temple and he collapsed into the snow without a word. Around him the undead twitched and spasmed as the green fire extinguished. Their now lifeless bodies collapsed into the snow and panic struck some of the cultists. Their enthralled kin did not react and continued patrolling. She saw the armoured man curse and glance around but he was too involved in his ritual; he couldn’t interrupt his spell. Claire realised she could end this with another arrow — if Morveil resurrected the dead perhaps the other enthralled the cultists. Killing him might free them and sow more chaos.

  A group of three cultists advanced towards her hiding spot, knives drawn and shouting to each other, her fingers trembling with adrenaline as she fumbled for another arrow. Razakel appeared from cover, his hands arcing with electricity and eldritch energy. He pointed a finger towards the advancing cultists who swore, and focused their attention on the approaching sorcerer. A blinding bolt struck them with thunder, the explosion sent them flying into the stone plinth, the bodies smoking and motionless. More distant shouts and exchanged magic blasts across the desecrated tomb. Claire aimed her bow once more and let loose another arrow this time towards the kneeling man. His hurried chanting and ritual inscriptions keeping him out of the fight. As the arrow flew towards him he reacted faster than she could see and snatched the arrow from the air with a snarl and snapped it with one hand. The other still tracing arcane and unholy symbols into the snow with blood.

  “Defend me!” He roared to the clueless cultists standing around him, their own chants interrupted. Unable to look away he swung his fist in a rage, on reflex she dove to one side. A split second later countless icicles embedded themselves in the rock where she’d been moments before; each shard buried deep into the solid rock. She ran forwards dodging more icicles and tendrils of green energy unleashed by the cultists as Razakel strode through the carnage deflecting their attacks and blasting them apart in a tranquil fury. Claire watched in horror as the body of Morveil twitched and rose yanking the arrow from his rotten brain with a sneer, brown fluid oozed out of the wound.

  “You’re finished Razakel!” He cackled, shoving an electric-blue stone into his mouth and swallowing with childlike glee. Even from a distance the stone was unmistakable — Spellstone, crystallised magic common throughout the world and mined here on this very island. A powerful and
dangerous magic restorative that could boost a users magic to obscene levels with the small price of almost certain death and extreme damage to the mind and body. The undead Necromancer consumed a lethal dose with glee, his undead physiology heedless of the risk. Morveil twitched and shuddered as he rose into the air, arms out-stretched, green tendrils of flame extended from his body and writhed and wormed their way into the fallen Caelite bodies. The green energy burrowed into their brains like over-sized spectral maggots and the bodies spasmed, gasped and groaned.

  The cultists watched their leader in a mixture of fascination and horror as the levitating abomination radiated magic and an aura of malevolence Claire had never felt the like of. Razakel seized the lull in incoming magic to unleash devastating bolts of incandescent energy sizzling through the snow and chilling air towards the cackling, insane necromancer. Each bolt burned straight through his rotten flesh and exploded into the rock behind him. The mind-altering Spellstone consumed his mind as unspeakable power lashed through his corpse of a body.

  “Stop laughing and kill them you idiot!” The armoured man shouted, still immobile in front of the dragon. Flecks of spectral energy gathered around him now, as the air around him crackled. His ritual nearing completion.

  “Oh Haures, always the killjoy.” He mocked, pointedly ignoring the barrage of magic tearing into him. Any cultists near him were not so fortunate and were shredded and fell smouldering to pieces.