Necrophobia

by Devaney, Mark

  Isobel nodded. “That’s how they picked me up and recruited me. They noticed my talents and took me in.”

  “I thought they recruited from the church?”

  “They can do. Being devout helps but it’s not as necessary. Back in the old days sure it protected the interests of the church but the changing times have forced a refocusing. Now they seek out talented individuals to keep the empire stable.”

  An odd statement — given their reputation of hunting for heresy and rogue sorcerers. Members of the Inquisition were always to be feared and obeyed; perhaps their role as the Church’s weapon and executioner was exaggerated. They seemed to serve the Kaiser more than the church these days to help protect the newly founded empire between nations. The Inquisition was one of the oldest institutions on Vesta, predating even the last cataclysm. None of the admittedly few Inquisitors Claire had encountered met her expectations of zealotry. Claire believed in the four gods, you only need see the power bestowed upon the Caelites to believe they were real and tangible. The greatest of the Caelites could become Avatars of Caelus during a crisis, channelling their divine power and becoming a living conduit to wage war upon their enemies. She followed the teachings of the gods but she’d never felt the call to true piety like some of the other towns folk; merely an acknowledgement and respect for them. Perhaps the Inquisitors were similar.

  “What does it take to become an Inquisitor?” She realised she’d been fiddling with the ring on her left hand and pulled her hand away.

  The older woman smiled. “Ah, perhaps you were considering following in Eleanor’s footsteps?”

  “Maybe.” Claire shrugged. “I’ve thought about it sometimes.” She didn’t see the point in lying about it — Isobel was a mind reader after all. Whilst she considered herself an honest person she did miss the option to lie even if she rarely took it.

  “They’ll recruit any talented or distinguished individuals from any background if their skills benefit the Inquisition. Forgive me if I sound like one of their recruiters.” Isobel braced herself as the carriage crossed over uneven terrain; the uncomfortable thinning fabric seats left little to grip onto. “They’re nothing if not pragmatic.”

  Her mother had a natural talent for magic that caught the Inquisition’s eye at a young age, a speciality Claire apparently failed to inherit. It was also clear Isobel’s potent psychic powers also drew their attention, it was hard not to feel her talents of archery and bow-making were less flashy.

  “You’re a hunter like Jorge, aren’t you?” The question seemed more of a formality, given Claire’s outfit and weaponry Isobel already knew the answer. She chose to interpret it as an unspoken implication that Isobel was refraining from telepathy perhaps to be polite.

  “We have our differences.” She hesitated. “He prefers trapping. I’ve got better aim and I’m probably a better tracker by now if I’m honest.” He relied upon his instincts and an intuitive understanding of his quarry using his years of experience and intuition. Often he’d lectured on the importance of waiting rather than chasing — a principle she’d taken to heart. “I’m less likely to tell tales about wrestling dragons and fighting bears empty-handed.”

  “That’s a pity. He’d use lines like that on Eleanor when they first met.” Isobel shook her head and her smile faded. “Being able to track may very well come in handy. It has in the past. What weapons do you favour?”

  “Bows mostly, with a dagger as a backup.” In truth she wasn’t keen on using the knife as a primary weapon, if the enemy got that close she was in trouble.

  “And that sword of yours?” Isobel pointed towards the sheathed rapier with her walking cane.

  “I’m alright with it.” She shrugged as she reached for it. “Had to use it during the undead attack and Sevaur’s being helping me practice.”

  “Good to know. May I see it?”

  Her brown eyes widened at the intricate metalwork on the rapier — the ornate dragon motif, the wings forming a handle and a spear tip as a pommel. The blade itself was spotless and well-maintained, unsurprising considering its former owner. It was always cold to the touch and though Sevaur strongly suspected it was enchanted it was difficult to find out how. Any attempt to conjure magic from it or activate some hidden power had failed. The blade remained still and inanimate, almost mocking in its reticence. In the end they’d settled on it being an expensive custom sword with perhaps a mundane sharpening enchantment. Given her impressions of Knight-Commander Rhae it was likely Amelia preferred utility over the flaming swords and spectral weaponry found in legends and children’s stories.

  “How did you come by a weapon like this?” Isobel held the sword before her eyes and inspected it with care before re-sheathing it.

  “It was awarded to me by the Caelite Commander. She said she didn’t need it anymore and that I might find it useful.” It was a fine weapon at the very least and an honour to receive even if her sword skills left a lot to be desired.

  “I imagine you will.” Isobel replied as she retrieved her own metal walking cane and steadied herself as the carriage came to a halt.

  “I just hope this one won’t melt in my hands like the last.”

  The former Inquisitor eased herself upwards, leaning heavily on the cane and opened the door allowing the cold air to rush in. “We’re here.”

  Alvar collapsed onto the ground clutching his breastplate as crossbow bolts filled the air. Bolts missed Reiner by mere inches as he sought cover; impacting on nearby gravestones and trees.

  “Get him in cover!” Reiner yelled towards Cynthia.

  She stood in front of the fallen Caelite both hands held out flat in front of her projecting a shimmering barrier of air. The distortion rippled as the last volley of bolts struck the solidified air and fell to the ground. Reiner closed the distance catching a glimpse of figures behind a mausoleum lurking in the foliage. Alvar groaned and tried pulling himself backwards behind a monument with one hand and the other reinforcing Cynthia’s barrier. Focusing the barrier with one hand she knelt down and dragged the wounded Caelite into cover and set him up straight.

  “I’ll be all right.” He groaned.

  “Quiet.” Cynthia hushed him. She reached a hand out for the back of his head and her fingers were slick with blood. “You may have a concussion or worse.”

  Rushing towards a great-axe wielding man Reiner leapt aside as the man swung clumsily forwards. The double-headed axe sailed through the air where the captain had been moments before. The familiar blank-eyed unblinking stare met him as the confused thrall readjusted his footsteps. Though sluggish and with dimmed perception the man was strong and heavily built, another mistimed swing struck into a tree with considerable force and lodged deep into the bark. Seizing his opportunity Reiner lunged inside his guard and drove his spear into the man’s chest, effortlessly penetrating the tattered leather armour. The thrall grunted and lurched backwards, the great-axe forgotten. Reiner braced a booted foot against the struggling thrall and withdrew his spear as more mind-controlled thugs appeared from behind cover, some wielding crossbows and other vicious farming implements and swords. With a kick and a grimace of distaste he pushed the dying thrall back and sized up his opponents who were closing around him like a noose. With the crossbowmen out of range and protected by heavyset armed men in front, Reiner circled trying to keep them out of line of sight, feinting and parrying the raw strength of each slash and lunge.

  “Watch out!” Cynthia shouted from somewhere behind him. He could hear her fighting some thralls of her own.

  He dashed forwards shoving into one of the sword-wielding men as a crossbow discharged striking another in the shoulder behind where he’d been. The man lacking the blank-eyed stare of some of his associates swore and swung his sword on reflex at the charging captain. The angle was bad and the sword scraped across Reiner’s right pauldron, deflecting most of the impact. With his left hand he grabbed the man’s sword-arm and twisted forcing the sword free. In a panic the man lunged forward he
ad-butting Reiner in the jaw and breaking free. Clutching his jaw he stepped backward and steadied himself bringing the spear up ready to bear against the circling thralls. In a heartbeat another snapped forwards on impulse, Reiner parried with all the force he could muster forcing the blank-eyed man reeling past him. He kicked out with his hardened steel greaves striking unprotected flesh; dropping his attacker to the ground like a rock. He followed through with a stab finishing off the downed cultist and threw back another with a quick bolt of lightning. Though sluggish their movements were co-ordinated and vicious with little regard for their own safety. Every time he deflected one another would lunge at him, the ferocity of the melee forcing him on the defensive each time. Reiner risked a glance behind him and saw Cynthia avoid an overhead swing and rush into the cultist’s guard stabbing upwards with her spear and using the man’s momentum to launch him into another thrall.

  “You okay over there?” He shouted over the din.

  “Never better.” She managed through gritted teeth.

  Reiner parried another bone-crunching blow and ducked under a second slash, the blade scraping across his back plating and tearing into his cape. He stabbed forwards dropping another thrall but still surrounded and on the defensive. A crossbow bolt struck him in the gut. It shattered against the thick steel breast plating. The impact almost winded him and he forced himself upwards. Irritation rose as he saw more crossbowmen readying and reloading their crossbows. Timing their shots whenever there was an opening. Forced to evade and defend there was little room for spellwork as the thralls threw themselves onto his spear. They were forcing him into a corner whilst the crossbowmen stayed at range, with little cover it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. He almost tripped over more gnarled tree roots over the unsteady ground of the cemetery as his own lunge was thrown aside by an unpleasant looking cultist covered in tattoos. The cultist sneered and drew closer, clearly not mind-controlled like the others he taunted and goaded the Caelite captain to lunge again.

  “That the best you’ve got?” He shouted in a coarse local accent.

  Reiner offered him a cold smile and slashed his free hand downwards conjuring a wave of powerful wind towards the man knocking him backwards as he tried to regain his balance. The tattooed man opened his mouth again to taunt but Reiner ignored him; with the gust clearing the space around him he focused his energy and leapt straight upwards. His jump enhanced by Caelite magic he vaulted clear over the dumb-founded cultist and drove his spear downwards as he landed right on top of one of the blank-eyed crossbowmen. The weight alone smashed the thrall into the ground with a series of sickening cracks. In a fluid motion he retrieved the spear from the pulped bloody cultist beneath him and impaled a second crossbowmen. His crossbow firing upwards into the sky as he fell. Between him and Cynthia most of the cultists were dead or dying only a handful of the ambush remained. The cocky tattooed man rushed towards Reiner and feinted experimentally with his sword. Reiner countered with a lunge of his own but the man anticipated it and spun inside his guard catching the spear with his sword with a disgusting smug grin.

  “Didn’t see that one coming did ya?” He pulled the spear out of Reiner’s hands and stabbed forwards with his blade.

  Rather than resist he let the spear go free and avoided the sword using a brief moment of surprise to draw his own. He drove the sword deep into the man’s chest using his momentum against him.

  “I’m not the only one.” He spoke softly into the cultists ear as he twisted the sword.

  Reiner considered himself above petty vengeance or taking glee in killing his enemies but he allowed himself a small moment to relish the wide-eyed surprise in the dying cultist. Re-sheathing his bloodstained sword he walked forwards and retrieved his fallen spear. The familiar weight and heft of it reassuring in his hands. With the rest of the cultists around him dead he hurried over towards Cynthia and the slumped Alvar. She exchanged blows with the final cultist of her own, a tall and slender man with short blond hair and the sudden realisation he was the last man standing. He was fast and his skill with a blade evident but she kept up with him blow for blow, block for block. His panic widened as he saw Reiner approach him, already desperately defending himself against Cynthia’s attack. Seizing the advantage she feinted, forcing him to bring up his blade at the wrong moment and stepped inside his guard yanking the sword out of his hands and leaving him defenceless. She aimed her sword level at his throat and he raised his arms in submission.

  “Don’t do anything foolish.” She circled around him and kicked his blade away before taking a step back. The man nodded and stared between the two Caelites. Reiner nodded and walked towards the fallen Alvar leaning against a headstone. In front of him lay two dead cultists and the distinct smell of seared flesh.

  “We got them Captain.” He managed a faint smile and staggered to his feet with Reiner’s support. Alvar’s breastplate was dented but mercifully intact, there were three dents around his chest where the bolts struck.

  “Can you walk?” Reiner asked watching him move. He was bloody but still in one piece though his head wound would require treatment.

  “We’ll find out.” He took a few experimental steps forwards towards Cynthia and the disarmed cultist, steadying himself with his spear. “So what now Captain?” Like him she was breathing heavily and trickles of sweat formed on her brow; even the sparing amounts of magic they’d used took a heavy toll on mind and body. Extended periods of magic use left you feeling dehydrated, an almost insatiable hunger and a sometimes overwhelming sense of mental fatigue.

  “I reckon our friend here might be useful. I want to know how they got past the Night Guard in such force.” Cynthia replied. She kept a watchful eye on the prisoner, he seemed docile enough and more interested in self-preservation than his companions had been.

  “Agreed. I’ll guard the prisoner, see if you can summon the Night Guard here.” Reiner retrieved the fallen cultist’s sword and attached it to his belt. Grabbing the prisoners arm and holding it behind his back he escorted the prisoner towards a wall and kept him at arm’s length. Cynthia nodded and began jogging down the cobbled path towards the entrance to Lychgate. Alvar settled down on a nearby bench and massaged his head with one hand and kept a watchful eye out. Reiner circled the prisoner and searched him for hidden weaponry, the man was tense but seemed compliant. His eyes were focused and intelligent, he watched the Captain circling him with interest but remained quiet. Unlike some of his less fortunate allies he seemed free of any enthralment or psychic compulsion; the fact he’d been acting of his own free will was little consolation.

  “Why?” Reiner asked after considerable thought.

  The man flickered a mirthless smile and shrugged. “I’ve got a job to do and I did it. Or tried to.”

  “Which was?” Upon seeing the hesitation on the prisoner he continued. “We’ll get answers out of you one way or another; let’s do this the easy way for once.”

  “Keep watch. We were warned a Caelite vanguard would be investigating and it was our job to dissuade them. Not that some of my er…colleagues appreciate subtlety.” The man seemed almost apologetic; though Reiner dismissed this notion — he’d be a fool to underestimate the cunning of his enemies.

  Intrigued Reiner pressed on. “Perhaps if they had any mental faculties left that wouldn’t have been an issue.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “—Enlighten me then. The way I see it you’re all pawns to a mind-controlling madman.”

  “Only the dangerous and the insane.” He pointed towards one of the fallen thralls. “Scum like that would slit your throat so much as look at you.”

  Reiner fixed him with a hard stare.

  “I’m not seeing a difference if I’m honest Captain.” Alvar chipped in from the nearby bench.

  “People like that are dangerous, there’s no reasoning with them, no having a calm discussion.”

  “Not like you then?” Reiner replied with sarcasm dripping from his
words.

  “If you’d seen what people like that are capable of, what they did before we took them in, gave them purpose.” The prisoner continued ignoring the snorts of disagreement. “The rest of us follow him because we chose to. We believe in his goal, we share his beliefs. People like that are far from innocent, we simply give them the chance to do some good.”

  “I think I understand now Alvar, now they can do some good. Like attack our sacred stronghold and assault us in a graveyard.” Reiner shared a look with his subordinate who merely grinned.

  “Believe what you want. It’s a small price to pay to conquer death.” The sincerity in his smile was unsettling.

  “Even were that possible; you think a man like Haures will gift you immortality? Resurrect people of your choosing? He’ll use and discard you like your fellows there. Surely you’re not so naive?”

  The prisoner chuckled. “I’ve seen it Captain. I’ve watched the dead rise again — not as those mindless corpses you’re no doubt familiar with, but to live and breathe and think again.”

  Though the words were blasphemy — madness, there was an unmistakable twinge of truth in the man’s voice, in the sincerity he showed. By all accounts the abomination that was Morveil resurrected during the assault; and the traitorous Inquisitor no doubt possessed the same ability. The desecration of Valdgeirr had to have purpose, some ulterior motive. There were other dragons in the mountains of Caelumons — less guarded, less noticeable; why expend considerable resources assaulting the Caelites? Captain Felix Falkner was once a noble man, perhaps demonstrations of their unholy power, resurrections — true resurrections rather than their shambling parodies might have convinced a grief-stricken man to turn against his own. The prisoner before him continued smiling, sensing in some small petty way he’d won a victory over his captor; etched a chink into his armour. Before he could offer any retort Cynthia’s call roused him. Behind her followed three steel and silver-masked figures of the Night Guard their weapons drawn ready, but lowered respectfully. In the distance other hooded officers trickled into the cemetery and began examining the bloody handiwork of the Caelites.