The Necromancer: New Edition: Republished 2016

by Alex Stargazer

  “Master?”

  “Yes, yes, Leira, come in.”

  The door opened to show Leira, her dark black apprentice robes doing little to cover up her petite, curved form. She looked excited.

  “Master, my Dragethir came upon a party of mages!”

  “Is that so?” Neshvetal asked, unsurprised.

  “Yes. They were foolishly walking through Basilisk valley. You can guess where they went,” she said, chuckling.

  “The basilisk cave? That would be a fitting end to them,” Neshvetal replied. “But I wonder – how did you manage to get them in there?”

  “I was too far away to attack them directly, so I summoned a storm instead. They are surely dead: if the weather didn’t throw them down the gorge, they’ll be basilisk dinner by now.” She laughed.

  “Hmm, yes. This is no news to me, of course.”

  “How so?” she asked, puzzled.

  “I had an informer – people who loose loved ones to magic are always so gullible. It was merely a matter of convincing them to join my plea with promises of revenge. They told me all about the incoming mages through water-mirror.”

  The water-mirror was something of a novelty for Neshvetal. After pouring through many books in his never-ending quest for power, he had uncovered it purely by chance. Its workings were relatively simple: enchant powder (powdered silver was preferred, though anything would work), give informant powder, informant drops powder in water, and voilà! You can communicate as if they were there.

  “You did? Was this… a test, then?”

  Neshvetal merely smiled.

  “Oh you are always testing me master. Yet I hear you have Raised the dead elves?”

  “They will be useful soon enough. I have decided; we must leave as Winter sets in.”

  Leira raised her eyebrows. “So soon? I thought you planned to leave later, master.” Curiosity tinged her voice.

  “Things are moving fast. My ally has been acting to help us, and with the missing mages, Nateldorth and his cronies will become aware of us soon enough. Besides, Aêgland are powerful creatures,” Neshvetal said, remembering the dead elves.

  “Very well. Are there any more preparations that need be done?”

  Neshvetal thought briefly.

  “No, I believe that is all. You are dismissed,” he said, waving his hand.

  She hesitated for a moment, before exiting. Neshvetal suspected her feelings for him were more than that of a pupil to a master. He was sad to disappoint her: he had experienced love before…

  ***

  “Do you like it?” his lover asked.

  They were in the forest of the Fae. The trees were huge, ancient things. The sun shone, and the leaves blazed green. A few lonely wisps of cloud lay in a sky of tranquil hues, like fish out of water.

  Neshvetal had a cup: it was made from some sort of wood native to Fae. It was large, ornately carved, but somehow light.

  There was a drink inside. It was golden in colour; and its breath was that of a fiery dragon. Neshvetal had been told it was some sort of Faerie wine. Whatever it was, he enjoyed it.

  He enjoyed it almost as much as he enjoyed his lover’s hands, caressing his hair. He was lying underneath a tree, his head in her lap.

  “It’s… powerful.” It was indeed: the colours already seemed too bright; the sounds, too loud; the feelings... too intense.

  Well, almost too intense.

  “Careful! I don’t want you drunk. Or maybe…” she said, with a smile.

  Neshvetal looked at her: she had hair that was the envy of platinum; lips that made sensuous contrast with glittering skin; and her eyes were that of Summer’s knowing sight.

  He brushed away her hair, again seeing those long, pointed ears.

  How remarkable, he thought, not for the first time.

  “Why would you want me drunk?” he continued, now becoming more involved in the conversation.

  “Imagine all the things we could do together without all your human inhibitions.”

  “They say the faeries are dangerous with their games.” And in a whisper: “And with their lovemaking.”

  She laughed at that, her voice melodious and inhuman. She moved over to straddle him, deliberately making her breasts lie on top of him.

  “Don’t you like a little, danger…” she whispered against his ear.

  Neshvetal’s heart sped up.

  “I’ve had plenty of danger ever since I fell in love with you,” Neshvetal said. “Besides, won’t they be waiting for us back at the village?”

  “They can spare a couple of minutes can’t they? Or an hour…”

  “An hour? You flatter me. I am only human, after all.”

  “A very powerful one, though.”

  “As if I were a match for you fae.”

  She laughed.

  “Shut up, you!”

  She got off him and began to walk away. At the same time, she revealed her tall, elegant form through her diaphanous white dress.

  “I never said no,” Neshvetal said, before running up to catch her.

  ***

  Neshvetal shook his head, clearing away the memories. No matter how much he threw himself into his magic, he still couldn’t banish his memories: the taste of her lips; the lines of her smile; the feel of her skin...

  Stop it! he thought. You have work to do.

  “LEIRA!”

  She was quick to appear, her magic lending her impressive speed and power, although it was no match for his.

  “Yes master?”

  “Count yourself lucky: you’re getting another fight…”

  ***

  Neshvetal was leading ahead, Leira bounding like a puppy behind him. He was going through the usual granite corridors, the lamps yellow glow giving Leira’s already beautiful, pale face an eerie glow, like the darkest reflections of a fire.

  Leira was always eager for a fight: it was a quality Neshvetal was quite familiar with, although he knew that eventually she would have to learn the art of patience.

  Neshvetal remembered when he had taken her on – no more than a girl really, he had found her trying to escape a mage school when the constant bullying of her having an unmarried couple had gotten to her.

  He remembered the scene.

  ***

  “Hello there, child,” Neshvetal said, looking at the young girl before him. She was slim and dark haired, with haunted eyes like coals. He saw that she wore the brown robes of an apprentice mage, but her posture was nervous.

  He was curious, he admitted to himself: finding a mage so far away from Arachadia, climbing difficult mountainous terrain.

  “Who are you?” she asked, looking at his black robes. Neshvetal realised that she did of course, know necromancers wore black, but when her eyes met his, he saw no fear. That interested him.

  “I am Neshvetal… the necromancer,” he said simply.

  “A necromancer? You sure don’t look like one. You remind me of one of those wannabe kiddies who dresses in black to scare their buddies.”

  Neshvetal simply laughed at her daring. He had no doubt she could feel the power charged inside of him, yet still she tried to fake humour.

  “Ah yes, I remember them. They’re always the ones who run away first, aren’t they? Yet I can assure you I do not run away. In fact, you test for yourself. Attack me.”

  ***

  Leira had attacked him, Neshvetal remembered fondly. She was no match for him of course. But by then, he had been far too fascinated with her to kill her. Instead, he made her his apprentice.

  Ever since then, Leira had always wanted to fight him. Perhaps one day she may even be a match for me, Neshvetal mused.

  He took a sharp right, and he was in the dojo.

  The dojo was remarkable in its construction. It had huge windows that looked out onto the mountains, revealing the thick snow that was falling in large, lazy flakes. Its walls were granite; its floor was granite. It was covered in rugs which displayed feasting Revenants.

  (Nes
hvetal had gotten an artist to sew it for him. He had tried paying the man first, but he had refused. Then he threatened his wife. The man completed the rug beautifully. Then Neshvetal killed the wife. No one said no to Neshvetal.)

  The dojo was empty but for a table at the end, where various paraphernalia were stored. Books about dark magic were there, along with sharp, wicked daggers, their blades gleaming even from a distance.

  Neshvetal walked towards the end of the room. Leira walked towards the other.

  What do you want to practise? Neshvetal mind-spoke to her.

  Attacking. I will need lots of death spells when we attack Arachadia, Nesh, she replied. Neshvetal was not irritated by her reference to him as “Nesh” – he had gotten rather bored of the whole “Master” thing anyway.

  Ah, but what kind of attack spells? It will be humans you will be fighting, and lots of them.

  Before she could reply, Neshvetal went into action.

  “Egressus mando illusionibus.”

  Illusions appeared. Their forms were smoky white; their faces a mask of fury. They couldn’t actually kill Leira, but their swords felt like icicles being run through your skin.

  “Ignis hyacintho,” she said, raising her arms. Sparks of blue fire erupted from her fingers even as the illusions zapped towards her. They were all destroyed in an explosion of blue light.

  Very good, but that was an easy one.

  “Me ad, Draco,” Neshvetal intoned the second spell. A foggy white mist formed around him. It hung over him – a cloud of imminent destruction – before resolving itself into a dragon.

  Its reptilian scales were the same foggy white colour as the swordsmen, but it differed in that it had blazing red eyes. It almost reached the ceiling, and had a long, demonic tail. Again, this wasn’t dangerous; but just the same, you didn’t want to get hit by it.

  It screeched before diving at Leira.

  “Obice mors!”

  The dragon ran into a wall of twisting, wailing shadows. It staggered as it ploughed through, but didn’t stop.

  Leira was fast: she dodged the mouth before it closed around her. She didn’t expect the tail: it flew straight into her.

  She gasped as it passed through. Neshvetal felt tinglings of ice in his stomach where the thing had touched – the apprentice bond.

  He had formed the dark bond when she became his apprentice. It allowed him to feel what she was feeling, to know if she was in danger.

  But Leira was not to be stopped – before the thing could strike one more time, she whipped out another spell:

  “Conjuctio recesserimus.”

  A wave of energy attacked the illusion, and it vanished.

  I didn’t expect that, she telepathised.

  You must know your enemy, Leira. A death barrier may work against living things, but it does not work on illusions, or other undead.

  Neshvetal prepared for one more round.

  Attack spells? Leira telepathised. Neshvetal sensed her excitement. These were always her favourite parts.

  Neshvetal didn’t bother to reply, because a moment later, Leira was attacking.

  “Seras glacies!”

  From her hands, bolts of shining blue light were emitted. Neshvetal blocked them casually, the wards around him absorbing the energy. The loss of power on Neshvetal was so slight it was almost undetectable.

  “Musca securis!” he countered.

  An axe that was stuck to the wall came flying towards Leira. (Using objects as weapons was very efficient. Once, Neshvetal had taken down an entire group of Sacharian mages by displacing an unsteady house.)

  Fortunately, Leira was warded; the axe flew away.

  “Impetum tempestas fulmen,” she shouted again.

  The world momentarily became a blinding flash of thunder light. Death, electricity and fire came towards Neshvetal – his wards compensated perfectly.

  Neshvetal could see that Leira was sweating heavily, even though she had moved very little. Living bodies reacted to magical exhaustion as they did the physical, although Neshvetal himself was unaffected. Partly, it was due to his power; but more importantly: he was undead.

  “Inspiratione protentiam contra,” Neshvetal intoned.

  The world became a blaze as blue fire, thunder and shock waves blasted Leira’s wards. They broke, and Neshvetal ceased his attack.

  I. Am. Finished.

  Indeed you would be, but you did well Leira. Relax.

  She fell on the chair, exhausted. Truthfully, Neshvetal could have prolonged the fight, tested her skills more, but he had wanted a little more flair – helpless villagers were much too dull. Leira had proven the perfect candidate.

  “Rest, Leira. We shall have no more showdowns. Battle awaits,” Neshvetal spoke aloud.

  He walked out of the room, leaving Leira to her own inner demons.

  THIRTEEN

  Nateldorth remarked upon the gloomy atmosphere of the dungeon. Though, he ought not be surprised: dungeons were meant to be gloomy, and the man he was about to meet was not known for his good humour. His name was Acheron, and he was many things – dashing soldier, captain of the Arachadian Navy, and occasional mercenary. He was not always a nice man; but Nateldorth admired him regardless.

  It had been a long time since they had fought together. Thirty years ago, he had been an Arch Mage tasked to destroy a force of pirates that had troubled the seas north of the island of Ohn. There, he had met Acheron.

  He had been handsome, then, and it was said that his exploits on the high seas were matched only by those in the bedroom. (Nateldorth could confirm the former, but was less sure of the latter.) The two had become friends; through the long sea journeys they had recounted tales of bravery, great acts of magic, and myths of the high seas.

  Alas, thirty years are kind to no man but the immortal, Nateldorth observed as Acheron entered the room. The man was still handsome in many ways – his eyes gleamed sky blue, and held a twinkle of that old magic; his hair was blond and rich, his muscles strong and taught – but age had dulled much of his beauty.

  “Hello you, old man.”

  “Hello Acheron. Surely that is no way to greet an old friend? And dare I say that you, alas, are hardly young anymore.”

  He smiled at that. “You’d be right about that, old friend. But at least I’m not a hundred and forty.”

  “True.” Nateldorth turned his attention briefly back to the room. He sat on a chair, a work of elaborate mahogany. The table before him, where Acheron sat opposite, was likewise massive. A few magi lights illuminated the underground room. Besides him, Elrias perched nervously.

  “Even knowing your past, I’m surprised you chose this place to meet me,” Nateldorth began. The dungeon was not only dark, and well hidden, but also sat deeply in the seedier corners of the city. “Have you so many enemies?”

  “I have but a few; and yet, I find it pays to be cautious. You are a powerful, Nateldorth – by the He I know what you can do when on the field of battle – but powerful friends can elicit the attention of powerful enemies. For the sake of my family, I decided to err on the side of caution.”

  “Very well. How is your wife, by the way?”

  “Happily married,” Acheron replied, “although I admit I am not surprised to see you remain a bachelor.”

  “I have never been interested in women.”

  “Or indeed men,” Acheron pointed out, “for I would have known. You puzzle me, in many ways, Nateldorth: I know you can be brutal, and yet you are often good hearted. For all the power that burns inside you, at times you were more interested in books than in battle.”

  “Acheron, since when are you so intrigued? I’d never known you to care about my personal life. You used to be so brash, so bucaneering.”

  The man shrugged. “Time changes us all. In any case, I assume you wish to proceed to business?”

  “Indeed.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Nateldorth opened his palms. “You tell me.”

  “I gu
essed you might say as much,” Acheron admitted. “You are of course correct. I am well acquainted with the events that have transpired over these past weeks and months. I do not know, for sure, who is behind the kidnappings: some say an official in the court, others speak of a dark force far to the north. One man even suspected the Queen herself.”

  “Surely you did not bring me here for rumours, Nateldorth?” Elrias asked pointedly.

  Acheron looked annoyed at the interruption, but Nateldorth made a placating gesture. “Elrias, I know you are skeptical, but Acheron’s contacts have proven reliable on more than one occasion. Have faith.”

  “I do know one thing with certainty,” Acheron continued.

  “And that would be?”

  “The sources all agree that Old Beggars is actually the main area of activity. The kidnappings occur near the Royal Palace – that much is true – but that is not the headquarters, so to speak.”

  Of all the seedy quarters of Dresh, Old Beggars was the least pleasant. At the best of times it was populated by drunks and petty thieves; at the cover of night, worse things had been known to conspire within its boundaries.

  “I should have expected that.”

  “I’ve also compiled a list of street names, and periods when my contacts reported the suspicious activity most often.”

  “That would be most useful, Acheron,” said Nateldorth.

  “Thank you,” Elrias added.

  Acheron smiled wryly. “Here is the list.” He handed them an innocuous piece of paper, scrawled with times and places. “Find who did this, please. The world is a dangerous place to raise a family.”

  “Oh? You have a child?” Nateldorth asked

  “Yes; he is but ten years old, my son. Now, be off. You are dangerous company, Nateldorth.”

  “Did you just order the Great Mage to be off?” Elrias questioned.

  Nateldorth and Acheron shared a knowing look. “Come, Elrias, we are friends; and you are much too wedded to protocol,” Nateldorth chided.

  His adviser and friend followed him out of the room. The sun shone once more; the dark underworld of the city was left behind, but not forgotten. Dangerous things lurked in those shadows. In the all seeing eyes of the moon, Nateldorth had learned, they came out to hunt.