The Necromancer: New Edition: Republished 2016

by Alex Stargazer

  Linaera was filled with suspicion, perhaps due to her already grave state of mind – or perhaps simply due to her natural dislike of him.

  While the party were stretching their legs or kneading tired muscles – Dacresh had started grazing, throwing her a most displeased look – Linaera discreetly approached Harold.

  His intelligent Northerner eyes, those orbs of icy blue, regarded her with curiosity.

  “Hello Linaera. Is there any reason why you’re here?”

  “There could be,” she replied evasively.

  “Oh, and what might that be?”

  “Well, I might have an idea on… who the mole is.”

  “Really? Would that happen to be Jake?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I am not a fool, Linaera; I have observed that queer correlation between him and danger.”

  “But, we all know that’s not enough to incriminate him.”

  Harold wore a cynical smile.

  “Indeed. But you wish to follow him, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well then.”

  ***

  They made their way past the others, who were too busy discussing the recent turn of events to worry about them. Linaera was a keen observer: she had made note what direction Jake had taken.

  They followed his path; they noticed his imprinted footprints beginning to curve.

  “Funny that. The way he said he was going to investigate the villages, but instead took to a totally different direction,” Harold commented.

  “It gets more suspicious by the moment,” Linaera agreed.

  Slowly, they followed his path. His footsteps were now less visible: either the ground had become harder, or else he had been walking more cautiously. The former was understandable; the latter was not.

  Harold, maybe you should contact the other party members. This doesn’t look good.

  Already on it.

  Linaera doubted Jake could take on Harold, and she very much doubted he could take on both of them, despite her limited battle magic skills. Then again, who knew what powers he could’ve been concealing?

  Suddenly, they spotted a figure in the distance: Jake.

  The fog had somehow become thicker, denser, putting him in an almost dreamlike state. His clothes seemed formed of restless shadows; his cloak made erratic patterns – though the air was tomb-like and still. He seemed not at all hurried.

  Linaera had enough.

  “Jake Longfellow, I command you to stop!”

  Jake stopped. He turned. Those dark eyes fixed on her, but there was no malice or even hostility – only mild amusement.

  “Well, I guessed you two would follow me. You don’t like me, after all. Still, that is a good thing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Despite initial appearances – and your own suspicions, no doubt – I’m not the mole. Perrien is.”

  Both Linaera and Harold stopped. Shock played visibly on their faces: Harold’s losing his usual calm demeanour, and Linaera leaving her usually tranquil expression in favour of anger.

  “Perrien? Are you insane?”

  “Before you eradicate me, at least give me the benefit of the doubt. His past is more complex than you realise, and you are in no small danger.”

  Linaera resisted the urge to smash a large object over his head, instead deciding that perhaps he may have a point. That wouldn’t stop her from raving though.

  “Okay, so let me get this straight: you suggest that Perrien, our guide, who has absolutely nothing to do with this whatsoever, is the mole? What’s to say you’re not just leading us in circles to buy yourself time to escape?”

  “Enough, Linaera. We shall find out soon enough, the truth,” interrupted Harold.

  The two followed Jake, his mysterious path, his ludicrous suggestion – for Linaera did not believe, not for one moment, that Perrien would ever do such a thing – and endured the fog’s freezing fingers.

  Indeed, the fog did strange things: sounds seemed muted, whereas others echoed as if in a vampire’s music room; objects – harmless things, trees, rocks, streams – appeared suddenly, like the gaping jaws of ancient crocodiles; even their own footsteps seemed off, as if the ground underneath them wasn’t really earth but some sort of illusion, projected by evil spellcasters.

  It was fitting then, that they spotted the second figure: Perrien.

  He was standing by a pond. The pond was green, brackish, not yet frozen; yet when Linaera looked more closely, there was something within.

  It appeared to be a robed figure. Black. Satan’s minion.

  Perrien. Impossible.

  But of course it was possible.

  He suddenly noticed them. His eyes widened; first there was anger; then there was resolution.

  “Now you know.”

  “Perrien…” Linaera was lost for words.

  Perrien quirked his mouth. Moments ago, it would have seemed friendly. Now, it held the glint of malice..

  “You thought I was your friend didn’t you? Oh, but I never was. Not when you mages killed my wife. We were poor then, and she just stole a piece of bread – anyone would have done it, in her circumstances. But the mage? Oh no, he didn’t care. Burned half her face off I tell you. But…

  “She was still conscious when I found her. You know what were her last words to me? ‘Kill them. Kill them all…’” His face hardened.

  “I ran then. I became one of the best trackers around, and I befriended the mage academies. Now, you will fall; your undeserved, tyrannical power gone. And he will be the one that vanquishes you!”

  Linaera was about to ask who he meant. She was interrupted by a voice. A voice that was smooth as silk, but deadly as an unsheathed blade...

  “Indeed I shall, Perrien. You have been of great help to me; you will be rewarded well. You lot however…”

  The third figure appeared. There was no fanfare; no drawing of the heavens or thunderings of the gods. He appeared quite... casually.

  “Is that what this is about? Money? Why you—” She stopped.

  The party had arrived.

  They came out of the gloom, like angelic sentinels. Not that they weren’t any less afraid.

  “What the—” Sasha drew a breath. She had seen Perrien, of course, and the figure... the necromancer.

  “Sasha, meet the mole. And the necromancer,” Harold declared sadly.

  Sasha glared at the mysterious figure.

  “So you’re the one responsible for all this?” she asked, her voice laced with venom.

  “Oh my, you children are so terribly amusing. Really, is this the best that old fool Terrin could manage? I will almost regret killing you all. Perhaps I may keep one of you as a pet,” the necromancer declared.

  “We’re behind you Linaera,” Harold told her.

  It was reassuring. Linaera was afraid. Not unduly so; not paralysingly so. Just a little bit. After all, necromancer or no necromancer, he couldn’t defeat them all, now could he?

  The necromancer interrupted them.

  “But first, I must reward my faithful friend over here.” He motioned casually towards Perrien.

  Perrien gazed at him with eyes of a lost puppy.

  “Will you bring my faithful Kate back to me?” he asked, desperation tingeing his voice.

  Oh proud Perrien. Is this what you have been reduced to?

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. But, you may be useful yet.”

  Perrien had no time to protest. In fact, he did not even have time to blink. The necromancer moved faster than the eye could follow. One moment he was there, the next he was not. One moment Perrien was standing, the next he was bleeding on the ground.

  Bile rose in Linaera’s throat. Perrien stood motionless, and so very dead. His blood was a shocking red; a marker of reality in the fog’s deceitful dream.

  Perrien had been good to her; Perrien had betrayed her. Did he deserve his death? Would anyone have been different in his circumstances?


  All were questions to be answered later. They had a necromancer to deal with.

  “Did you enjoy that, master?” a new voice asked.

  This one was different: it was feminine, and seductive.

  Moments later, its speaker appeared. She too was clad in black; the quintessential armour of her kind. It did not conceal her voluptuous body.

  “He was a pathetic puppy and of no further use to me. Now, we must proceed with this lot.” Again he motioned towards the party.

  The necromancer’s companion was about to answer. She was cut off by a roar.

  Sasha.

  Moments later, a fireball flew... except it didn’t engulf him. It dissipated like hot air the moment it got close.

  The necromancer turned towards Sasha. “Foolish girl. That was a poor fire attack, clumsy and obvious. This will be like killing ducks.”

  “Everyone, set up the wards!” Harold shouted.

  “Wards will do you little good,” the necromancer stated.

  Their wards had been set up. Linaera felt her power reach out, connect with the other mages’, forming a powerful barrier.

  A good thing, too.

  The attack, when it came, was devastating. It was a dark attack, a manifestation of a malice so pure and concentrated it seemed otherworldly. It slammed into their wards, lighting up the world with cold, azure light.

  Linaera’s knees trembled. It was like being beaten by a sledgehammer.

  God, how can he be so powerful?

  “Eventor! Tellimah!” Sasha shouted.

  Linaera tingled; power was drawn, and ionised air lay thick in her lungs. A thunderbolt was formed. It barrelled towards the necromancer...

  ... And broke into a million tiny pieces.

  “Tut tut. Electricity is fickle; didn’t your teacher ever tell you not to use such a difficult element against someone more magically skilled than you?”

  “Imperio murus flamma, hyacintho,” the other necromancer intoned. Linaera felt her flesh crawl as power built up: it was a dark energy, and not of this world.

  A wall of pure blue fire hit them. It refracted away from them when it met their wards, but Linaera still felt it. It was icy though – not hot. Like death.

  There was a massive fall in their power levels. They knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that their attackers were beyond the normal scope of human power, almost... god-like.

  We can’t keep this up much longer. Let’s retreat, Linaera telepathised.

  Let’s not! We can kill him! Sasha replied.

  No. Let’s retreat, Harold ordered.

  Sasha’s frustration came through loud and clear. She wanted him dead.

  But staying would be suicide.

  They’re only two of them, god damn it! Sasha screeched telepathically. They can’t possibly be so powerful! They’re bluffing!

  No, but you are weak, the necromancer interrupted.

  Shock exploded into the party.

  No more mental communication! Harold ordered.

  Harold lifted his hands.

  “Erlentelriar tochnomeriath ner’talla!”

  Moments later, a dragon materialised. It was a being of fire and death – but would it be their saviour?

  The necromancers appeared bored.

  As the creature went for them, Harold shouted:

  “Retreat! Retreat!”

  They did indeed retreat, although they kept in formation, kept their wards running – whatever good they would do – and most importantly, they kept their calm.

  The dragon attacked. It came for the male necromancer, jaws wide, claws at the ready.

  Before it could fry him into oblivion, his own minions came to meet it.

  Wraiths. The most dangerous of all undead, incapable of being harmed without magic – but ineffective in a fight against mages. Their forms twisted in inhuman rage; and in their purlieu, light had no place.

  The Wraiths met the dragon, and the dragon fell.

  “How tedious. Now it’s my turn,” he said, with apparent relish.

  Before his meaning could be deciphered, the attacks came.

  They were like arrows, crafted to penetrate the toughest of armours. They were fire, they were they thunder; they were the power of a deadly being.

  Their wards shattered. Their knees buckled. The necromancer had won.

  “Run! Run like hell!” someone screamed. (Later, she would wonder who it was: was it Jake, his alliances now undoubtable? Was it tough, composed Harold? Or was it Sasha, the defeated?)

  Not that it mattered.

  She would remember the wind that had come from nowhere, howling and snapping like horse-riding Vandals; she would remember the snow that had finally arrived from its hole, cold and white and sharp; and she would remember the Dragethir.

  She would recall, with a sense of bitter naïvety, how she thought they would meet those trees, those lonely guardians and their empty promises. Perhaps they might have escaped the necromancer’s minions, in those forests of obscurity.

  Alas, it was not to be.

  Linaera would never have reached the forests, for she was interrupted by a loud, piercing scream.

  John.

  He was on the ground; and in his eyes there lay the loss of all that was great.

  A Dragethir lay above.

  Its cruel, twisted claw lay embedded deep in the chest of her friend; his blood painted the falling snow a macabre watercolour red. The Dragethir’s eyes were glazed in a patina of pride and hunger.

  And so Linaera wondered: would John ever feel the gentle caress of a woman – or the lustful grip of a man? Would John ever laugh, and dance, and cry?

  In that moment, Linaera wanted to believe it was all some sick, twisted nightmare. She even closed her eyes.

  Nothing changed.

  His leg, she realised, distantly.

  When her eyes opened fully, they seemed almost to belong to a different person.

  The fear, the hopelessness, the helplessness... they were gone. These new eyes possessed altogether different emotions: power, anger, determination.

  The change that would occur in Linaera would remain obscured even to her. It had sprung up from well deep inside her, a dark, mysterious place... the haunt of nightly beings, the pits of snakes and the lairs of scorpions.

  A rage had enveloped her. It filled her blood with fire, overwhelmed her ears in white noise, shaped her mind like a sapling tree.

  One thought came to her, like a command from the heavens themselves:

  Kill him.

  She began to walk, slowly. Her mind was blank; her fear was gone.

  Her eyes focused unto the fiend. Its teeth were revealed in the blizzard that the world had become, its blood red eyes concentrating with ghastly thought.

  It was not aware of the danger coming towards it. It did not have time to react as fire, white, alien and otherwordly, engulfed it.

  Flesh turned to dust, and the Dragethir was no more.

  She went for the dark, hooded figure, standing arrogantly in the face of her friend’s death.

  The storm had gone quiet. Around them, the wind roared and the snow cascaded, but the eye sat directly on the necromancer.

  Linaera twisted her lips into something that resembled a smile. It was more a grimace of hate.

  “This is where you die, necromancer.”

  The next words that would escape her lips would be drawn from some hidden recess, words of power, words of death.

  “ALLA EIRA TECHMENON USDETH!”

  All her rage, her pain, her sorrow, focused onto one point.

  The air exploded. The sky shuddered. The ground heaved.

  A blinding, supernatural ray of pure, white light slammed into the necromancer. Linaera’s power had been spent. Now he would be dead.

  But he was not.

  Instead, he regained his upright position, his knees now strong again. His smile was cold and terrifying: he was death.

  Amazing, his mind echoed.

  Linaera prepare
d one last reserve of power. Defeat was tugging at her, but she would not give up... could not give up.

  The necromancer’s mind clamped. It tightened around her like a cage of death, with bars of madness and chains of darkness.

  As Linaera’s consciousness began to slip, she heard someone calling her name:

  “LINAERA! LIN—”

  Then darkness fell.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Goldilocks? Seriously?” Laura exclaimed.

  Nateldorth watched with unconcealed amusement as the two talked.

  “What? It was the best I could come up with. He is blond after all,” Jal replied.

  “You interested in your kidnapper now?” Laura teased.

  Jal’s face reddened with embarrassment. “Now come on Laura. But...”

  “He is pretty,” Laura finished.

  The duo burst into laughter. Nateldorth almost envied their humour. Laughter was something he had very little of nowadays.

  And what he had to do next was definitely no laughing matter.

  He walked up to the grey iron door. Elrias waited beside it, while the two caught up. They were in a dungeon; the only illumination came from torches hanging at regular intervals upon the granite walls.

  The pit-pat pit-pat of dripping water could be heard in the background.

  “Do you think he’ll talk?” Elrias asked.

  “He doesn’t have to,” Nateldorth stated.

  Elrias paled slightly at that.

  Laura and Jal finally caught up, both looking flustered.

  “Come on in,” Nateldorth said, and went inside.

  The cell in which they entered was a sad affair: the tenebrous darkness that smothered it was conjoined with a miasma of fear and pain.

  Nateldorth motioned towards a vaguely visible torch. Fire erupted, illuminating the room.

  Along one edge of the wall, there was a dingy wooden bunk. The man was sitting on it, shivering from the chill. Despite that, there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Nervousness, Nateldorth guessed. And yet, defiance lay in his eyes.

  “I will tell you nothing about the New Order.”

  “New Order? Is that who you work for, by any chance?” Nateldorth asked him dryly.

  The man cursed.

  Maybe he’ll talk after all, Nateldorth thought to himself.

  “Now, on to business. Why did you try and kidnap my friend here?”