The Necromancer: New Edition: Republished 2016

by Alex Stargazer

  Just then, his mother walked in.

  Deriën’s study had walls of reeds; shelves of toys lined them. So at odds with his mother’s expression.

  An expression of pain, sadness and other things that Deriën couldn’t quite understand. Tears blurred her eyes and sobs muffled her voice.

  “Deriën, my baby… he’s dead. He’s dead!” She screamed and a magic wave lashed out. Deriën was blown of his chair, but he wasn’t afraid – her mother’s reaction was common in powerful magic-wielders.

  “Who is dead, mother?” he asked, trying to calm her down as she ripped a pillow with her bare hands.

  “Your father.”

  ***

  Deriën shuddered at the memory. His mother may have been furious, but somehow, his father’s death had more effect on him than it ever did on her.

  As he walked towards the old house – looking ever so foreboding in the grim twilight – he saw Linaera and his mother curled up around a magi-lamp, talking.

  “So here’s the things I’ve managed to do,” Linaera was saying. A moment later, Deriën got to see what was going on: he watched as a dragonfly, complete to the most minute of details – only pink – formed around the magi-light, buzzed around mother’s head, and then vanished.

  “That’s quite an impressive skill, Linaera. Who taught you it?”

  Deriën wasn’t in the mood for games. He cleared his throat.

  Both women turned around and spotted him. Liená looked slightly bored, and completely unsurprised. Linaera’s reaction was completely different: she recoiled in surprise.

  “Mother,” Deriën spat out. He glared at her. Not that he hated her or anything, but right at this moment, she was getting on his nerves.

  “Oh hello, Dear. Did you come to fume or to talk?” she asked, her sarcasm giving steel to her voice.

  “Linaera, can we talk?” Deriën asked, ignoring his mother. He really couldn’t deal with both of them right now.

  “Uhm… sure, I guess.” Linaera got up and walked towards him. Deriën turned his back on his house… and all of his memories.

  “Why did you drag me along to your insane suicide quest?” he asked her. “Did you think a nice elf would help keep you guard?”

  She stammered for a moment, before shouting:

  “NO! I did not ‘drag you along’, as you put it. It was Gétris’ idea in the first place.”

  “Gétris eh? I suppose it makes sense. He always wanted me to go out in the world and some such.”

  “What is it with you anyway? It’s like my very existence annoys you.”

  “Perhaps it does.”

  “You’re a dick,” she said, and turned around. Deriën was left standing, defeated.

  He suppressed a sigh.

  Guess that didn’t work out too well.

  He decided that the best way to get out his frustration was in the same way he had done so for the past several years – through training.

  He walked through the now darkened forest, his eyes having no trouble picking out his way. When Father had died, training was what had kept him going; he trained in his memory, so that he wouldn’t be known as living in his mother’s shadow or as that “poor kid” who lost his father to a stray arrow.

  The elves were viewed with a mixture of awe and fear for a reason; not only did their forests have powerful guardians of nature with abilities that exceeded nearly every other creature, and not only were the elves naturally magical in nature, but their hunters possessed speed, skill and strength in a combination no other fighter could match.

  He walked towards the training camp, located outside the city and inaccessible to non-Hunters or lower-ranking elves. Even in the dark, Deriën could see the lodgings – one of which were his – and the training ground in the middle. He and Gadalthal had become friends because they both shared the same passion for combat, although Gadalthal’s style was more dramatic, while his was colder, and simpler.

  In the beginning, Gadalthal beat him nine out of ten times. Now, he only beat him around six out of ten times.

  One day, it will be five out of ten.

  Unsurprisingly, Gadalthal was there, training. Elves’ eyes were so sharp that they could operate even at night, but magi-lamps still dotted the surrounding buildings, giving his brilliant green eyes a dangerous glint. He was practising his kicks, and Deriën watched as he aimed a flying roundhouse towards a dummy.

  “Are you going to train with me as well, or are you content with standing there and admiring my physique?” he asked. He turned around to give him a friendly smile.

  Deriën smiled back, but only slightly.

  “I should train more, considering my mission.”

  “You train for like, eight hours a day. Even I don’t train that much. What’s up?”

  Deriën did sigh this time, a long drawn out kind of sigh.

  “I’m frustrated. You know how it feels.”

  “I do. Come on, what do you plan on doing?”

  “Mainly bow-work, though perhaps some extra training with the sword will be appropriate.”

  “What about your kicks and punches?”

  Deriën waved his hand, signifying that while Gadalthal may still enjoy it, that work was largely for the juniors. Real battles were won with bows and swords. And magic, but Deriën knew that magic was a fickle thing, and too easy to be used against you if you weren’t a master of it like Liená was.

  Best leave the fire-spells and the lightning bolts to those more skilled than him. Healing and plant-work was enough for Deriën.

  “Very well then, come, take a sword and a bow,” Gadalthal said.

  Deriën picked a bow from the table nearby, along with the sword. The bow was long, thin and curved at the ends. It was made from a variety of complex woods, and in the hands of an expert, could whistle by and pierce through a fully armoured human and still be deadly.

  The sword was made from metal – or more specifically, hardened steel, one of the few items that the elves couldn’t naturally produce – and was long, thin and tapered to a deadly point. Of course, elves valued flexibility, so the weapon could also slash on both sides.

  Deriën didn’t have his own specific sword; all weapons were made by master forgers, so what did it matter?

  Gadalthal took his own weapons, and the two walked towards the centre of the training ground.

  “Bows first, right?” Gadalthal asked.

  Deriën merely nodded. They had both decided they preferred the one-on-one combat at the end; first, they would see who could score higher on the advanced arrow course.

  This comprised of a number of round targets painted on straw hales, a spring-loaded ramp that threw you into the air, and finally, the icing on the cake: a magically-powered contraption that flung daggers. Blunted-points of course, but Deriën knew first hand just how much they hurt.

  Gadalthal started. He broke into a run; launched over the ramp; and flew several metres into the air. At the same time, he raised his bow, notched an arrow from this quiver, and sent one whistling into the target. Almost a bulls-eye.

  Of course, the other two targets were harder: the contraption would sling daggers at you, one from the left and another from the right.

  As Gadalthal spun in mid-air, he angled his bow for a second shot, catching the almost invisible flying object in the same move he notched the arrow. This too, scored a near-perfect bulls-eye.

  The final target was the hardest – Gadalthal had to angle his body to meet the ground, block the second dagger with an expert flick, and send an arrow flying in the last second.

  He completed all three, although this time his arrow went a little high – still lethal.

  He walked back towards Deriën, swagger in his movements.

  “Beat that, Der.” He wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Deriën just laughed, loving a good challenge.

  He too, walked up to the ramp, and prepared to run. Gadalthal made it look easy, but you were only in the air for five seconds: in that time
, you had to execute a mid-air spin; block two fast-moving daggers; and still loose an arrow in about two seconds. And you had to aim at targets that were below you. Not easy.

  Still, Deriën had been training since he was fourteen, when elves learned basic bow practice. Although he had only really started training at sixteen. When his father died.

  For the past three years, his education complete, he had been training full time. He was ready for this.

  As did Gadalthal, Deriën rapidly built up speed, knowing the more time you where in the air, the easier it was. He was practically a blur as he hit the ramp.

  He suddenly became light; he reached tree-level. As Gadalthal had done, he loosed an arrow, perfectly in the bulls eye. Then he spun, the world going momentarily upside-down. He heard the distinct whoosh of a dagger, which he happily parried with his bow. He hit the bulls-eye in the same movement.

  But the ground was approaching rapidly, and the dagger caused pain for Deriën when he caught it just before it smashed into him. He aimed and loosed in one blur-fast movement, but his aim was a little to the right, and he only scored a wounding shot and two bulls-eyes. He would probably loose style points at the end, too.

  They did not have a referee; they were too much of a friend to each other to bother.

  Deriën walked towards Gadalthal, wiping sweat from his eyebrows.

  “You did good Der.”

  “But not as good as you.” This wasn’t news to Deriën; his strong point remained with the sword, no matter how much he worked on his bow skills. Gadalthal was the best bowman for his age, although even he couldn’t compete with some elves, who could shoot an entire wall of arrows with near-perfect accuracy.

  Gadalthal did not acknowledge the compliment, instead, drawing out his sword.

  Deriën drew his, and they circled each other, becoming two deadly predators as well as two good friends.

  Deriën felt the weapon’s grip – smooth and rounded, moulded to fit in his hand – and instantly, he became at one with the weapon. It became an extension of him, and in that moment, they both had the same aim: to win, if not to kill.

  Deriën looked for a weakness in his enemy. He was quite aggressive in his fighting style, and valued the first attack. Gadalthal’s feet was sure; his weapon remained poised in fighting stance, no position undefended.

  Very well then, Deriën thought. If there is was no hole, he would have to make one.

  He charged in a blur of speed, the world around him becoming nothing more than a dream of wind and sound. His sword hit Gadalthal’s, and they were off with a bang.

  They thrust, sliced and parried each other’s blows with incredible speed, aiming left, right and centre in an effort to catch each other off guard.

  Deriën angled his towards the right, while making a quick thrust to the face. Gadalthal blocked it, but Deriën continued with a sweeping slash towards the midriff, exposing his right side as he did so. As expected, Gadalthal blocked this too, and countered with a lightning-fast thrust towards his right arm.

  Deriën did a low dodge, rolled, and then struck at the now-exposed Gadalthal. Gadalthal whirled to combat his strike, moving with inhuman speed. Yet he barely managed to block his strike. Deriën attacked again, pressing his advantage with a series of powerful swings that made Gadalthal fall to the floor.

  Deriën lunged, attempting a coupe, but Gadalthal had his own tricks; he dodged his strike and and countered from below, nearly knocking Deriën off his feet. A series of fast strikes came, which Deriën managed to parry – barely.

  They backed away from each other, both panting.

  “You’re a sly bastard, Deriën.”

  “And it seems you’re catching up,” Deriën replied. They both smiled.

  Then Gadalthal attacked again, and the world went into a blur of clangs as sword met sword in a dance that was as deadly as it was beautiful. Gadalthal was strong, and Deriën was tiring, despite his greater speed.

  Gadalthal did a mid-air spin; his weapon came down with such force, that had the swords not been crafted from the highest quality metals and re-enforced with magic, it would have surely broken.

  Instead, Deriën fell back, and into a tree. Gadalthal, thinking victory was at hand, attempted a double-hand slash that would have cut Deriën in half had this been a real fight. But Gadalthal didn’t realise just quite how fast Deriën was. Instead of stopping at Deriën, it burrowed into a tree, nearly all the way through.

  Gadalthal tried to pull his sword out, but Deriën’s sword found his throat.

  “I told you you needed to work on your surroundings. Trees are pesky things in a forest, especially when ones’ sword can bite so deep.”

  “Yeah, yeah you caught me. Guess it’s evens then?”

  “Evens it is.”

  Gadalthal disentangled his sword, and put his arm around Deriën.

  “Guess you should sleep now, old friend. Who knows what lies tomorrow?”

  THIRTY THREE

  Leira walked covertly through the city gate, her drab white peasants’ clothes and shaky body language allowing her to blend in perfectly with the masses of other people who were moving in and out of town.

  The city itself was the second largest in Arachadia; in addition to its large population, it was surrounded by a grand wall – made from granite – that stretched high into the air and was thicker than the gates of Hell. Guards patrolled on its watchtowers, giving the peasants weary glances. Denizens watching the restless souls.

  But Leira only smiled inside her hood. Little did they know that the storm cloud hanging ominously on the horizon concealed nightmares far worse than petty thieves and brigands. They would soon find out.

  But not yet.

  It had been genius, really: Neshvetal’s plan to hide his army from the city guards while they were in the lowlands would mean they could launch a surprise attack. This would hopefully eliminate any possibilities of the local mage school being able to contact the capital before they could come in range of Neshvetal’s brilliant fog. (Once in range, the fog would make telepathic conversation difficult long after it had gone.)

  However, for it to work, Leira had to cause some sort of distraction. The storm cloud couldn’t hide the army forever.

  She decided that the best way to do that would be through fire – for everyone feared fire. The dead would fear it too, if they could. She also had to keep the gate open in case the city guards closed it. That shouldn’t be too difficult either: after all, who would notice a lone girl in the middle of such chaos?

  Inside the city, the buildings were primarily made from stone bricks and had slate roofs, in what was not unusual of the more radical Arachadian architecture. The windows were mostly small though, to keep out the cold.

  Leira watched the currently clear blue sky. Soon, Neshvetal’s storm would sweep over the city, emblazoning the horror they were about to witness in the cold, unforgiving light of winter.

  Leira’s target was the church of St. Dame. It was really a cathedral, but one that was built from wood rather than stone: it would burn nicely. Neshvetal had suggested they burn down the courts or even try to get into the mage academy, but Leira told him that the people of Duvalos held their church dearly – or so she had learned, anyway.

  She had eventually managed to convince Neshvetal of this fact, and now, she stood over the church.

  The rumours of its old beauty were indeed correct, Leira could confirm: the building towered above the cramped two storey buildings beside it, its wooden walls gleamed softly in the sunlight; its tall, sharply sloping roof indicated of another time, and its reserved elegance starkly contrasted with the drab, meaningless peasants’ clothes or the ostentatious finery of the merchants.

  It’s a pity really. But the job must be done.

  A few people were walking in and out of the building, but it wasn’t yet time for mass. She would have no trouble going in.

  She gave the city-dwellers friendly smiles; their tattered faces smiled back, thinking they
had found a friend. Leira didn’t particularly enjoy lying to people, but she did whatever was necessary to accomplish her goals.

  Once inside, she found the church to be warm, despite the cold outside. Grey light filtered in through the windows; the smell of incense hung in the air. Leira found it almost comforting – incense was a regular visitor in the necromancer’s arsenal. It helped concentrate the mind and eliminate worries.

  Of course, Leira doubted the people round here would be happy to hear that, considering the nature of her work.

  They’re probably just jealous, she imagined. Well, it’s not my fault my power is real.

  A bird flew down from the tall outreaches of the roof, and landed on the pews.

  It was a raven, small and dark, its beady eyes staring at her malevolently. Why are you doing this? it seemed to ask. Don’t you know bad things happen to people like you?

  Leira shooed it away. She had a mission to complete; she couldn’t let mere birds and their silly ideas cloud her judgement.

  ***

  Moving quietly to one corner, she hid away from the few people that were inside. She was perfectly capable of dealing with them, but she preferred subtlety over violence.

  Besides, there’ll be plenty of blood once this day is over.

  She raised her hands, and muttered, “Ignis.”

  Sparks flew from her hands, and landed on the walls. The flames were small, but Leira could see the way their greedy little mouths ate through the wood.

  Soon, this place will be a blaze.

  She walked out slowly, quietly, her body betraying nothing. Even as the scent of smoke began penetrating the air.

  By the time the cries of “Fire! Fire!” and the shrill screams that accompanied them began to be heard, Leira was well away, heading comfortably towards the gate. She could already see a variety of carts filled with water being drawn as a bell rang out.

  Just like I planned.

  She put on a mask of fear and worry; she walked towards a woman. Leira didn’t know if it was arrogance, but she wanted to see what the city-dwellers thought of her handiwork.

  “Uhm, hi. My name’s Lisa. Could you tell me what’s going on?” she asked.