by David Adams
It took me a moment to process what she was telling me in the abridged version of Draconic she spoke. “Northaven? The human city?”
“Yes,” she said, swallowing with a dry throat. “Flame consumes it. Came quickly as I could…” her voice drained away, her eyes averted.
Contremulus. It had to have been. But why? Northaven was his home; why would he raze his primary base of support?
I wanted to question her, but that could come later. “Wait here,” I said, and then I stepped over to the doorway of Pergru’s quarters. With barely a thought, I activated my wings.
The faces of Ssarsdale’s denizens looked up to me as the golden light of my flame burned over the city, painting the charcoaled ruin of the central spire with orange light. I flew out over the crowd, wings of flame beating in the dark, illuminating the city with light. A trail of embers was left behind me, thousands of falling red stars twinkling as they descended towards the ground, beautiful and majestic.
Raw, primal fire. It beat in my veins. It boiled in my blood. I was heat. I was flame. I was death.
Ren! Ren! Ren! came the chant from below. More frenzied than usual. More passionate. They liked my armour. So did I.
But I had a mission.
I turned and flew out of the city gates. My people opened the doors for me, just in time, as I darted between them, twisting to fit. Down the winding tunnels I flew, leaving smoke and ashes in my wake.
Much less time than walking, but as quickly as my body tore through the underworld tunnels, my mind was faster. What could cause Northaven to burn? What effect would this have on me?
Upward, upward, upward. Around, down, straight on. I followed the now familiar tunnels up to the surface, my armour weighing almost nothing as I flew. I blew past the site of the great battle, pained again that I had not yet found time to bury the dead. I followed the scent of fresh air towards the surface.
Then the night sky revealed its brilliance, a cloak of light punctuated by bright flickering. I shielded my eyes from the moon—it seemed particularly large tonight—and I flew up into the air.
I could see the fires from here. Northaven was many days’ journey away, but in the distance I could see another sunrise, a bright orange-red glow that turned half the sky into day to my sensitive kobold eyes. Showers of sparks, like distant swarms of fireflies, drifted over the landscape, nothing more than a dim red cloud. A column of smoke rose up to the heavens, burning a vicious red at its base and fading to a grey-black at the top, billowing out like a mushroom at its highest point.
It looked like a dragon’s head, complete with glowing red eyes, looking right at me.
The whole city must be alight. A raging inferno, fuelled by the collective material of tens of thousands of souls, the wood of their houses, the flesh of their bodies. All around Northaven secondary fires had sprung up. As I climbed, I could see the wood I had escaped into was, too, burning. The banks of the river I had drunk from, burning. Every scrap of grass. Every fallen timber. Every scrap of burnable material was alight or ashes. Even the stones themselves seemed to keep their heat, adding to the terrible glow.
There was only one thing that could burn a city so. Only one thing that could have caused such devastation.
Dragonfire.
Contremulus.
From the city, I could see a column of inky black, creeping across the icy landscape as though it were alive. A dark snake winding out from the city, towards the caves that lead under the ground, towards Ssarsdale.
I watched as it grew longer. Curious, I flew closer. Flight allowed me to cover a day’s journey in hours. The closer I got, the larger it grew, and the more I saw.
It was people. A stream of people fleeing the city. Their bodies were blackened with soot, almost unrecognisable as humans. Male and female, young and old. They took nothing with them, walking on bare feet, their hands empty.
Many were missing limbs. Some were scorched to the bone and deeper. Yet, still they walked. A cloud of ashes and dust rose from them, as their skin flaked and broke away, rising to join the smoke of the ruined city.
Slowly, terribly, I realised that they were not refugees.
They were the living dead. A city of the slain dragged back to unlife, mindless and hungry, shambling on, sustained by dark energy.
An army.
And it was coming for me.
CHAPTER XXII
I FLEW BACK TO SSARSDALE as fast as I could, trying to process what I had seen.
There must have been ten thousand of them. The citizens of Northaven, their bodies reanimated and retooled for war. I had anticipated an army of flesh…soldiers. Elves. Men. Contremulus himself, of course, a dragon.
But not this.
The first time I had seen an undead creature was beneath Northaven. Most kobolds I knew had not seen one in their lives; Sirora, possibly, being a notable exception. Now there was a whole city of them slowly, inexorably, marching towards my home.
It was madness. Madness to even concieve of. Who would burn their willing allies? Who would do such a thing?
A second thought drifted into my head. It was not possible.
Creating the undead took time, and it took precision. If a spellcaster was not powerful enough to contain them, their bodies would break down into dust. Contremulus was mighty and powered by dark energy, I had no illusions about that, but this…this seemed beyond all reason.
Do not taunt dragons echoed in my mind.
How far had I gone? Too far?
Or not far enough?
I would need might to oppose this threat. The horde were vast. I could throw all my magic at them, and there would still be too many for my sword to defeat.
First, though, I had to make sure.
Maybe I hadn’t seen what I’d seen. Maybe I hadn’t…
I flew back into Ssarsdale, soared over the main cavern, and turned towards Pergru’s quarters.
Ilothika was there, waiting where I had left her. Her head down. Her hands by her side. Of Valen there was no sign, save for all the blood. I had not shown Cheselth any mercy, and she had done nothing wrong, save a moment’s excusable error. Ilothika, however…
First, words. Violence could come later. “Were you seen?” I asked.
“No, Supreme Leader. Not by the living.”
Was that enough? I needed to be sure. “What do you mean?” I asked, leading her to the conclusion I didn’t want her to say. “Do the dead have eyes now?”
Finally she looked at me, and her expression beheld a strange fear I had not expected to see in one so hardened.
“They see,” she said. “The flaming dead, burned to cinders by dragon’s breath…a dark energy. They stood once more, Supreme Leader. Madness. Cannot believe. But I saw.”
Madness. The word that echoed in my mind now given voice. I had seen the living dead below Contremulus’s manor in Northaven. I knew he experimented with more than me. “The whole city?” I asked, cautiously.
“Know not,” said Ilothika. “But I saw corpses walk. Impossible. But I saw.”
“How many?”
She shrugged helplessly. “How big is city?”
All of them. “Did you see anything else?” I asked. “Any other forces?”
“No,” she said, then shook her head as though to argue against her own words. “One thing. Odd. Humans—some fought dragon. Beheaded by claws. Remained dead. Resisted reanimation.”
That was a mercy at least. Not every corpse could be returned as an undead horror. The heads were some kind of key component; their removal allowed the corpse to reject the call of Contremulus’s necromancy. I would have to ask Sirora about this.
For now, though, I had a more pressing problem. What to do with her? I should kill Ilothika for this. I knew. Anger flowed back into me, fierce as the fire in my belly. This was all her fault. Ilothika had, in some way, triggered this. I knew it.
“You should have been here sooner,” I spat. “Then it would be your body next lying as a pile of ashes on my floo
r!”
Ilothika did not look up. “You want me suicide? Willing. Should have punishment. Only request, remove head. Must insist. Must.”
The conviction in her voice swayed me. I would need loyal soldiers.
“What has been done cannot be changed,” I said, drawing in a deep breath that helped calm my fury. “Your punishment will come when I return. Do not think that this is the end of it.”
She bowed her snout down to the stone.
“But there is,” I said, my hand drifting towards Incinerator, “the matter of the human village. I ordered you to handle the problem, not to—”
“And I handled,” she said, pulling herself up to her knees, lowering her head. The frustration in her voice seemed genuine. “I follow orders. Humans rise against us. Humans put down. I do what I feel, right.”
“I didn’t order it!” I swung my blade above my head, letting ash rain down all around me.
“No,” said a voice behind me. Sirora. “It was I. I ordered the soldiers to attack the village.”
Slowly, I turned to face her. Had she been there the whole time? “Why in the Hells would you do that?”
“We had the information you provided. All that was left was the raid. Since you were travelling, I did not think to bother you with it.”
“You did not think at all!”
Sirora, too, dropped down to her knees. “I apologise. I did not anticipate such an…emotional reaction from you regarding this. In hindsight, I should have seen the symmetry in your actions.”
Both of them should lose a hand for this, but while Valen could be replaced, my head assassin was an invaluable post. And as for the head of my spellcasters…no. I could not sacrifice these pawns.
“Get out of my sight,” I breathed, Incinerator hissing angrily in my hand.
They both stood, but I held out my hand. “Not you,” I said to Sirora.
Ilothika and Sirora exchanged a look, and after bowing to me once more, Ilothika scurried out of my chambers.
Had I done the right thing? Maybe. I considered, reaching up to idly scratch my chin.
“What is it, Supreme Leader?” said Sirora. “Do you have more words for me?”
“You heard what we said. About Northaven.”
She didn’t seem entirely surprised. “I had expected this development for some time. Contremulus is a lich. An undead creature. He and his kind typically view the living as inconveniences. The living annoy them so, with their prattling, their biological needs, their desires for power, so I…anticipated this move. Not specifically, but something like it.”
Contremulus could stand no other voices in his domain.
“I cannot defeat an army of the dead,” I said, biting the inside of my mouth. “There are too many. Not a human city’s worth. Not with the forces I have.”
“But such forces can be grown,” said Sirora. “Expanded.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, frustration building again within me. “Speak plainly.”
She considered, pursing her lips, and then she gestured to the building’s exit. “Come with me.”
Sirora walked with a purpose and strength I had never seen in her. Her withered body was so alive, so much more than it had been even when she, with her strange and dark power, had appeared so youthful in the tunnel.
This was something more. A rejuvenation of the spirit. A dropping of the veil, she appeared weak but was strong, and I resolved as we walked to not forget that.
We headed towards the eastern tunnels, the smell of death growing as we drew near. As we got closer, I could see why. The small chamber we had filled full of our dead had overflowed. There must have been nearly five hundred warriors entombed there in the cavern, in the tunnels leading to it, and beyond.
Sirora seemed unconcerned. She walked along the narrow pathway in between partially decomposing bodies, passing through the dead as though they were shallow water.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, holding my nose to keep away the smell. “Where are you taking me?”
“There are things you must see. Truths in magic you are not privy to in your current state of mind.” She stepped over a body as though it were not there. “I am not unsympathetic. You have lost those dear to you, you have learnt so much about leadership in so short a time; travelled far, seen things, and conversed with powerful beings. Yet you feel helpless. Hopeless. You feel there is no way out of your current predicament and no way you can win. But fortunately, there are options available to you. Options which may turn the tide. Options you may consider unpalatable, but they exist nonetheless.”
I was not a fool. I knew what to what she was hinting. Necromantic powers were her speciality. It had something to do with these bodies. Sirora did nothing without purpose.
“Where is Tyermumtican?” Suddenly, I did not like where this train of thought was going.
“Fear not,” said Sirora, “his body was far too large. It was placed in an adjoining tunnel. He will not be of assistance to us. Your friend deserves to rest.”
For that I was thankful. I did not want Tyermumtican’s eyes to be upon us as we walked amongst the dead. “What are these options you speak of?” I asked. “I will have victory over Contremulus. I need to, to avenge…” my voice trailed away. “To avenge the fallen.”
Sirora stopped in the original chamber. It was full of bodies stacked three deep; the rotting flesh and exposed yellow bones were as new walls to a narrow tunnel.
“Tell me their names,” she said. “The ones you memorised. The first ones to fall.”
They came easily to me. “Chali. Shilke. Geefa…”
Sirora echoed me, repeating their names. A faint blue light came from her body, from some place deep inside. It was her bones. It illuminated her body from within, making her appear almost skeletal.
A hand broke free of the bodies, the flesh falling away from it as I watched. Its bones shone with the same blue light, spreading from the marrow outward. The hand flailed silently, clawing, climbing, yearning for freedom. It pushed the others out of its way, struggling to the top, and in its wake came a body.
Chali. Rotting, a corpse barely held together by strands of skin and decaying tendons. A faint blue light shone in hollow eyes, and she looked at me, looked through me, with an emptiness I found entirely unsettling.
“Shit of the dead Gods,” I said, my breath catching in my throat. “Sirora, what have you done?”
The whole room erupted into movement. The bodies thrashed and writhed; I thought they fought one another, clawing and bashing, but instead they were merely scrambling to stand.
Soon they did. I saw them all. Shilke. Greefa…hundreds of the dead, jammed into the tiny cavern, standing silently, waiting for a command. I scanned them all. Their rotting, dead faces, trying to find…something. Anything. Some indication that they were more than simply bones given form.
“Do not stare,” said Sirora, although her tongue clicked, and she smiled. “Actually, stare as much as you like. There is nothing there. The reanimation process…it subtly, imperceptibly alters a body’s composition. They are liquid, believe it or not. The magic of revivifying the dead transmutes them into a paste of sorts; the variety differs depending on the type. Zombies are ash. Skeletons are ashes, vampires are honey, if you can believe that, and liches are dust.”
The light faded from Sirora’s body.
“Where is Friela?” I asked, words finding my tongue once more. “The survivor?”
“Missing its head,” said Sirora. “Useless. Without a head, even an unliving creature cannot function. There are limits to any power.”
Looking around I could see only a sea of bodies and bones; the dead had, in a sense, been returned to us, although they were not the same. There was no life in Friela’s glowing eyes. Her body moved on its own accord, but it did not breathe; it was a lifeless husk reanimated by dark power.
“As you can see,” said Sirora, “now you have the ability to match Contremulus. He reannimates his dead, you reanim
ate your dead. His advantage is gone.”
“We can fight him now?” I asked, looking at the walking dead gathered before me.
Sirora’s eyes glowed blue in the dark, matching those of her reanimated minions. “No,” she said, her voice empowered with dark magic. “We can beat him.”
CHAPTER XXIII
I LEFT SIRORA TO HER dark work. She moved from corpse to corpse, and every one she touched glowed with the same blue light, then sprang to life. Or unlife. Or…whatever it was.
I had work to do.
Derodohr was waiting for me by his cloth tent. He smiled in a very genuine way as I approached, his massive horns freshly polished. “Lady Ren, I heard about your great victory in the recent battle.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I don’t feel like it was a great victory. The day was ours, yes, but we lost many warriors in the battle, and one of my magi was seriously injured.”
“Yet you were not injured. And your enemies broke and fled the battlefield, by all accounts. I saw their bodies themselves.” His smile widened, showing a maw full of razor sharp teeth. “No doubt Contremulus has a newfound respect for your abilities.”
It was true. Contremulus had burned Northaven because his assault had been cut down. That should have been a comfort to me, but all I could think about was the army of the dead inexorably marching towards us. They had been absent from my thoughts since the battle but now came flooding back.
“We were lucky today,” I said. “That was all.”
“Luck is not good enough.” Derodohr narrowed his red eyes. “You cannot gamble the fates of your people on luck. Luck is worthless. Luck is the recourse of the pathetic. You can fight battle after battle, and you can dodge an arrow a thousand times, avoiding it every time thanks to luck. The archer will never be sad or envious of you, because he knows he only needs enough to hit you once. Time and change are on his side.”
The metaphor was obvious. “So what do you do?”
“You find that archer when he sleeps and slit his throat.”