Necromancer Awakening

by Nat Russo

  How the hell am I hearing this?

  Carvings on the awning drew his attention. He was looking at a runic language unlike any he knew, but something was familiar about it. The energy that had been increasing with every step grew stronger.

  A wave of nausea struck him and he doubled over in agony. But as painful as the sensation was, he hoped another invisible hand would pull him back to Kaitlyn.

  Rocks crashed nearby. Something was coming toward him.

  He began to think at a lightning pace. Small things that would have escaped his attention earlier snapped into focus. He understood the movement of the herd and the shriek of the flying predator now. The reason the predator looked backwards when it flew off had nothing to do with its prey. It had stolen the prey from something else, something terrifying enough to cause it to look over its shoulder.

  And that something else was hunting him.

  Nicolas ran back toward the rocks. The sound of feet clacking on the ground ricocheted off the rocky mountainside. There were too many footfalls to be a single creature chasing him.

  There was nowhere to run, and if he hid among the crags, whatever was chasing him would find him.

  The clicking feet vanished.

  He stopped and turned in the direction they came from.

  Nothing but the grassy field and stone building.

  In a moment of panic he looked up, thinking the creatures could fly. But there was nothing except pale-yellow sky.

  Something crashed on the rocks behind him. His face grew cold and his pulse quickened as he turned toward the sound.

  Eight solid-black eyes, darker than night, stared at him from a spherical head as wide as Nicolas was tall, and pincers clicked in front of a mouth dripping with rotting ichor. A bulbous abdomen, covered in course hair resembling the spikes of a porcupine, dwarfed the massive head. And the entire repulsive thing rested atop eight grotesque legs that protruded from the abdomen, ending in sharp points that rested on two boulders.

  His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, paralyzed with fear. He was going to die.

  A vision of the bodiless skull from his dreams appeared in his mind’s eye.

  The spider crept closer, clicking its slobber-covered pincers together, and reared back on four of its eight legs.

  Nicolas cowered, pushing himself away from the spider with his feet in anticipation of its strike.

  The skull in Nicolas’s mind crackled with energy and pulsed with a blue light. The energy flowing through him reached toward the skull like a plant reaching for sunlight. When it touched the skull, Nicolas felt the power leave him.

  A cloud of dirt formed at the spider’s feet and launched itself up into the creature’s abdomen, forcing it backwards.

  A stream of images entered Nicolas’s mind, passing before his vision like a slide show that was too fast to keep track of—pitched battles between infantry in scale mail. Long swords crashing against tower shields. Soldiers being trampled by mounted cavalry.

  The ground in front of the spider parted, and a skeletal hand clawed its way up from the dirt. A head appeared, face hidden by a dull grey helmet, worn from years of battle and burial. An armor-covered torso followed the helmeted head, then the last hand appeared, holding a great sword the length of Nicolas’s body.

  Another stream of images flowed through his mind.

  In a single moment, Nicolas saw every foe defeated by that sword.

  He struggled against the images, trying to force them out, but bloodlust rose in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to wield that sword…to wield Lugus…in battle one last time.

  I’m losing my mind. What the hell kind of name is Lugus?

  The skeleton leapt from the grave too fast for the spider to react, swinging Lugus as if it were weightless. The skeleton severed two of the spider’s legs with a single strike, and the giant monster screeched.

  The stream of images accelerated, like a movie playing on fast-forward, and this time he saw a giant spider in his mind’s eye, identical to the one confronting him. Recognition sparked in his mind, and a foreign presence guided his thoughts.

  Crag spider. I know your kind. You cannot defeat me.

  He had no idea where the words came from.

  This young, starving spider was no match for his martial skill and years of battlefield experience. He rotated the sword twice in his hand and began the deadly dance of blades.

  No…not me…I’m not the skeleton. I’m Nicolas…Nicolas Murray.

  The skeleton warrior moved with impossible agility, making the spider look clumsy by comparison. The warrior thrust the great sword into the spider’s abdomen, spilling a black, stinking liquid onto the ground. The spider screeched one last time and collapsed.

  The skeleton faced Nicolas and raised a fist, as if announcing victory.

  Thank god it’s over.

  The skeleton roared a fierce battle cry and charged.

  What?

  Nicolas didn’t have the strength to cry out. There was nothing he could do. He knew the warrior as well as he knew himself. Anything he tried would be like a child fighting a tank.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw quick motion. A second skeletal warrior charged the first, drawing its attention away from Nicolas. A strange prickling sensation ran over his scalp, like dozens of tiny bolts of electricity.

  An old man in floor-length black robes and sandals was walking toward him.

  “Fool,” the man said in a deep voice. “Take him! What are you waiting for?”

  The first skeleton reached Nicolas and raised Lugus over its head.

  The world went black, and as consciousness left him, his last thoughts were of Kaitlyn’s face and her rose-scented skin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tithian’s polished leather boots clacked against the floor of the marble hallway as he raced toward the Archmage’s audience chamber. He pulled his black cloak around him to hide the glowing Talisman of Archmages.

  This was the moment he had been praying for since the heir was taken forty years earlier.

  Arin be praised!

  Holding his cloak shut was awkward, so he dropped the talisman down the neck of his robes by its golden chain. He reached for the sigil pouch hanging from a leather cord at his waist when his cloak swung open. It was a habit. The sigils gave him access to the spy tunnels, among other places.

  He turned a corner and stumbled over a sconce that had fallen from its mount on the wall.

  The Builders would turn in their graves.

  The Builders—legendary magi—had built the Pinnacle upon foundations of magic by a power not even the archmage knew. Now, the once grand edifice decomposed like a rotting corpse, rocked by decades of earthquakes.

  Four decades, to be precise.

  A council magus nodded as he passed and said “Prime Warlock.”

  Tithian returned the nod, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  How can this be after forty years? Where has he been?

  Tithian had no answers. And that wasn’t a good position to be in when the Archmage had questions. His title would matter little. The Archmage would banish him as he banished the Mukhtaar Lord all those years ago, and he’d have no difficulty finding another second in command.

  Not even the combined might of the dread Mukhtaar Lords was sufficient to stand against Archmage Kagan, and Tithian was no Mukhtaar Lord.

  He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves as he navigated the twisting Pinnacle complex.

  I will be obedient. That is my calling.

  The archmage was more to Tithian than a religious superior. Archmage Kagan spoke to the gods face-to-face, during the Rite of Manifestation. His voice was the voice of the gods…the voice that kept Malvol, the God of Hate, at bay. Others may be skeptical, but Tithian had witnessed the Rite. It was no idle boast.

  How can the archmage have expected good to come from what he did?

  Tithian caught his errant thought. Speaking against the archmage was speaking aga
inst the gods, and that was a line he was unwilling to cross. If the archmage thought the Great Barrier was necessary, then so be it. Only the demon Hasat’Tan would deny Archmage Kagan’s divine prerogative.

  A guard snapped to attention as Tithian approached the audience chamber, then heaved himself against one of the thick stone doors.

  The hinges groaned as the door gave way and opened wide enough for Tithian to pass through.

  The archmage, arms folded beneath the black-fringed, red scapular that covered the shoulders of his black robe, was speaking with ambassadors from each of the three kingdoms. The conversation was heated, from the looks on their faces.

  If the ambassadors were here, then layers of political machinations would cloud the discussion, and Tithian couldn’t allow himself to miss anything. He drew power into the energy well that rested at the center of his mind. It would sharpen his senses as bladestone sharpens a Religarian sword.

  Ambassador Abelard Cooper, representative of the Kingdom of Tildem, adjusted his linen cravat and grabbed his diplomatic top hat from a nearby end table.

  “Forgive me, Archmage,” Abelard said. “It appears your jest was closer to the truth than you may have suspected. You will understand, of course, that I need to communicate this turn of events to the king immediately.”

  Archmage Kagan nodded, but he looked concerned.

  Abelard brushed past Tithian without saying anything on his way to the chamber door. He nearly knocked the jeweled ceremonial dagger off the belt of the Shandarian Ambassador’s army uniform.

  Odd. It wasn’t like the ambassador to be rude. Tildemen were polite to a fault.

  “Mark my words,” Kagan said. “As sure as I’m sitting here, I will see the Empire and the Shandarian Union in a formal embrace of friendship. Consider it an old man’s dream.”

  A chuckle drew Tithian’s attention back to the formal sitting area. It had come from Emissary Chal Ghanix, of the Religarian Empire. Ghanix sat on a cushioned chair in his brilliant-white desert robes. A tightly-wrapped turban, billowing up from the back of the robes, framed a tanned face. Ghanix’s flowing black beard extended to the middle of his chest, partially obscuring the Red Dragon of Religar.

  “Waters of Arin’s Grace, Ambassador Emaldor,” Ghanix said. “You are either the most astute politician I’ve ever met, or an idiot of the highest order.”

  Tithian wasn’t well-acquainted with Emaldor. The previous Shandarian ambassador had died under suspicious circumstances several weeks earlier, and Emaldor was his replacement.

  “Archmage, this is outrageous,” Emaldor said. “Ghanix goes too far.”

  “Gentlemen,” Kagan said. “Need I remind you that you conduct this business in the presence of a god?”

  Ghanix bowed his head in supplication, and Emaldor paled.

  “We have more pressing matters to deal with,” Kagan said. “Why would a member of your government, Ambassador Emaldor, use you to send a message to the King of Tildem? Unless, of course, you weren’t aware you were being used, in which case I’m tempted to agree with Emissary Ghanix’s assessment of your competence.”

  “Kagan, you—”

  “Hold your tongue, Ambassador.” Tithian said. Politics may be heated at times, but he wouldn’t allow sacrilege. “You’re addressing the Holy Archmage within sight of Arin’s sanctuary.”

  “Forgive me, Prime Warlock. I misspoke.”

  Kagan stood and waved Tithian closer.

  “Ahh, Tithian.” Kagan extended his hand, palm down, exposing an obsidian-encrusted ring.

  Tithian knelt and pressed his lips to the ring.

  “Rise, Warlock, and give voice to that look of concern on your face,” Kagan said.

  “Forgive my interruption, Holy One,” Tithian said. “This is news that should be heard in private.”

  Kagan squinted, and then turned to the ambassadors.

  “Leave us. Oh, Ambassador Emaldor?”

  “Yes, Archmage?”

  “If I were you, I would prepare your chancellor for war. Why your nation would choose now to pull out of the Treaty of Three Banks is simply beyond me.”

  Kagan shared a look with Emissary Ghanix that Tithian would have missed if not for the power he was holding. The two men were complicit in some goal of which Tithian was unaware, and that unsettled him.

  As Prime Warlock, magic and knowledge were his powers. It was his job to make sure he was aware of everything. As the politicians left, Tithian thought about what he had heard.

  If the Shandarian Union had pulled out of the Treaty of Three Banks, then both the Union and the Kingdom of Tildem were vulnerable to invasion from the Religarian Empire. Neither nation would survive intact. Kagan was right…it made no sense whatsoever.

  Tithian grasped the golden chain around his neck and held up the Talisman of Archmages.

  A single point of light within a warm, translucent sphere was proof the heir had returned.

  Kagan’s face was expressionless.

  “This was foretold moments ago in the Book of Life,” Kagan said.

  Tithian’s pulse quickened. There was no greater divine revelation than the Book of Life. Holy proclamations flowed from the gods, through the Archmage, to the Book of Life, where they were indelibly scribed in both the Book and the Archmage’s mind. He had witnessed the transfer of divine knowledge several times, as had most Council magi.

  “Praise the gods,” Tithian said and bowed his head.

  “You must not reveal his return to anyone. Not yet. I need to know his intentions.”

  “But this is joyous news. The gods have restored—”

  “King Donal flaunts his heresy in Tildem, while Emperor Relig’s army crosses the Shandarian border on a daily basis. And now the Shandarians threaten to pull out of the Treaty. Three nations at each other’s throats.”

  “You are the archmage.”

  “They answer to me because they fear the wrath of the gods. What if they stop believing? How sharp will my bite be then? What if someone…a Mukhtaar someone…sets my son’s heart on the Obsidian Throne? War comes to Erindor, Warlock.”

  “I doubt—”

  “I’ll inform the Council in my own time. Where is he now?”

  Tithian studied the talisman.

  “Somewhere in the northern provinces of the Shandarian Union.”

  “Find him,” Kagan said. “Before the traitor does.”

  Kagan went to his desk, which was constructed of enough wood to pay the salary of every soldier in the Pinnacle Guard for a decade. He opened a drawer and two dull black spheres the size of fists rolled to the front. He handed one to Tithian.

  It was unusual for Kagan to give someone a translocation orb. The power to travel between two points without moving was a power he reserved for himself.

  “It’s attuned to a location outside of Caspardis,” Kagan said. “Its return point is just outside your chambers…to minimize suspicion. This is an object of power, Warlock. Do not let me discover my trust has been misplaced.”

  “Of course.”

  “There is much you don’t know, regardless of your former allegiances. What lies beyond the white door is my son’s inheritance. I will keep him free of the taint of death magic, even if it means his death.”

  Tithian must have misheard. The archmage would never order such an evil act.

  “If he is trained in necromancy, he will cause more harm than good,” Kagan said. “You must promise me something.”

  “My allegiance is to you…to the gods.”

  “If you find my son has been…tainted by necromancy, you must kill him. Without hesitation. Do you understand? If he is tainted, in the slightest, he must die.”

  Tithian tried to understand. Had the archmage just ordered the death of his own son to further a political agenda? The archmage was Arin’s representative on Erindor and acted with Arin’s authority. How could the gods condone such an immoral course of action?

  “You cannot mean that, Holy One,” Tithian said. “What will
happen if you die without an heir? Only an Ardirian can invoke the Rite of Manifestation. The world will fall into darkness and ignorance.”

  “What makes you so certain I will die?”

  Tithian’s eyebrows rose.

  “It would be better to have no heir than to have a dynasty divided,” Kagan said. “You of all people should know I will not suffer a false archmage.”

  Tithian offered a silent prayer. He had been present, all those years ago, when Yotto, an ambassador from a place called Barathos, informed Kagan of the rival archmage across the ocean. That knowledge led to the creation of the Great Barrier and the banishment of the Mukhtaar Lord, Tithian’s predecessor.

  “You have your mission,” Kagan said. “It’s in your best interests to succeed.”

  Tithian suppressed a shiver. On the one hand he was repulsed by the notion of killing the Ardirian heir. Yet on the other, the voice of the gods themselves had given the order. He looked at the translocation orb in his hand and wondered how it had come to this.

  He took a deep breath. The archmage was the voice of the gods. Tithian was wrong to have doubted, even for a moment. There was no choice to be made. He would follow the archmage.

  “It will be done, Holy One.” He bowed and left the chamber.

  As the massive door closed behind him he studied the translocation orb and thought about Kagan’s orders. His conscience gnawed at him. How could the archmage order his own son’s death? He suppressed another shiver as he offered a silent prayer to Arin.

  Arin grant me strength to be faithful…and forgiveness for what I must do.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A cold slap made Nicolas bolt upright. He touched his cheek where his face stung.

  An older white-haired man with a neatly trimmed grey mustache and goatee knelt beside him. He wore long black robes, and a black scapular, trimmed in a thin red fringe, draped down over his shoulders to the middle of his chest.

  “Good of you to join me,” the man said. “If you’re finished napping, perhaps we can try to stay alive? We can’t stay here.” The man leaned in. “Your eyes…the resemblance is remarkable.”