by Nat Russo
Mujahid nodded toward Sinclair, who was lying unconscious in the middle of the room. “Aren’t you going to wake your friend? He’s had a long enough nap on the citizen’s gold, don’t you think?”
The guard shook Thomry. “On your feet, you useless dandy.”
Thomry rose. When his eyes came to rest on Mujahid he backed away.
“He thinks he’s tough,” the guard said. “So I’m putting him in with the rest.”
They led him down a winding tower staircase and through a hall lined with rubble from years of continuous earthquakes.
Mujahid felt the first stirrings of power as they approached a pitted stone door. It wasn’t much, but he welcomed it.
The door opened with a loud creak, revealing an unkempt graveyard beyond.
Mujahid smiled. He wouldn’t have to wait for the crypt after all.
When he stepped over the threshold, a pulsating wave of necropotency washed over him and filled his well. Now they would learn their mistake. Now they would feel the wrath of a Mukhtaar Lord.
“Tell me,” Mujahid said. “Was the necromancer taken through here as well?”
Thomry snorted. “Do you have any idea how many bodies are buried here?”
“Oh yes,” Mujahid said. “A very good idea.”
The ground erupted in front of them as Mujahid raised a penitent. A skeletal warrior, wielding two long daggers, clawed his way up through the dirt and was on his feet within seconds.
Mujahid lived a lifetime in a single moment. When the stream of images stopped, he gained control over the skeleton before the guard had a chance to react. He sent the skeleton into the passage across the graveyard and turned to face his captors alone.
The symbol of ascension ignited, and he wove threads of energy through several symbols of power, bringing them together in a symphony of mystical forces. He turned his gaze to the guard, who was unsheathing his sword, and unleashed a cone of disease. The guard crumbled to the ground, clutching his throat, as his skin turned black and erupted in pustules. He was dead within moments, and the stench from his rapid decomposition overwhelmed the graveyard. The guard was a fleshless skeleton before Mujahid could face Thomry.
Thomry screamed and slapped Mujahid with an open hand.
Mujahid shook his head. Thomry was a waste of life force, and he was going to change that.
The symbol of ascension pulsed, and Mujahid sent a thread of energy through two symbols he hadn’t used in a long time. With a simple act of will, he hurled their combined necropotency at Thomry. When the energy struck, a vortex of arcane power formed between them and lifted Thomry off the ground.
Mujahid took a deep breath in preparation for what would follow.
Thomry’s life force drained, passing through the mystical maelstrom into Mujahid. The primal power of the vortex lifted Mujahid off the ground until all of the force was absorbed. Thomry’s lifeless corpse fell to the ground, dried and shriveled, as if every drop of moisture had been squeezed out of him.
The energy coursed through Mujahid’s body, rejuvenating cells that had begun to decay, and repairing aged muscles and tissue. He opened and closed hands that had been arthritic. A burst of adrenaline made newly strengthened muscles quiver, and his back straightened. He looked down at his arms and hands and marveled at his newfound flexibility. His long white hair, hanging down into his face, darkened until it turned jet black.
Mujahid’s youth had returned. The vortex collapsed and his feet touched the ground once more.
He ran toward the sound of strangled screams coming from a doorway across the field.
Corpses of guards and servants paved the hallway inside. His penitent had turned it into a slaughterhouse.
An image of a man clearing a path with a machete flowed into Mujahid’s mind—his penitent was making the fortress safe for him.
Mujahid ran down the hall in the direction the skeletal warrior had gone. He heard a clash of metal and shattering bones, and the necromantic link vanished.
He channeled necropotency into a nearby guard’s corpse and the body rose.
“To the plaza,” Mujahid commanded. “Leave nothing alive except my friend.”
The undead guard turned and ran, sword in hand.
When they reached the plaza, Mujahid saw the bloodstained sand between the flogging poles. This wasn’t good. He had seen enough public floggings in his day to know there wasn’t much time left, if the boy had been flogged already.
Mujahid and his penitent wove their way in and out of the streets of Caspardis in a southerly direction, toward the docks that ran the length of the south end of the city.
Bells began to toll. The garrison must have raised the city alarm.
Mujahid swore when the docks came into view. He was too late. The ship that carried Nicolas to what was likely his death had already sailed.
Torn between a futile dash to the harbor and escaping detection by the city guard, Mujahid chose the latter and ran back into a small side street. If the garrison swarmed him, it didn’t matter how many symbols of power he had, they’d defeat him by sheer number.
He released his penitent and the corpse dropped to the ground, concealed behind the corner of a building. The dagger in the guard’s belt could serve as a last resort, so he took it and hid it in the sleeve of his robe. He dusted himself off and walked out into the throng.
He crossed the plaza, keeping his eye on the arch that led out of the city. He had to get through the gate before the Authority ordered Caspardis sealed.
Two guard officers in Shandarian long coats emerged from a side street and ran to the gate. Within moments the portcullis slammed shut. Someone must have discovered the carnage in the fortress. Again he was too festering late.
This was going to be a blood bath, but he had to get out of the city
The dead guard wasn’t close enough to draw necropotency from, so he’d have to get creative this time. Guards had spread out along the base of the wall, and six of them stood post at the gate under the arch, including the two officers. More were emptying into the plaza, and Mujahid’s chances were growing thinner every moment.
The guard in the northeast corner of the plaza was the last in the row, and therefore the least likely to be noticed. Mujahid hunched to hide some of his height and started walking. He wanted to radiate a sense of weakness and vulnerability so he wouldn’t startle the guard, but his newfound youth would betray him if he wasn’t careful.
When he was within speaking distance, he folded his arms, tucking his hands into his sleeves.
“What causes the alarm?” Mujahid said.
“Don’t know. We were just told to double up, is all.”
Mujahid stepped closer until he was an arm’s length away. He didn’t want this to take any longer than necessary.
“You were all in such a hurry. Did you run far?” Mujahid said. The guard was young. He must have entered the city watch as a new recruit this year.
The guard shrugged. “What’s far? Was down at the dock, so suppose some would say that’s far. Not far for the guard. We march three leagues a day. Full gear.”
“I don’t usually have the pleasure of speaking with the city guard. What’s your name?”
The guard smiled and began to speak.
In one deft motion, Mujahid unfolded his arms, sliced the dagger across the guard’s throat and placed it back in his sleeve before the guard started bleeding. With his other hand, he pushed the man against the wall, propping him up in an effort to draw no attention from the people passing by.
“I’m truly sorry, young man,” Mujahid said. “Know that your penance will be short and your reward great.”
Life slipped away from the guard until Mujahid was certain he was holding a corpse. His well of power started to fill, but escaping the city was going to take more power than this. There were more guards here at the main gate than in the fortress.
He willed the guard back to life.
When the flood of images stopped, he knew the de
ad guard better than guard knew himself. The boy’s sentence would, indeed, be a short one. He was a kind soul.
He felt a cold sensation at the center of his chest, and dismissed it. Killing the guard had upset him more than he cared to admit.
Kill them, you fool. Feel sorry for yourself later.
Mujahid sent his new penitent to kill the next guard. The penitent decapitated his former comrade, and the headless corpse dropped, filling Mujahid’s well further. They made their way through six other guards, and by the time anyone noticed what was happening it was too late for the remaining gate guards.
His penitent waded into battle, and Mujahid released a cone of disease that dropped two men to the ground. Mujahid grew stronger with each death, and his chest grew colder, but if he didn’t find a way out of this soon, the size of the guard force alone would overwhelm him.
The guards across the plaza had noticed the fight and were getting closer. He wove fire together with wind, preparing to unleash a storm of flame in the plaza, but he stopped when he saw the people. Killing the city guards had added enough penance to his soul for one day. He wouldn’t add mindless slaughter of innocent civilians to the tally. If he didn’t get past that gate quickly the death toll would continue to rise.
He wove a thread of power through disease and shield, binding them together into a single deadly purpose. He cast them forward into the air, and a green cloud materialized between him and the oncoming patrols. It was risky. The slightest breeze would disperse the crude wall, and he’d be just as vulnerable if the wind changed direction.
He sent a small amount of necropotency into his throat to amplify his voice. “This can end without your deaths,” he said. His voice reverberated off the buildings. “But if you attempt to stop me I won’t hesitate to unleash hell on this city.”
The coldness in his chest became concentrated at a single spot, as if icy water had dripped onto his robe. He felt his chest, but there was no dampness.
His warning had fallen on deaf ears. The first patrol hit the wall of green sickness and fell to their deaths, clutching their throats as their bodies erupted in blisters of puss. They were young. Too young to know what it meant to face a necromancer in battle.
The wall weakened. Mujahid wasn’t sure it would withstand another hit. He turned to the arch and ignited the symbol of ascension.
“By Arin, his eyes,” the older of the two officers said. “He’s a Mukhtaar Lord. Retreat!”
At least the leaders have some festering sense.
His chest was much colder now. Something was wrong. He was upset, but not enough to make him feel as if there were ice in his robe. The blood drained from his face when he realized the source. He reached into his robe and examined the Talisman of Archmages. It had grown cold, and the inner light was extinguished.
He staggered. This couldn’t be possible. The words of the prophecy given him by the goddess Shealynd ran through his mind.
“In Erindor’s time of greatest need, He Who Walks Between Worlds will come to bring down the sky. The banished lord from Paradise will cradle him like a babe until the water takes him….” He couldn’t finish the words. It was too painful.
He didn’t understand. The prophecy was specific. The barrier would come down, and Nicolas would be the one to do it.
The rage he kept at the center of his being began to boil and bubble to the surface.
No. I can’t release it. Not yet.
With measured breaths, he quelled the storm inside until the rage was back in its place, bound and shackled, where it would stay for as long as Mujahid could manage to keep it there.
A cry of pain drew his attention. Only one guard remained at the portcullis, and Mujahid’s penitent was making short work of him.
The symbol of ascension glowed in his mind, and he released a thread of power into the telekinesis symbol. He cast it forward, grasped the gate’s locking wheel, then spun the wheel around until the portcullis began to rise.
When the portcullis was high enough, he ran and slid under it.
The undead penitent attempted to follow, but Mujahid released the locking wheel, and the portcullis crashed back down, trapping the penitent inside the city.
Emotions warred inside Mujahid. How could the gods allow the boy to die? For decades he had carried that prophecy with him, and now this?
Caspardis would be held accountable. Kagan would be held accountable.
He absorbed as much necropotency as he could and prepared to level the city. He warred within himself, as if another consciousness had entered his mind and took control—an evil and twisted consciousness—forcing him to observe from outside of his body.
They’ll write songs about this day.
Images from the guard’s life entered his mind and wrested control from the evil that was directing his actions. These weren’t random thoughts. They came from his penitent through the necromantic link.
Caspardis wasn’t the source of evil in this world. They were every bit the victim that Nicolas was.
The rage subsided and it was as if the foreign consciousness released its hold on him. He allowed the necropotency to spill back into his well of power.
Gods, what was that? If some entity ever took control of me, the power they’d wield would be…
He stopped himself and shook off the disturbing feeling.
“It seems you have been my priest on this day,” Mujahid said to his penitent, who was smiling at him through the portcullis. “I release you, my friend. Your penance is at an end.”
In a burst of radiance, the undead guard transformed into pure spirit.
“Thank you, Mujahid,” the spirit said. “But know that you have incurred some penance yourself on this day.”
Mujahid smiled at the spirit. “You don’t know the half of the evil I’ve wrought upon this world, friend. My penance will be legendary.”
“There is a force that will consume you if you do not complete your ascension.”
Mujahid squinted. “Explain your—”
The spirit vanished.
What could that mean?
Mujahid turned and ran toward the coast, determined to bring the barrier down alone if necessary. He’d have to puzzle out the mystery some other time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tithian sat on the edge of his bed, hoping he was wrong.
He had turned his back on everyone he cared about because he believed the archmage was the voice of the gods. But how could the gods speak lies? Perhaps Kagan wasn’t their voice after all. That could be the only explanation.
He closed his eyes and recalled a conversation with Lord Mujahid in better times.
“Faith is wonderful to have when it is well considered,” Mujahid had said. “Never allow another to do your thinking for you.”
“‘But what of faith, my Lord? You ask me to set aside centuries of revelation in favor of my own conclusions?”
“The gods gave us Faith, yes, but they also gave us Reason.”
“Faith is more valuable, obviously.”
“And on what measure do you base that decision? Did you somehow reason it out, or is it mystical knowledge that requires faith? How are we to decide which is the measure of the other?”
“The archmage is divine. It’s blasphemy to suggest otherwise.”
“The archmage is a man, and that is a fact you forget at your own peril. There will come a day when he reveals his true nature, and if you hold him in too high regard, you may not be able to accept it when it happens. If you build your faith on the foundation of a single man, what will become of that faith when the man crumbles under the weight of his own sin?”
Tithian opened his eyes and donned his favorite boots. They were worn and threatening to fall apart, but he had a hard time letting go of them.
In hindsight, the Mukhtaar Lord’s words had been prophetic. The image of a perfect archmage who communed with the gods and served the good of humankind seemed naive after the things Tithian had witnessed. He had built his
faith on a foundation of sand, and now that sand was shifting.
He couldn’t continue to serve a man and an institution that he doubted. He would give the archmage one more chance to prove his divine nature, and then he would act…one way or another.
He considered the dual nature of the role he played at the Pinnacle. On the one hand he had to be a docile man, devout in his beliefs, and fierce in his devotion to the Archmage. But on the other, he had to be a cunning man who understood manipulation and how the powerful kept their power. The two natures had become tightly-woven, and he was adept at switching roles as the situation required. But in all his years at the Pinnacle he never expected to use those skills against the archmage.
No, not against. He may still prove himself true.
Docile Tithian would never be able to ferret out the truth. That Tithian would be subservient and unwilling to ask the questions that needed asking.
But cunning Tithian would have no such problem.
He approached the wall on the other side of the storage alcove in his quarters and performed the opening ritual. He knew where he had to go and what he had to do when he arrived. He only hoped that what he saw wouldn’t shatter what was left of the foundation of his faith. He had precious little sand to spare.
“This treachery cannot be allowed to stand, Holy One,” said Chal Ghanix, the Religarian Emissary.
Tithian could see and hear everything within the archmage’s private study through a necromantic lens the size of a man’s head. The necrolens made the wall look as if a perfect circle had been cut out of the stone, but no one would know he was there. A necrolens was undetectable to all but its creator.
Ghanix was in the middle of an unofficial audience with Archmage Kagan. Tithian always tried his best to ignore these secret meetings, but he couldn’t anymore. If a meeting was taking place between two heads of state, he needed to know why, even if that meant ignoring Kagan’s prohibition of necromancy. Reason told him the archmage was planning something best kept secret, but faith made him cling to the hope he was wrong.