Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles

by Nat Russo

  The flowerless rose bushes had seemed dormant, but now they bore the most gorgeous roses Kaitlyn had ever seen. Perfectly formed, the deepest red, enormous—at least the size of her head—and fragrant beyond any flower she’d smelled before.

  Kaitlyn glanced up at the statue and gaped.

  Though the figure in the statue wore different clothes, and had brown hair instead of red, there was no mistaking the face.

  It was the face of the woman who had led her here.

  The nameplate on the statue read “The Goddess Shealynd”.

  She glanced down at a stray rose at the base of the statue and bent to pick it up. It must have blown off of the shrub.

  Footsteps on the path told her she wasn’t alone.

  A man with long dark hair smiled at her. He wore a midnight blue robe. He raised his left hand, touched his thumb to his chin, and extended his little finger. As he pulled his hand away from his face, something materialized next to him.

  But what she was seeing made no sense. Standing before her was a giant, walking fish. It had enormous eyes that turned independently of each other, and they focused on her, examining her from head to toe.

  There was something non-threatening about both of them, though. The man, though he didn’t seem familiar like the woman, exuded an aura of care and protection.

  “Hello,” Kaitlyn said. She took a few steps to get closer to the man, but she stopped and jumped back.

  The decapitated head from her dreams appeared between her and the man. It was the head of a woman with auburn hair, and she wore a scowl.

  In her dreams, the head stayed still, and it didn’t appear angry. But this time, she glided toward Kaitlyn quickly, like a predator swooping in to attack.

  Pain erupted at her temples as the dizziness took her.

  She fell next to the roses, and her vision went black.

  Nicolas stood before the massive double doors that opened into the Council Chamber. His nerves were getting the better of him.

  Tithian was by his side, going over details of the installation ceremony with several other council magi. Nicolas wished Kaitlyn could be here, but the rules were strict. No non-council personnel allowed. He hoped she was enjoying her walk. Tithian had assured him that she would be safe on the Pinnacle grounds. These were different times than when he had left.

  Still…how was he supposed to calm his nerves by embracing his cet if his cet was off strolling through the tulips on a nature hike?

  And where the hell was Mujahid? He’d hoped to introduce Kaitlyn this morning. But as usual, the man was off on some mysterious chore. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn Mujahid kept secrets from himself.

  Nicolas took a deep breath and peeked into the Council chamber.

  It was every bit as impressive as he expected it to be. The room was like a miniature colosseum, oblong with stadium seats. A marble banister, split in places to allow people to enter the stadium, separated the seats from the large open area in the middle. It was as if the room and everything in it, except the banister, were carved from sandstone.

  In the center of the chamber, a series of steps led up to a raised platform on the far end of the room. Nicolas’s eyes followed the steps, up past a wooden podium, to the blackest of black objects. The Obsidian Throne. It wasn’t much more than a black chair. Sure, it was a big black chair, but there wasn’t anything fancy about it. Just a seat, two arm rests, and a tall back.

  Next to the Obsidian Throne was a small table with two objects; a chain of office and a zucchetto—the form-fitting skullcap worn by higher-ranking Catholic clergy. Well, he was sure they didn’t call it a zucchetto here, but that’s what it was nevertheless. And he didn’t like it one bit.

  Two liveried pages distributed a pamphlet of some sort as council magi entered the chamber. Were those programs?

  “You’re making that face again, Archmage,” Tithian said.

  At least Tithian had stopped calling him Holy One.

  “Do the robes fit well?” Tithian asked.

  Nick held out his arms and examined himself.

  “I look like Kagan,” Nicolas said. “Same damned robe.”

  “One, it’s only a uniform,” Tithian said. “A symbol that everyone understands and respects. And two, it’s not the same damned robe. Dead Kagan is wearing the same damned robe, remember? That’s something you need to change, by the way. We can’t have him running around wearing official robes anymore.”

  Nicolas agreed and sent the command through the necromantic link.

  “Done,” Nicolas said.

  “And three,” Tithian held a finger in Nicolas’s face in an uncharacteristic display of assertiveness. “It’s not the robes that make the man. It’s the man who makes the robes.”

  “Well, I appreciate your—”

  Sergeant Diggins, the guard who checked on Nicolas the night before, ran up behind them, panting.

  “Archmage,” Diggins said. “I came as quickly as I could. Just like you asked.”

  “Ahh,” Tithian said. “I see you’ve already met Sergeant-at-Diggins.”

  Diggins blushed.

  “It’s okay, Diggins,” Tithian said with a smile. “We all get flustered now and again.”

  “Thank you, Prime—”

  “But for future reference,” Tithian said, “if you’re going to interrupt someone, it is me and not the archmage you should interrupt. Protocol, Diggins. You address me if the archmage and I are together, and preferably not while the archmage is speaking.”

  “Understood, Prime Warlock.”

  “Now, what is it you would like to say?”

  “Archmage, I found Lord Mukhtaar.”

  “Mujahid?” Nicolas asked.

  Diggins nodded. “I told him you were upset that you didn’t get a chance to introduce the Lady Kaitlyn to him, and he promised to seek her out on the grounds.”

  “So he won’t be attending the ceremony?” Nicolas asked.

  “Lord Mukhtaar said you’d be better served by Prime Warlock Tithian and the Council magi.”

  Nicolas looked down. It was difficult to conceal the disappointment.

  “Thank you, Diggins,” Tithian said. “If there’s nothing else, that will be all.”

  Diggins saluted and walked away.

  “I understand why you feel close to Lord Mujahid,” Tithian said. His voice had softened. “But I promise I’ll help you through this.”

  “It’s not that,” Nicolas said, placing a hand on Tithian’s soldier. “Trust me. You’re the bee’s knees of Prime Warlocks.”

  “I’m…not sure how I feel about that.”

  “It’s a good thing. Means you’re a decent dude and I have a great deal of respect for you.”

  “Well…thank you, Archmage.”

  “I’m worried about him, that’s all. He was a man with a single purpose for forty years, and now that’s just…gone.”

  “Ahh, I see,” Tithian said. “I’ve known Lord Mujahid for many years, and believe me when I tell you he’s a man who finds purpose where most of us wouldn’t recognize it. He’ll never tell you this, but he has a heart the size of the Pinnacle. And it’s that heart that keeps him away from your installation ceremony.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Consider this. He’s a Mukhtaar Lord. As much as I know he wants to attend, if he enters those chambers, all eyes will be on him from beginning to end. He wants this to be your day. And, in some ways, mine as well.”

  “See?” Nicolas said. “Like I said. The bee’s knees of Prime Warlocks. I feel better already. But can we get this show on the road?”

  “There are times I feel as if I need a translator,” Tithian said.

  Nicolas stared into the chamber, nerves threatening to get the better of him again.

  “You’re going to do fine,” Tithian said. “I’ll precede you and make my way up the dais. When I announce you, you enter the chamber, climb the dais, and stand beside me. You’re not officially the archmage yet, so I’ll seal
the chamber without your permission and begin the ceremony myself. And that will be the last time in our relationship that happens. Ready?”

  Nicolas nodded. “But just so you know, I’m not wearing that funny hat outside of that room.”

  Tithian smirked and entered the Council chamber.

  A voice yelled “Tithian Bel-Enrog, once and future Prime Warlock.”

  The hundred or more magi in attendance stood in unison and the room grew quiet.

  Tithian faced them when he reached the top of the dais.

  “Magi of the Council,” Tithian said. “I present to you Nicolas Murray, formerly Ardirian, heir apparent to the Obsidian Throne.”

  This was it. Nicolas entered the chamber and kept his eyes on Tithian. The place smelled sweet from the incense, like a mixture of frankincense and sandalwood.

  A loud thud told him the Pinnacle Guard had closed the heavy stone doors behind him.

  For the love of god, don’t let me trip over these robes.

  The climb up the dais set his nerves on edge with every step. The higher he climbed, the sharper the stares of the Council’s eyes on his back became.

  “Magi of the Council,” Tithian said. “We have come here today to perform a ceremony according to Arin’s law. Let the chamber be sealed!”

  “May it be as you command,” the Council responded in unison. Nicolas hadn’t been expecting that, and he jumped at the chorus of voices.

  A wave of necropotency emanated from Tithian, giving Nicolas mental goose bumps, as if someone had tickled his mind. The giant stone doors sealing the chamber took on a yellow glow that grew in intensity then vanished, leaving a yellow echo in Nicolas’s vision.

  With the amount of power Tithian had used, Nicolas was pretty sure it would take an army to bust down those doors.

  “The chamber is sealed,” Tithian said. “Nicolas Murray, before you lie two symbols of the office you seek. The chain, by which you bind us to Arin’s holy words. And the qiyaaht, by which you protect and safeguard our knowledge of the faith.”

  Key-yacht sure is a funny word for zucchetto.

  “These are symbols that cannot be given,” Tithian said. “You must take them upon yourself, free of compulsion, free of doubt. And so we ask you, Nicolas Murray, heir apparent, to spend the next few moments in prayer with us before you take them up.”

  Everyone kneeled and Nicolas followed along. It was odd, being asked to pray to Arin. And it was another offense that would make him worthy of a catechism uppercut from one of the nuns back home.

  Nicolas, a voice said in his mind.

  Nicolas held his breath. He remembered that voice. It was Arin.

  You embark on this journey during perilous times, Arin said. I warned you of this the last time we spoke.

  But what should I do? I don’t know how to be an archmage! I don’t know how to fight a war!

  Be the person we chose, Arin said. Take your rightful place in the world, the place few think possible, and the fog will lift.

  And with that, Arin’s presence vanished from Nicolas’s mind.

  But something had remained behind.

  A sharp burning sensation struck his mind, and he turned inward. Fiery text emblazoned itself inside his well of power, beneath the symbols of the skull and the arrow—the keys to unlocking his necromantic power. When the fire dimmed, and the letters turned black, he recognized the text. It was the last thing Arin had told him. Take your rightful place in the world, the place few think possible, and the fog will lift.

  Nicolas didn’t understand what had happened, but as the black letters faded away, he knew one thing with certainty; he couldn’t forget those words if he tried. Just thinking about them made them reappear.

  “Rise,” Tithian said. When he looked at Nicolas he raised an eyebrow.

  Nicolas kept his eyes forward. He had no idea how to tell Tithian what had happened.

  Tithian continued. “If you accept the responsibility placed on you by Arin, if you choose to be the one who binds us to his holy will, then take up your chain of office.”

  Nicolas studied it for the first time. It wasn’t elaborate or jeweled like he had expected. It was a gold chain, with large links, terminating in a medallion that had a bas-relief of Arin’s Helm carved into it.

  Funny hat and a big ass medallion. Great. Now I’m gonna look like Flavor Flav in choir robes.

  There was no turning back now. He picked up the chain and placed it around his neck. When he released the chain, the Helm of Arin glowed yellow for a moment, then faded.

  And from the expression on Tithian’s face, that wasn’t expected.

  Several Religarian magi dropped to their knees, and others prostrated themselves wherever they could find room.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Tithian said. From the tone of his voice, and the way he stumbled over the words, it was clear he had gone off script. “Arin’s holy presence has blessed us this day. Please. Rise. The ceremony is not over.”

  The magi hesitated, but one by one they stood. Their facial expressions were different. No longer were they struggling to get through a tedious ceremony. Now it was clear they were witnessing something mystical, and their demeanor had changed accordingly.

  Tithian faced Nicolas. “If you accept the responsibility placed on you by Arin, if you choose to be the protector of our ancient faith, then take up the qiyaaht and place it on your head.”

  The qiyaaht was black, broader than a zucchetto, and it didn’t have a stem on the top. It also extended farther down around the head.

  Nicolas placed the qiyaaht on his head and let go, expecting it to glow, or hum, or do something else that no good hat should do. But nothing happened.

  Tithian nodded toward the throne and Nicolas sat.

  “Magi of the Council,” Tithian said. “Let it be known throughout the Three Kingdoms that Nicolas Murray, formerly Ardirian, first of the Murray dynasty, has taken upon himself the symbols of office and now sits on the Obsidian Throne as our archmage.”

  The Council chamber erupted in applause, and the sudden outburst startled Nicolas enough to make him smile. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he waved at everyone.

  As the applause settled down, Tithian continued.

  “Magi of the Council, let it be known…what is…”

  “Tithian?” Nicolas asked.

  “My seal,” Tithian said. “It’s been…banished.”

  “I don’t care who’s wearing what, push that door open!” Mujahid yelled.

  Nicolas stood as the giant chamber doors swung open.

  Mujahid entered, and all eyes turned to him. His face was different. Nicolas had never seen him this concerned.

  “Archmage,” Mujahid said. “You must come quickly.”

  “What is it?” Nicolas asked.

  “It’s the Lady Kaitlyn. Something’s happened.”

  Nicolas ran down from the dais and followed Mujahid through the doors.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1The Power reached into his being and pulled the gods from within. 2The first he named Arin, for Arin was his exalted firstborn. 3The second he named Shealynd, for Shealynd emerged from his Love. 4The last he named Zubuxo, for Zubuxo was last in all things.

  - The Mukhtaar Chronicles, attributed to the prophet Habakku

  Origines Multiversi, Emergentiae 4:1-4

  It should remain ever at the forefront of the student’s mind that the Origines was not written by the gods.

  - Coteon of the Steppes, “Coteonic Commentaries on the Origines Multiversi” (circa 520 RL)

  Nicolas was frantic. He had no idea where to go, so he followed Mujahid and Tithian as they ran through twisting passages to one of the many infirmaries in the vast palace-city.

  The layers of ceremonial clothes did nothing to ease his chill.

  “What do we know?” Nicolas asked. “What happened?”

  “She was found unconscious by a Pinnacle guardswoman and taken to safety,” Mujahid said. “I was on my way to find her at the time
.”

  “This is my fault,” Nicolas said. “I should have never left her alone!”

  “We don’t know anything yet,” Mujahid said.

  “She’s probably exhausted from the journey,” Tithian said.

  “You weren’t exactly the model of stability when you first arrived,” Mujahid said. “I seem to recall you complaining about headaches…between rounds of vomiting all over yourself.”

  “Can you help her?” Nicolas asked.

  Mujahid glanced at him. His eyes held a seriousness Nicolas hadn’t seen since they were captured by the Shandarian Rangers.

  “You know I’ll do what I can,” Mujahid said. “But we don’t know anything yet.”

  “Turn left here,” Tithian said.

  Nicolas had gotten ahead of them and had to backtrack to make the turn. Passersby acted as if they didn’t know whether to bow, kneel, or salute.

  It was strange, moving around the Pinnacle like this. The last time he was here he had to disguise himself as an Arinian priest and sneak around.

  “It’s fine, everyone,” Tithian said to the crowd.

  “You have some teaching to do,” Mujahid said.

  “Sure you don’t want that job?” Tithian asked. “You walked in these boots once.”

  “Kagan required no instruction on how to be pompous and arrogant.”

  “You can teach me anything you want after Kaitlyn’s okay,” Nicolas said. “Let’s worry about one thing at a time.”

  Tithian pointed at a door across the wide hallway, and Nicolas went first.

  The entrance to the infirmary was no wider than any other door in the hallway. That is to say, it was narrow. Whoever had built the room had something other than an infirmary in mind. Stacks of furniture leaned precariously along the walls, and a table turned on its side was the only thing keeping them from toppling.

  “Odd place for a hospital,” Nicolas said.

  “Forty years of quakes and disease made us improvise,” Tithian said.

  The rectangular room was the size of three or four old classrooms smooshed together, and three rows of beds provided little walking space between them.