Necrophobia (10 page)

In the darkened library of the Caelites, Alvis Razakel poured through countless tomes and volumes of lore. The sorcerer remained oblivious to the priests and monks scurrying and the howling blizzard enveloping the stronghold throughout the night. He sat still in the semidarkness lit only by a candle and small lantern. His desk was a mess of piles of books and a crude stack of empty plates and mugs congregating around him. The strain of today had evidently given him a ravenous appetite. The world beyond his desk might as well have not existed, he was unaware of Claire’s approach.

“I thought I’d find you here. What are you doing?” She asked sitting down opposite him on the table.

He didn’t respond for several heartbeats until he shook himself out of his trance.

“My apologies.” He looked up and adjusted his spectacles. He seemed far older now; even in the dim lighting he looked ancient and exhausted. His skin pale and almost translucent; the after-effects of his powerful magic left him drained and withered. Dark rings circled his drooping eyes magnified by the spectacles. “Making notes. I know nothing of this ‘Valdgeirr’ — the dragon Haures slew.”

Claire nodded, noticing the lack of pen and paper around him. He was instead surrounded by half-opened dusty books and stone-cold mugs of tea, steam rose from a fresh one.

“I see you’re feeling better. I didn’t get a chance to explain — Sister Elisa rules that hospital with an iron fist.” A faint smile crossed his thin-lips.

“Aches a bit, but I’m not dead so I can’t complain. Thanks by the way.”

“Least I could do, you helped a foolish old man running in alone like he’s thirty years younger. Could have done with someone like you back then.” He placed his open hand on the table and the warm mug of tea flew towards his outstretched fingers. He drank deep and shook his head. “You did very well in fact, especially without magic.”

She shrugged, feeling a little irritated by the implication. “Lots of people don’t use magic. It’s dangerous and unreliable.”

“Forgive my impertinence.” His weathered hands raised in defence. “Magical ability tends to be inherited; you can use magic but you don’t. Neither are you one of those unfortunate few that are immune to and incapable of magic. I find that unusual.”

Claire frowned and chose her next words with care. “I’ve never needed magic, I manage without it.”

“Certainly you do. However, magic is a tool as much as a knife, or an arrow. You’ve enough wisdom about you to use the correct tool for a job and it’s unusual you would discount perhaps the most valuable tool of all. If you so wished I am sure you could succeed.”

“I tried. I did but every time I tried I… why are you so interested anyway?” She leaned back on the hard wooden chair, the cushions worn thin with age and folded her arms. “I don’t need to explain myself. You’ve been keeping secrets this whole time — you’re lying about taking notes as well.”

“I’ve lived a life of secrecy and I cannot change who I am now and for that, I apologise.” He sat back, his shoulders slumped and he sagged looking hurt by her accusations. “I may have withheld information but I have never lied to you.”

“And your note-taking?”

“When I was young and filled with zeal and idealism I experimented with magic my knowledge out-pacing my wisdom. I was frustrated I couldn’t remember every important detail I learnt so I devised a spell to improve my recall. I was successful and that’s where the problem lies — now I’m incapable of forgetting anything.”

“Sounds useful.”

“I was naive and thought it would be a fantastic idea. Your mind protects you by allowing you to forget that which is unpleasant or useless and to clear your thoughts. I denied myself any such protection and it’s taken its toll on me.” He rubbed his eyes and stared into the distance for a while.

“Can’t you reverse the spell?”

“The results would be catastrophic. I’ve no idea what memory would be lost, what damage I could do to my already weary brain. It’s too late for that now.” He sighed. “I’ve taken an interest in you because you remind me of Eleanor. I remember her as if it was only yesterday and in perfect detail and I think in some ways I owe her.”

A bitter laugh escaped Claire that surprised her. “I have the opposite problem. I don’t remember her at all — I was too young.”

The silence within the now empty library was deafening. The pause dragged on for a while and the sorcerer seemed at a loss for words, his eyes twinkled in the candlelight.

“What was she like?”

“Like you. Driven, clever, set her eyes on a goal and threw herself at it. It made her an excellent Inquisitor and a brilliant magus too, capable of truly fantastic spell-work. Many impressive victories during her career, rogue sorcerers, high profile traitors — you name it. That’s how she met your father, each hunters in their own way. She put aside the dangerous work when she had you.”

“I have tried to learn magic, it’s just every time I try I get distracted and it reminds me of her. It’s difficult to concentrate then.” Without realising it her hand clutched the silver ring on her left hand.

Razakel smiled. “I understand.” He stroked his chin as he watched the snowflakes drift past the window, as the storm calmed. The moons shining through the thick greying clouds in the night. “There’s a way I could show you some of my memories. I could show you what I remember of Eleanor, but I can’t do it here. Not in Caelholm. Perhaps some time in the future.”

“I’d like that. You’ll be leaving soon I imagine, chasing the dragon and the Inquisitor.”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve been chasing him across the continent, he’s a slippery snake I’ll give him that.” He waved a hand at some of the open books. Leaning forward she could see all sorts of symbols: most of them were eyes, some spiked eyelids others recurring motives of eyes watching, one seemed to be an owl’s face with a third eye.

“What’s that one mean?” She asked pointing at the latter.

“It’s a symbol he keeps using between the different cults he creates and stirs towards his goals. The three-eyed owl. It’s been common in different forms for over twenty years.” The venerable sorcerer rubbed his weary eyes and stifled another yawn.

“Any idea what it means?”

He handed her the book allowing her a closer look, the third eye raised and in the centre of the owl’s facial disc. “Owls are often symbols of death and omens of the afterlife in many cultures, messengers of the gods, sometimes said to deliver souls. Often a lot of spectral sightings I’ve investigated are simply the common barn owl. Brilliant, beautiful creatures. They’re also believed to embody wisdom and knowledge. That seems to be the Inquisitor’s goal so far; he’s interested in collecting knowledge and lore rather than destruction.”

“Knowledge on what?” Claire said as she leafed through the tome. Pages upon pages of cult symbology and common recurring beliefs.

“Death. The dying, the undead, vampirism, the soul, the afterlife. Like Morveil I suspect he’s acquired some form of immortality, but how I do not know.”

“They hated each other. Why work together?” She tapped the mahogany desk idly with her finger, her brow furrowed. “Didn’t he mention a master of some sort? Perhaps they were forced to work together.”

“Very possible. This attack today wasn’t like any of his others, whomever Haures claims to work for seems to have different goals to the Inquisitor himself. When left to his own devices the Inquisitor is far more devious, far more subtle in his pursuit of forbidden lore.”

“Interesting. What does the third eye symbolise? Seeing what others cannot seems too obvious.”

The man shrugged and rubbed at his tired eyes once more. “Sometimes the simplest solution is the best. For all their secrecy and codes, most cults aren’t as subtle as they think they are.” He rose up and gathered some of the books and wrapped his cloak around him. “I must retire to my quarters, the day has taken quite a lot out of me I’m afraid.”

“You look rougher than I feel.”

He smiled. “And please, don’t be offended about my questions earlier. I meant nothing by it, use magic or don’t it’s your choice. I’m just disappointed with my students this year, slow-witted and arrogant the lot of them. They don’t have half your energy. Except for one of them, of course.”

“Students?”

“I have tenure, up at the Imperial Academy of Magic. When I’m not hunting rogue necromancers, that is.”

Interesting.
She thought,
perhaps I should enrol for a magic course.

“One last question, before you sleep.” She asked as he turned to leave again. “Earlier, when we first met. I saw an owl. That was you wasn’t it. That’s how you reached me so fast.”

His smile widened. “Good night Claire.”

I knew it.
She packed up her possessions and headed towards whatever bed Amelia had managed to arrange in the chaos of today.

Over the following days with the storms subsided and the dead laid to rest the port of Caelholm settled back into a routine. Trade ships came and left exchanging goods and food. Famed for its yak meat, furs, native herbs and spices trade thrived. The closure of the Spellstone mines in recent times dented their trade output but a fortuitous unveiling of a nearby iron mine revitalised their efforts. Cheaper and more affordable weapons and armour flooded the local blacksmiths. Sevaur Soranus crossed the cobbled defrosting streets, mindful of the black ice and passed the church in the centre of town. Labourers and repair men and women worked tirelessly to repair the damage done during the undead invasion, repairing roofs, replacing doors and sweeping up the shattered glass. With the winter months soon approaching a sense of urgency drove their actions. The gentle winds carried the scents of the port-side market, fresh fish and oils mixed in with the sea-salt air. He turned a corner leading towards the wooden and stone rows of houses where he lived when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. His hands reached for the sheathed sword but he stopped upon seeing the beaming face of Claire Acestes behind him, with an eager and self-satisfied grin that was almost contagious.

“I’ve been looking for you.” She said. Steering him away and towards the streets heading to where she and her father lived.

“You found me.” He shrugged.

A grin like that always meant trouble with Claire, usually a dangerous trek across the island or finding some gods-forsaken cave network buried beneath the snow. She had a taste for adventure that seemed insatiable, a taste he shared to a degree. He jumped at any excuse to leave the stable village life and wander around. He drew the line at some of her more reckless stunts, crossing chasms over rushing rivers of melting glaciers or attempting to scale sheer cliff-faces. It wasn’t that he was a coward just that he enjoyed being alive and in one piece. They encouraged each other but Sevaur knew Claire relied upon him sometimes to know when something was too far, too absurd even for them.

“Cheer up.” She nudged. “I’ve found something interesting.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” He grinned back at her. In truth he was eager to do something interesting and avoid sinking back into routine, but it never hurt to stagger his eagerness.

“I was digging in the basement and found some of my mother’s old stuff. You know records and evidence from the Inquisition. That sort of thing.”

He paused and looked at her. Her long brown hair flowing loose around her shoulders, some of it pinned back behind a red bow. As ever she wore her blue-woollen dress and white thermal wool stockings. She wore a gold trimmed colour around numerous furs from local wildlife against the bracing cold. Evidently her hunting outfit was still being repaired and cleaned.

“I thought you said that was kept under lock and key.” He shook his head and they continued on-wards. Taking care to avoid the villagers hauling timber panels down the narrow streets.

“Yeah, it was. I was flicking through some of her old spell tomes and logs. It’s amazing really, the things she tracked and killed. Some of her last investigations were in vampire cults throughout Kriegsfeld.”

“With you so far. You mentioned she was an Inquisitor?” He asked carefully. They shared a lot of history and secrets but Claire almost never mentioned her mother, in part this was because of how little she’d known about her mother. Her father kept the details sparse, her death had been a big shock to him and he’d closed himself off and never fully recovered from it and Claire in turn rarely asked. It wasn’t an issue of trust or shame, just that it was a painful topic for both of them to discuss. He’d always respected their privacy in that regard, and in return they’d never questioned some of the skeletons in the Soranus family.

“Yeah, but the real interesting thing is that not long before she had me she tracked and purged some minor death cults, back on the mainland. Minor necromantic rituals, speaking with spirits and that sort of thing. They were wiped out and the Inquisition closed the case.”

Sevaur listened in silence as they reached her house and unlocked the door. Taking off his snow-covered boots they descended into the basement. He’d been in there once or twice before and it made him anxious every time. Jorge Acestes, a proud hunter kept some of his most prized kills in the basement, stuffed and lifelike. Bears, wolverines and the head of a great-white wolf mounted throughout the dingy basement watched them with fixed grins. Their glassy eyes reflecting in the flickering light from the lantern. Sevaur was twenty-three placing him almost three years younger than she was but he was old enough to not jump at shadows or be intimidated by taxidermy. However, recent events on the island left him on edge. With the resurrection of the dead still bright in his memory, a dark basement filled with the bodies of vicious animals seemed to be asking for trouble.