Necrophobia (5 page)

“Sevaur!” An unmistakable booming voice sounded across the street even over the constant clash of magic and undead.

Jorge Acestes, proud father of Claire and expert hunter ran towards him. Jorge was a bearded giant of a man, taller than even Reiner and wider too. His chest a barrel of muscle and hair. He towered over Sevaur. The Knight-Errant both younger, smaller and stockier even in the dull-grey plated mail and ramshead pauldrons Sevaur couldn’t match the width of the man.

“You seen my daughter? Been looking everywhere!” Jorge boomed again. His large brown eyes wrought with concern; framed by his bushy brown hair slicked back into an untidy ponytail.

“Sorry haven’t seen all her all day.” Sevaur replied. “Last I heard she said she was going hunting.”

“Blast it all!” Jorge cursed and shifted in place. Sevaur was grateful for the bulk of the man blocking out the worst of the cold wind. His thinning purple cape threadbare offered little warmth.

“Something wrong?”

“She’s after that damned wolverine. I warned her not to!”

Jorge was an uncomplicated man; not stupid by any definition but he kept his life simple. He lived to hunt and was always a friendly face in the village — always willing to lend a hand or an ear when necessary. His greatest concern was his only daughter, Claire. Even aged twenty-five and a hunter of perhaps equal or greater skill he was protective almost to a fault. He respected her independence but she was the only family he had left and like any father his daughter meant the world to him.

“Wolverine? She’s taken those down before. She’ll be fine.” Sevaur’s face cursed with a perpetual smile failed to reassure. Jorge did not share his amusement.

“It’s not a wolverine!” He yelled as another gust of wind whistled past them. “It’s a werebeast in the shape of a wolverine! I was trying to hunt it myself but—”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I’ve been checking around, no wonder it’s so damn smart. Reckon it was someone from this village, years ago — decades even. Must’ve gotten cursed.”

Sevaur hesitated. Curses were almost unheard of in Caelholm. But a werebeast could have an easy time hiding on the island in the miles and miles of forest, the tundra to the north and the mountain ranges. All he knew were that they varied from person to person: some became werewolves, others werebears or any other animal you could imagine. The animal they became — the nature of their transformation all different depending on the person. No two werebeasts were the same.

“Even so, she’s a smart girl—”

Jorge reached into his hunting jacket and removed one of his many knives without a word. In a single fluid motion he threw the knife towards Sevaur spinning end over end. The blade spun passed him and embedded itself into the skull of a heavily decomposed body dragging itself towards them. Its shuffling and groaning advance lost to the overbearing sounds of the gale-force winds racing across the sea and cutting through the village port.

He mouthed his thanks. The hunter waved his appreciation away and clenched his jaw, the worry never leaving his eyes.

“Your brother up at the temple?” He asked staring at the distant shapes of the fortress-stronghold in the mountains. “I reckon they’re hit just as hard as us.”

“He’ll be okay.” Sevaur replied. His brother was a lot of things but when it came down to it — his dedication, almost obsession made him difficult to take down. Though never the bragging type he’d always won their duels and sparring sessions. He trained and perfected his craft to the exclusion of almost everything else.

“Soon as we’re finished I’m going to find my daughter. You’re welcome to join me.” Jorge yelled as he trudged through the mounting snow towards the church. Sevaur followed pulling his cape close around him, between the biting cold and the sweaty intense pockets of fighting he was at risk of exposure. He opened his left hand revealing his intricate metal gauntlet. Though dulling with age it was still intact and conjured a small ball of flame between his fingers. The heat washed over him blowing in the strong winds but refusing to extinguish. With careful control he tended to the flame as they turned a corner and stepped over the fallen bodies of the undead. As long as his concentration did not waver the flame would warm but not burn him. They neared the church defended by the few remaining warriors and guards, the steps littered with corpses and rotten brown flecks of blood. Fresh snowfall masking the worst of the horror.

“Looks like we’ve got our help after all.” Jorge yelled back to him. Pointing in the distance with his huge fingers at the two squads of Caelites rushed towards the village, spears drawn. “About time!”

With the help of the fresh Caelites the last few pockets of fighting soon fell silent and the bodies removed. Cremation was uncommon in Caelholm — the followers of Adranos preferred it and few Adranites ever frequented the island of Caelumons. Given the circumstances the villagers made an exception. In theory all gods were worshipped here but most chose one god above the others to identify with; only paying lip service to the others. Captain Remus fresh from the Temple-Stronghold insisted with the Bishop on behalf of Knight-Commander Rhae that it was a necessary action. Sevaur couldn’t agree more; it made sense to deny their enemy any further resources. As the survivors constructed the pyre he left the village towards the gate where Jorge awaited him.

“Hold up one second, Soranus!” Captain Laelia Remus appeared behind him and lifted her visor out of her eyes. “Looking for your brother?”

He nodded.

“Safe last I saw, the Commander sent both him and Captain Stavros to the burial grounds at the summit.”

“What’s up there?” Sevaur asked, and realised how foolish the question was. It was a burial grounds. No wonder.

“Trouble.” She replied. “Stay safe.”

“Laelia, you seen my daughter?” Jorge cut in as he walked towards them. “She’s out there somewhere.”

“No sign of her, sorry.” The captain replied. “Only people I’ve seen are within the order. Any idea where she is? We could perhaps spare a small search party?”

“She could be anywhere.” Jorge bit his lip. “I’ll find her.”

“Like I said she wasn’t at the Temple. Perhaps she took shelter in the mountains. She’ll turn up, don’t worry. I have faith.” She nodded and ran back towards the pyre.

“Faith never helped me when I needed it most.” Jorge grumbled and trudged towards the forest; Sevaur trailing behind him and said nothing.

With the final ascent visible atop hundreds of snow and ice soaked stone steps, Claire and Razakel advanced with caution. The ancient arches built into the mountainside shielded them from most of the biting storm winds. Ever thankful for her insulated hunting outfit, woollen undershirt and warm leather gloves as the snowflakes swirled around them.

“We’re near the eye of the storm.” Razakel mused, his voice thin over constant barrage of blowing air.

“Are they summoning this storm?” Claire asked. As the snowstorm swirled around the summit unleashing its wrath upon the surrounding mountainside she half-hoped Caelus would smite them from its sacred temples.

He advanced forwards shielding his eyes. “Not intentionally. Magic of this magnitude tends to disrupt the weather.”

“You sound impressed.”

He turned with a wry grin. “Perhaps I am; I respect their abilities but I do not respect their actions. Their abhorrent blasphemy ends today. You understand that I can tell, you’re a hunter. You respect the prey you hunt that’s what keeps you clear, what keeps you balanced.”

The elderly wizard had a point she conceded. Part of the hunt was the thrill of it — the life or death situation; the other was testing her skills against worthy opponents. She would always hunt the dangerous prey if she could and she respected them; she never hunted for fun. Always necessity — always for food or because of the danger they posed. Never wasteful; never indulgent. It was never a game.

“I suppose so, but—”

The loud unmistakable roar of a dragon silenced her. The roar deep and pained tore through the surrounding area reverberating through the solid rock and cutting through even the maelstrom of snow and ice above them. The ground shook in protest as the roar trailed off.

“That’s not good.” Razakel shouted as he experimented with understatement.

With astonishing speed and agility for an old man he ran up the steps towards the summit directly towards the distressed dragon. Claire followed; shouting at him to stop. Whatever subtle magic Razakel was using she lacked, instead settling for a more careful approach. One slip on the ice — one misplaced step would be all it took. She fought through both the rattling wind and the temptation to look down that steep climb. Snowflakes blinding her and stinging her eyes, her nose and face numbing from the cold. Exhaustion already rearing its ugly head. She realised it was the altitude; the thinning air robbing her of her strength. The mountain was far from the tallest on the island at least, she had some experience with high altitude but never ascended this high. Mountain sickness — the headaches and dizziness a constant threat; only the Caelites and their apparent mastery of the air and skies managed without difficulty. Ahead of her she saw Razakel pause and stoop to catch his breath — the altitude catching up with the stubborn sorcerer.

“Take it slow.” She managed through ragged breaths. “You’re not a mountain climber.”

He cursed beneath his breath. “Foolish of me. I should have known.”

She laughed as she caught up. “It takes weeks of practice and acclimatisation. You can’t rush it.”

He watched her, his worn pale face and icy blue eyes staring up at her with a twinge of embarrassment. “I have to—”

“No.” She interjected. “You need to listen. You rush up there without getting your breath back — with no preparation. You’ll die. How can you hope to best them like this?”

He coughed and spluttered; in an instant the confident wizard seemed ancient and weary. Old and tired.

“Stay here. I’ll scout ahead then come back for you.”

Claire turned and walked up the steps without awaiting a reply; leaving him to catch his breath. He was clever enough to listen at least, humble enough to accept her wisdom though he seemed more driven than stubborn.

She passed through the eye of the storm at the top of the steps and slunk behind cover. The tip of the burial grounds relatively exposed to the open air. Whilst the tombs themselves were sheltered from the worst of the elements; different sections opened into the sky. The site was lined with ancient snow-covered statues of Caelite men and women standing proud. Resplendent in their draconic armour, their horned helmets, and spears they watched on in silence. In the centre a blasphemy unfolded. An ancient noble dragon of Caelus, a huge winged creature with black scales and extended razor-sharp spines tracing down its back. Those wings powerful yet almost translucent despite their thick scales with an unthinkably large reach lay stretched across the floor. It’s elongated face covered in wounds visible even from a distance, it’s eyes cold and unblinking staring upwards into the sky. It’s mouth lolling open revealing hundreds of pearl-white teeth, glistening like icicles and soaked with drying red blood. The dragon was dead. Surrounding it stood its tormentors and signs of a devastating battle. Nearby plinths, statues, arches and tombs lay shattered and burned. Hundreds of still smoking bodies lay around the creature, either burned to a crisp or torn to pieces by those powerful claws. An undead army had risen and fought the dragon and died in their hundreds but eventually the noble creature, overwhelmed and weakened succumbed to their weapons and magic. She crept closer, two men stood out amongst the bodies in front of the cloaked and kneeling forms of more cultists and thralls. They were an odd pair, one tall and dour with greying hair. Armoured in silver-grey plate mail and wrapped in a black travelling cape of his own he stood tall and proud. The other resembled nothing so much as the undead they’d fought throughout their ascent, his face shrunken and tinged with decay. His eyes sunken and darkened, his movements erratic and twitchy. His blonde hair thin and ragged. Rather than armour the grotesque man was wrapped in a leather coat strapped tight with bindings and straps, almost as if to keep his rot, his malice contained. Surrounding him leered the resurrected and twisted bodies of the Caelites and their best and brightest, their former commanders and any other that survived their climb. A small army awaited them.

“Brothers and sisters. We’ve won a hard earned victory.” The taller, armoured man spoke. “Though not without sacrifice. Like all things—”

She circled behind cover trying to get a better view. Some of the kneeling cultists were blank-eyed and watched almost without seeing. Enthralled and ensnared to the will of the two before them. Others seemed unaffected and fidgeted and looked around, some shivered in the cold.

“—Our master ordered us to deliver the dragon and we will be rewarded.” The rotten man interrupted, eliciting a glare of pure hatred. His voice high-pitched and callous, somehow it felt colder and more chilling than the mountain itself. There was a cruelty, an indifference in his tone that left her on edge.