Necrophobia (6 page)

“No sacrifice is too much. Our master conquers death itself. Pain and death are fleeting, temporary.” The man continued, cackling to himself. The other, dour-faced man winced at the mention of ‘master’, it was subtle. So subtle she’d almost missed it. Whatever foul pact they had it seemed there was an unspoken disagreement, a difference of opinion or goals. Interesting she thought.

“Faith and sacrifice are the cornerstones of what we do today.” He smiled, or perhaps assumed he was smiling. The rotten man’s faced twisted and twitched, pulling itself into a pained rictus. “We shall be rewarded. Immortality is within our grasp. The master has promised it so. And it is with your aid we’ll accomplish this. And of course, our friends here.” He turned to face his Caelite army and bowed towards them with an out-stretched hand, gnarled and rotten almost to a claw. As one the assorted bodies mimicked his motions, jerking and twitching as they did so. Like a puppet controlled by less-practised hands, bowing towards the kneeling cultists. Their burning emerald eyes and leering death-masks remained static as they rose.

“Enough Morveil. Before you talk us to death.” A low murmur of laughter passed through the kneeling cultists, or at least those with the free will to do so. The armoured man’s eyes never left Morveil’s scarred and rotting face. Barely restrained hatred shone through. “The deed is not yet finished. You—” He pointed toward a group of the nearest cultists. “Assist me in the ritual. The rest of you stand guard. The Caelites will figure us out soon enough.”

He turned and stalked towards the slain dragon and knelt before it, ignoring Morveil’s petty and childish sneer. Dipping his fingers in its fresh blood he began a series of complicated symbols into the snow. Beside him four cultists stood watch around him, chanting in a language Claire couldn’t make out over the storm.

“Claire.” Razakel whispered behind her. His breath and what little colour he had returned.

“There’s too many of them. We should fall back and summon help.” She whispered, risking another glance. The cultists not assigned to whatever blasphemous ritual wandered in small groups watching the tomb, the undead too staggered aimlessly around.

“Not quite. The undead far outnumber the cultists. We take them out it’s a much fairer fight.” He knelt down beside her. At least twenty cultists were still present, not counting the two leaders.
Fair fight indeed
…she thought.

“We can’t take out the undead without raising suspicion.” She countered but the sorcerer smiled and shook his head.

“We can. Use your bow and take out the rotting one in the coat. He’s the one controlling and summoning them. Take him out the undead will die with him.”

She peered past the fallen plinth, the rotting man — Morveil stood near the other leader arguing over something. The kneeling man paid little attention to him and continued the ritual. The Caelites were miles away and she had no idea how long the ritual might take.

“I’ve…” She hesitated, feeling foolish. “Never killed before. Not a person.”

He smiled and placed another reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I envy you, I really do and I’m sorry to ask this of you. They’ll sense my magic, the air is too charged. We need to strike with the element of surprise.”

“I know, I know. He’s evil. Just give me a few moments.”

“I’d do it myself if I could. You’re a better shot than me and to be honest with you? My joints aren’t what they used to be.” He flexed his wizened fingers with a faint cracking noise on cue. She smiled at this. “Shoot Morveil, I’ll take care of the rest. If it helps he’s not really alive anymore. Or a person. He’s little more than the undead he’s commanding.”

Looking at him she could believe it. The undead though disgusting were products of decay and poor preservation; but that man seemed twisted by something foul, something far worse. He lacked the flaming eyes of the others but looked no less dead.

“I’ll do it. I know it’s stupid but—”

“—No.” Razakel silenced her. “It’s not stupid at all. I understand completely Claire. I wish I’d hesitated half as much as you have. All these years, all the work I’ve done, always for the greater good. I’ve had to kill so much I
forgot
it should be difficult.”

She smiled and nodded. Though not without noticing a curious emphasis on the word forgot. But she reasoned there was a time and place for things and they had a ritual to stop. She retrieved an arrow from her quiver and refastened her arrow-guard to her chest.

“Once he’s down I’ll neutralise the cultists.” Razakel said. He walked across to another plinth staying out of sight. She could see him muttering beneath his breath preparing more spells and enchantments.

She drew the bow back, the arrow primed and aimed at the lurching abomination still deep in argument with the other. In the eye of the storm the winds were less severe and the range optimal. She controlled her breathing, repeating training mantras within her head to calm herself and focused. She let loose and the arrow flew straight and true. Morveil twitched as the arrow stuck his temple and he collapsed into the snow without a word. Around him the undead twitched and spasmed as the green fire extinguished. Their now lifeless bodies collapsed into the snow and panic struck some of the cultists. Their enthralled kin did not react and continued patrolling. She saw the armoured man curse and glance around but he was too involved in his ritual; he couldn’t interrupt his spell. Claire realised she could end this with another arrow — if Morveil resurrected the dead perhaps the other enthralled the cultists. Killing him might free them and sow more chaos.

A group of three cultists advanced towards her hiding spot, knives drawn and shouting to each other, her fingers trembling with adrenaline as she fumbled for another arrow. Razakel appeared from cover, his hands arcing with electricity and eldritch energy. He pointed a finger towards the advancing cultists who swore, and focused their attention on the approaching sorcerer. A blinding bolt struck them with thunder, the explosion sent them flying into the stone plinth, the bodies smoking and motionless. More distant shouts and exchanged magic blasts across the desecrated tomb. Claire aimed her bow once more and let loose another arrow this time towards the kneeling man. His hurried chanting and ritual inscriptions keeping him out of the fight. As the arrow flew towards him he reacted faster than she could see and snatched the arrow from the air with a snarl and snapped it with one hand. The other still tracing arcane and unholy symbols into the snow with blood.

“Defend me!” He roared to the clueless cultists standing around him, their own chants interrupted. Unable to look away he swung his fist in a rage, on reflex she dove to one side. A split second later countless icicles embedded themselves in the rock where she’d been moments before; each shard buried deep into the solid rock. She ran forwards dodging more icicles and tendrils of green energy unleashed by the cultists as Razakel strode through the carnage deflecting their attacks and blasting them apart in a tranquil fury. Claire watched in horror as the body of Morveil twitched and rose yanking the arrow from his rotten brain with a sneer, brown fluid oozed out of the wound.

“You’re finished Razakel!” He cackled, shoving an electric-blue stone into his mouth and swallowing with childlike glee. Even from a distance the stone was unmistakable — Spellstone, crystallised magic common throughout the world and mined here on this very island. A powerful and dangerous magic restorative that could boost a users magic to obscene levels with the small price of almost certain death and extreme damage to the mind and body. The undead Necromancer consumed a lethal dose with glee, his undead physiology heedless of the risk. Morveil twitched and shuddered as he rose into the air, arms out-stretched, green tendrils of flame extended from his body and writhed and wormed their way into the fallen Caelite bodies. The green energy burrowed into their brains like over-sized spectral maggots and the bodies spasmed, gasped and groaned.

The cultists watched their leader in a mixture of fascination and horror as the levitating abomination radiated magic and an aura of malevolence Claire had never felt the like of. Razakel seized the lull in incoming magic to unleash devastating bolts of incandescent energy sizzling through the snow and chilling air towards the cackling, insane necromancer. Each bolt burned straight through his rotten flesh and exploded into the rock behind him. The mind-altering Spellstone consumed his mind as unspeakable power lashed through his corpse of a body.

“Stop laughing and kill them you idiot!” The armoured man shouted, still immobile in front of the dragon. Flecks of spectral energy gathered around him now, as the air around him crackled. His ritual nearing completion.

“Oh Haures, always the killjoy.” He mocked, pointedly ignoring the barrage of magic tearing into him. Any cultists near him were not so fortunate and were shredded and fell smouldering to pieces.

The undead nearest Claire rushed towards her with renewed vigour. Too many to kill with her bow, not enough arrows and closing in from all other directions she had no other option but to press through their lines. She drew her sword and rushed towards them, dodging a bolt of heated lightning by mere centimetres, more by luck than skill. Their blasts were always preceded by a tingling as the air around her became charged and her hairs stood up. There was no way she could dodge a bolt otherwise. The nearest swung towards her with its spear she ducked past it slicing with her sword ready to intercept the second. Their strength was inhuman, Claire never fancied herself as much of a swordswoman and she’d lose in an exchange of strength so she played to her agility. Strong as they were they were slow and uncoordinated, she sliced and hacked into them whilst dodging their glacial spear thrusts and swings. Unable to block the sheer force of their blows she turned them aside with a parry and used their own momentum against them. She rushed towards Razakel cutting a path through undead flesh and witless enthralled cultists to aid him, he was tiring and fast. The high altitude still sapping his energy; his face reddening and his breaths shallow and short. Morveil seemed content to glide towards him and unleash waves of green energy in their direction; revelling in his power and toying with his prey. A beginner’s mistake, she grinned. He was powerful but foolish and predictable. So wrapped up in taunting Haures and Razakel he failed to notice the dwindling number of undead or the cultists dying around him.

“Claire! Go! Get Inquisitor Haures. I’ll handle Morveil!” Razakel shouted as she neared him blocking more sickening green tendrils of energy from Morveil with another translucent blue bubble.

“I can’t! You can’t hold him much longer.”

“Trust me.” He looked up at her pleading. “Go.” She nodded and lead the last few undead away taking cover between the stone plinths and fallen masonry. Morveil advanced on him, still cackling.

“She’s right you know. You’re weak and old. I am immortal. You can’t kill me!”

Claire tried to ignore his taunts as she threw herself into a dodge-roll from another bolt of lightning. “Damn the Caelites and their lightning!” She cursed between ragged breaths.
Why do they have to specialise in that? You can’t dodge it! Give me a fireball any day
. She thought bitterly, as she worked her way towards the kneeling Inquisitor. He was unguarded now, the cultists once defending him lay smoking in the melted snow. His focus never wavering from the task at hand.

“You know nothing of magic, Morveil. Nothing.” Razakel said, his voice calm and measured as his blue translucent shield began to fade.

Claire ran towards the Inquisitor her arm pulled back ready to impale him, she could hear his muttering now, desperate and hurried. The energy gathering around the fallen dragon intensified with each passing second. Her sword halted mere inches from his back striking some invisible force; despite the cold air surrounding them the blade began to glow and melt.

“Stay out of things that don’t concern you girl.” Haures said with a distant voice. “This is not your fight.” With a single open palmed gesture Claire rose off the ground, carried by that same invisible force. Unable to move.

“You’ve made it my fight!” She spat back. The more she struggled the tighter his telekinetic grip became.

“The smart hunter picks her battles. I learnt that one from your mother.” He replied with a silken voice, not deigning to look at her. “She could appreciate the bigger picture.”

“You know nothing about her!”

The man beckoned with his free hand and she floated closer against her will. “I know all about her. In some ways it might be fair to say she created me.” This time he turned to face her so she could see the sincerity in his lined face. “I owe much to her.”

Behind them more bolts of magic met waves of green energy and exploded as Morveil was almost upon the weakening, kneeling Razakel.

“Stay out of my way.”

He turned his attention back to the heresy at his feet. Before Claire could respond with any number of biting, hateful retorts on the tip of her tongue; The Inquisitor flicked his wrist to shoo her away. She was thrown several metres away from him, hitting the ground hard despite the padded snow. Dazed and recoiling with pain she tried to sit up. Nearby her sword lay melted and useless, her quiver snapped off and just out of reach. As her vision cleared she could see Razakel’s blue shield fade as he struggled to stand before the hideous Morveil before him.

“I told you, you’re finished.” The levitating abomination spoke with unconstrained glee. “After all these years, you’re done.”

Razakel looked up, a wide smile on his face. “Come now Morveil, you should know me better than that.”

Morveil cocked his head quizzically. “I know one thing that you never seem to understand. I know when you’re beaten.”

The sorcerer took a long deep breath and shrugged. “No. You don’t.” His left hand shot out and grabbed Morveil who squealed in surprise. With a mocking, polite smile Razakel gripped the man’s face tight causing his skin to darken and solidify. The necromancer’s claw-like hands grabbed at the sorcerer’s robes but could not find purchase as his movements dulled and he became still. Like the Caelite statues around him he was now solid stone, his face frozen in a beautiful mixture of hatred and confusion.