Vol 8, Chapter 1

◆ Border with the Theocracy, Lands of Count Neuss, City, Ordinary Patrol Sergeant POV ◆


Pitch darkness had fallen over the small town. The torches, diligently lit by the guards, did little good. They barely illuminated five meters beyond the locked city gates.

In contrast, the castle of the local lord, Count Neuss, shone brightly. Rows of iron posts, filled each evening with lamp fluid, burned with vivid light, illuminating the marble path to the castle.

It could not be said that the Count was completely stingy; he had funded the construction of some modest town walls, while most other lords believed their castle walls were more than enough.

Yet every evening, when the sergeant turned and saw the lord's castle blazing while the rest of the town drowned in darkness, he felt a deep resentment. After all, they had to patrol the town armed with nothing more than smoking torches.

"Seems someone is coming," came the watcher's voice from above.

He strained his eyes into the darkness, perched on a rickety wooden platform above the gate. Naturally, their little town could not afford the luxury of a proper gatehouse.

The sergeant sighed and headed toward the rickety ladder that led up their low wall. In such moments, he always regretted that the lord had decided to build a wall at all.

Grunting, he climbed up and carefully squeezed his way toward the duty guard sitting in the "chicken coop." Unfortunately, with the wall only a couple of bricks thick, it was hard for two men to pass each other.

Indeed, guests had gathered before the locked gates. A group of six travelers, their clothes torn and dusty—looked like a family. Several men and women of varying ages. Cloth sacks, a handled chest, and a hunched, bandaged figure leaning on a cane, respectfully supported by two young men. The deep hood made it impossible to tell the figure's gender, but for some reason the sergeant felt certain it was an old man—the head of the family, judging by the deference shown by his grandsons.

The flickering torchlight also made details hard to make out, but everyone looked terribly exhausted.

A girl approached the gate, holding a bundle. A child?

"Could you open the gate?" Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she'd swallowed dust.

"I'm afraid I can't help. The gates remain shut until dawn," the sergeant answered sympathetically.

"But how… it's dangerous outside!" the traveler pleaded.

Which was the plain truth.

The border of the Theocracy lay not far, and its rulers were far too lenient toward the creatures of the woods. Before the wall was built, there had been occasions when starving beasts attacked their patrols.

"They won't come close to the gate," the guard reassured the travelers.

The duty man nodded in agreement, pointing at the boltthrower lying at his feet.

Unloaded, of course. Springs wore out if kept wound too long.

"The nights are cold, we have nothing to make a fire with…" a man rasped, joining the conversation.

As if to confirm his words, a cold gust of wind struck the sergeant's back, slipping easily through his chainmail. Even here in the south, nights were getting colder and colder; through his padded undercoat the wind carried an icy chill. The north was probably already buried in snow.

He pitied the travelers, who had miscalculated their journey and failed to reach the gate before sunset… especially with a child among them. In any case, their town had no elaborate inspection system; in the morning they would be let in without trouble. But it was not within his power to make such decisions.

"We have money," the woman added, shaking a purse with one hand while clutching the bundle tightly with the other.

"Maybe I should go fetch the captain? Let him decide," the watcher suggested, his eyes greedily fixed on the purse.

The sergeant gave him a nod. So be it. This way, the responsibility would not fall on him, they would do a good deed, and perhaps earn a coin on the side.

Perfect.

As the duty guard awkwardly climbed down from his perch, the sergeant decided to question the travelers. After all, it wasn't often that an entire family traveled together.

"What is your purpose in coming to our town?" the sergeant asked first of all, scrutinizing the travelers' clothing. With their rags and the shadows flickering constantly, it was hard to make out anything concrete, but the sergeant would have sworn they were not from the Kingdom.

"Grandfather Nazim suffered terrible burns, and the holy fathers refused to heal him because he was a hunter. Our family decided to gather our belongings and leave, to have him treated by mages. Afterward we want to pay respects to the lord, to offer the cores Grandfather collected in exchange for the right to work his land."

Nazim? A strange name, more fitting for a djinn. Then again, these were only the second refugees from the Theocracy he had seen in his life; perhaps such names were normal for them.

But something else caught his attention…

"Don't mention this to the captain. Wealth attracts trouble," the sergeant warned.

"Thank you for your advice," the man rasped in reply.

"How far is your village?" the sergeant asked.

Strange—everything seemed in order, yet some inner unease pushed him to keep questioning.

"Our village is ten miles from here, across the border," the woman answered, but with each word her voice grew hoarser, until gurgling undertones seeped in.

Again, everything sounded logical. The distance was far enough to explain why they arrived at night, yet close enough to justify traveling with the whole family. But still, something gnawed at him.

"A couple of days ago, a larger group of refugees already came to our gates, spouting nonsense about ghouls until an inquisitor took them away. On your way here, you didn't encounter anything suspicious?"

"Khheh, khheh. Don't worry about that, it was just a shadowspawn romping near the village," the bandaged elder spoke for the first time. His voice sounded creaky, almost… lifeless.

From behind came the heavy tread of armored boots. The duty guard had fetched the guard captain from the tavern. Alone. Clearly, the captain didn't want to split the profits of this little side deal.

The travelers began haggling sluggishly with him through the locked gates, while the once-chatty woman suddenly fell silent.

The sergeant climbed down from the wall. He knew they would soon have to shift the heavy bar and open the gate. Even with three men it was difficult—the thick wooden planks were lined with steel plates and studded with rivets.
...
Ha.

Worse still… they had to open the gates with only two men. When the captain struck a bargain and waved his hand to signal them, he didn't even think to help!

Together with the duty guard, the sergeant pulled back the massive bar and heaved against the gate. The hinges groaned loudly.

The passage slowly widened, just enough for a man to squeeze through.

The cold wind that had been blowing at their backs suddenly shifted, and the sergeant was struck by the unmistakable stench of rot. The old man must be in a dire state—he clearly needed a healer.

The travelers stumbled toward the opening clumsily, tripping over each other. Up close they looked even more weary and apathetic, their faces devoid of expression. They were like wax masks, and the sight stirred unconscious revulsion.

The hunched elder, either gurgling or muttering a curse, struck the gate with his rag-wrapped cane to draw the guards' attention.

"Easy there, old man," the duty guard cautioned.

"You should have opened it wider," the cloaked figure rasped, striding toward the captain.

The sergeant turned back to the travelers and, almost without thinking, touched the hilt of his sword. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but beneath the rags he thought he glimpsed blood. He couldn't check, though—the captain pocketed his coins and waved his hand.

"Close them!"

Closing the gates was even harder than opening them. Seizing the iron rings, the two men pulled with all their strength, but for some reason the gate didn't budge. The heavy door stood frozen in place, utterly immovable.

"Damn it all… may they fall into the Abyss!" the sergeant spat.

Perhaps something had jammed them? There had to be a reason the gates suddenly refused to move.

While the duty guard threw his weight against the panels, shoving with his whole body, the sergeant removed a torch from its mount and held it to the hinges for a closer look.

In the flickering light he saw not gleaming steel, but flakes of solid rust. The hinges looked as if they had lain buried in the earth for years.

"What the…" he muttered, touching the hinge with his hand.

Crack! The hinge snapped, and the gates, which only moments before had stood firm, collapsed forward onto him.

The sergeant instinctively leapt aside, his chainmail sparking as it scraped the cobblestones. Too slow!

The heavy slab of wood and steel fell like a giant jaw, crashing down on his lower body. Amid the thunderous crash of the gates hitting the ground, not even the crunch of bones could be heard.

Dust billowed, clogging his nose and lungs. He tried to lunge forward, but realized he was pinned fast. Trying to push with his legs did nothing—he simply couldn't feel them.

He strained to look around but saw only the duty guard's outstretched hand and a spreading pool of blood. The fallen gate had smeared him across the cobblestones. The sergeant struggled again. Useless. He wouldn't free himself alone.

"Help me!" he called to the travelers, but they only stared back with unblinking eyes. No emotion crossed their faces. They stood like mannequins. They didn't move. At all. Not even a chest rising with breath.

The dead don't need air.

From the square before the gate came the tramp of soldiers' boots. A nearby patrol could not have missed the crash.

Four with torches in hand and one with a crude, angular boltthrower. They hadn't even closed half the distance when green light flared. The four dropped to the cobblestones like cut grass.

The fifth, slightly behind the others, escaped instant death. He recoiled, fumbling frantically with the lever at his belt, trying to cock the spring, but a moment later he too collapsed lifeless.

Three townsfolk from the nearest houses, who had dared to peek from windows or step outside, met the same fate.

Within a minute, silence and stillness reclaimed the square.

The sergeant didn't dare breathe, terrified of drawing attention.

He looked for the captain but saw the old man bent over his body. In his emaciated hands, instead of a cane, gleamed a bone staff… and those bones looked far too human.

Strips of bandage had unraveled, revealing coal-black skin stretched tight over bone.

The captain's body twitched convulsively, armor plates scraping against the stone. A minute of agony, and the captain began to rise.

Only the split lip from the fall and the blank expression gave away that something was wrong.

The old man snapped his fingers.

"Umnn srgkhe dokhledlb bloghrda," the captain croaked, his words garbled, bubbling in his throat.

"Bad. Again," the necromancer rasped.

"Umgtna retnrto do khe lorhda…"
"..."

"..."

"..."

"…Urgent report to the lord," the corpse finally pronounced, almost cleanly after ten attempts. Ignore the rasp, and even the sergeant might not have noticed anything amiss.

Clumsily, the captain lifted his helmet and shoved it back on, hiding his vacant, indifferent stare.

The old man and the captain walked off silently toward the castle, leaving the sergeant in the company of the living dead.

Deprived of their master's focus, they grew dull. The men dropped their chest, which turned out to hold nothing but rocks. The woman's bundle tumbled to the cobblestones without care.

Something animal flickered across their faces—almost conscious. Hunger.

Clacking their jaws, they shuffled off into the streets. But the woman, scenting blood, drew closer to the sergeant. He strained to drag his sword from his belt—barely managing it.

Strike!

Her leg buckled under his cut, and she fell on him, teeth sinking into his chainmail. She couldn't pierce it, but it hurt all the same! The sword was too long—he had to grip the blade to stab. He jabbed frantically, tearing her flesh, as cold, jellylike blood splattered him. Offal spilled everywhere again, but it did no good.

Breaking teeth, the corpse just kept biting.

The gate grew heavier on him, pain lancing through. A moment later another figure pressed from behind, sinking teeth into his shoulder.

Crowds of the shambling dead flooded into the town, burying it beneath their icy bodies. Strength ebbed from the sergeant as cold spread through him.

For the last time, he lifted his head and saw the shining castle on the hill swallowed by darkness.

If only the lord hadn't skimped on those damned lanterns…

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◆ Castle of Count Neuss, Former Necromancer and Now Lich Nazim POV ◆

Dawn.

Smoke billowed from the blackened castle.

"Being a lich is not eternal life, but eternal death," rasped the former necromancer to his staff, now crowned with the fresh skull of the Count.

In life, Nazim had not been a talkative man, but now, in death, he tried to appear so. He clung to what still tied him to humanity.

The dead do not speak. And he was not yet a corpse. He hoped he was not yet.

But even so, he knew—it was all pointless.

No matter how long he delayed the inevitable, death would consume him completely, leaving only bare reason. One day he would realize there was no point in pretending to be human in any way... and that would be the final line.

The necromancer rose indifferently from the ground, surveying the emptied town and the chain of corpses stacking human remains around the castle. He tried to summon some echo of feeling, but his bones did not even register the icy wind, let alone guilt.

He pulled a flask from his belt and awkwardly attempted to take a sip with his mummified throat. The bandages soaked with water, seeping through the flesh Dastan had torn. The King had not cared to preserve the necromancer's body when elevating him into a lich.

The fallen master of death tried to recall the thirst he once knew and the satisfaction of quenching it, but in vain. Ironic, that throughout his life he had drawn ever closer to death, feeding on its power. He had abandoned all human things for it, yet now that he had stepped beyond, he searched for something behind him…

Finding nothing, he returned to his work, and much remained to be done.

The Theocracy was the worst place for a necromancer, even though not a single high inquisitor had tried to stop him. Even the weakest novices caused problems, but worse was the absence of mages. From the unGifted he could raise only weak, nearly useless undead, fit only to serve as living (or rather, dead) —shields.

In the Theocracy's forests, he sometimes found more useful allies than in its villages; but there too he was forced to expend them fighting priests who would not tolerate undead rampaging on sacred soil. Nearly all his creatures had fallen in such battles.

Now he needed replenishment. That was why he was here.

It was logical, and therefore right.

The castle's altar had been desecrated, the ruling family slaughtered, and the core drenched in their blood.

Now the magical source lay buried beneath a heap of body parts, waiting for the moment when enough had gathered to awaken into unlife.

He waited long.

Day by day, he expanded the ritual circle, etched runes on bones, reshaped corpses. He had planned to continue for days more, but his plans were interrupted.

In the dead city a guest appeared: a towering knight, over two meters tall, clad in black, sealed armor.

Neither alive nor dead. Neither Gifted nor mundane. Neither man nor beast.

The dead necromancer bored into him with the unblinking sockets of his decaying skull.

Truthfully, he no longer needed eyes. Without them he saw far better, peering deeper than others ever could.

And he saw twisted flesh beneath the armor. Alchemy, Chimerology, Demonology, and Necromancy: the creator of this abomination had fused all four arts with mastery. As if mocking him, the creature's armor bore blessings from a high Theocrat.

Unwillingly, the lich felt a strange aversion to this being and its maker.

His bony hand twitched toward the heart Dastan had carved out.

The knight halted and extended a sealed letter.

And again, the fallen master of death did not need to touch it to read.

You have strayed too far south. Go north. Sir Mirolld will be your protector.

"And executioner," the necromancer rasped.

The knight gave no response, still holding out the letter.

A wave of the staff, and it crumbled to ash in his hands, scattering on the wind. The death wave should have slain him too, but the knight did not even notice the deadly strike.

Irritation.

The lich could not tell if he truly felt it or only remembered what it was to feel. Either way, he was bound to obey the King. There was no chance of resisting a direct command; not while his heart lay in Dastan's hands.

Fortunately, the main preparations were complete, and he could finish his creation on the road.

"So be it. North," said the one who had once been Nazim…

He drove his staff into the heap of corpses. Death shrouded them in a suffocating pall, flesh sliding from bone.

The core flared; the ritual circle closed.

The mound of corpses stirred, wrapping around the castle's core. The first bone dragon came into the world.