by D. M. Almond
Broxlin gave an involuntary shudder.
“Sometimes it was of being young again, and the good times we’d shared with our kin. But too often these would turn into something else, darkness and madness lingering on their edges, waiting to seep in, taking a sick pleasure in our torment.” King Thorgar stood in silence, stroking his beard in a strange way as he reminisced.
A commotion brewed up on the other side of the cathedral, and the king ran past, heading for the gathered gnomes by Ohm’s foot. The companions followed after.
“He’s right here,” Logan heard one of the gnomes proclaiming as they came to the back of the group. The gnomes were short enough for Logan to get a good view of the Hierophant. A yellowed skeleton lay on the steps, hands grasping the hilt of a spear thrust through his torso. It was a relief to see the corpse was not moving.
“Is that him?” Logan asked Broxlin, who was nearby. Alma pushed her way out of the crowd and headed to a pew, tears streaming from her eyes.
Broxlin pursed his lips and gave a slow nod. “Poor lass, the Hierophant was her uncle. Looks like he died defending Ohm’s idol.”
“How can you tell?” Corbin asked.
“Look there, around the steps,” Broxlin said. They were carved out of marble and stained with large blotches of crusted material all around. “Had to be at least a dozen cobolds to leave that much blood behind.”
“Where did their bodies go?” Logan asked no one in particular.
“Not sure we want to know the answer to that one,” Bipp said, giving an involuntary shudder.
He was confused and alone, cold and barren, drifting through the corridors toward some long-forgotten destination. Wisps of smoke and tendrils of grey fog curled in and around themselves as the Necromancer tried to make some sense of his being. For centuries now he had dreamed, locked in his stone tomb, sealed away from the world, shackled from the grasp of his treasure. Distant memories and whispers of dreams circled the edges of his mind.
For so very long he had been nothing.
But now, in these dark corridors, he had awakened. The vessel was left behind, discarded, spending its last strength to tear the tomb asunder, shattering that stone prison and the Necromancer’s old body along with it. He had enough bearings to send forth his call, awakening the lesser minions to distract the infidels who had imprisoned his greatness to begin with.
He needed to buy time, needed to gather strength, needed to find a new host. It was coming back to him, ever so slowly, like the ebbs and flows of a creek. The Shadow Stone called to him, filtering out foggy thoughts. He had to find it, to hold it, to be one with it.
For so long he had been deprived of its brilliance, denied the Shadow Stone’s sweet song, which echoed in his mind like honey and flies. But the barriers were gone now, both holy circles that had kept him separated from the Shadow Stone, him in its outer ellipse and the stone at its center. Some fool had broken the spell, and in that moment all the power the Necromancer had been gathering for ages, all that pent-up hatred and longing, released in a furious bolt of shadow.
As he moved through the castle, his cloying tendrils worked their way around the bones of his enemies strewn about the floor. Awake, my little pets. Come back to me, for we have unfinished business to attend.
He delighted in the torment his awakenings caused, listening to the unearthly cries of tortured souls wrenched from the afterlife and forced back into their painful mortal shells.
Leave us be, let us rest, you wretch, they moaned into the aether. You cruel creature, be gone and let us go back to our slumber.
Each weeping spirit, every pleading victim, filled him with seething delight and orgiastic glee. He was their master, and it gave him profound pleasure to have such power over their pitiful beings.
Silence! You will do as I say! Their souls trembled before his unshakeable control. Go forth and destroy the gnomes, each and every last one of them, but save the king for me. I have something special in mind for him.
As their souls were forced into action, sickly yellow orbs glowed in the skulls of newly animated skeletons. Fingertips grew, unnaturally elongated and sharp as razors. With creaky joints and aching bones, they rose and found rusty weapons with which to do their master’s bidding. Each soul was riddled with agony, feeling the ache and throb of dry brittle bones as surely as if their skin had just been peeled back and exposed to the cold wind that circled their empty rib cages whereever they stalked, the dark bond between them and the Necromancer.
Now he drifted to the sealed door, where long ago they had taken his treasure and hidden it away. But that was before, when it had taken the very life force of the Guild’s master priests to form a barrier strong enough to keep them apart. The barrier was gone now. All that remained was a rotted wooden door, locked from the inside with a wooden beam.
Laughing in his mind, the Necromancer slipped through the cracks of it like a smoldering shadow and gathered himself on the other side. The room was much how he remembered, but he could not say from when or where. This place had been his at one point…but the memory slipped from him before he could grasp it. Nevermind. It was not important.
Ah, this will suit me quite nicely, he moaned like a chill draft of air. On the floor lay the bones of a human priest, one who had possessed great power and force of will in life. He remembered this Acadian. It had been his doing that turned the tide and gave root to the idea of locking away the Necromancer, cutting him off from his true purpose, stopping the spread of his Lord’s will.
The Necromancer seeped into the bones, filling them with the mist, entering through the fibrous pores in the chalky surface. It felt amazing to suddenly be dragged into a corporeal form. Ripples of scorching agony racked his being, and he reveled in it. The bones convulsed, sharply rapping against the stone tiles as he tried to remember how to use a body. The Necromancer flipped over onto his knees and bent over as if he was choking on air. Sharp cracking echoed in the small chamber that was once the inner sanctum of Hublin the Cleric as his bones elongated.
The Necromancer rose, tattered robes clinging to his new body. Crimson eyes lit the black room, illuminating a tall staff with a gargoyle’s skull surrounded by the feathers of a winged serpent affixed to the top.
“There you are,” the Necromancer rasped, his voice as dry and withered as dust. He reached a mummified hand out and clutched the staff. The Necromancer marveled at how small it now looked, when in life it had towered over his head and been cumbersome, but necessary, to wield. He felt the weight of it, searched its core for the dark magic locked within. With his mind, he unraveled that puzzle box, opening a channel between his being and the shadow realm. Energy flooded his body, thickening the skin clinging to his bones until it was hard as bark.
He felt alive, ready for the hunt, ready to begin his task anew. The Necromancer laughed, though it sounded more like tearing leather. He gripped the staff with newfound strength and aimed it firmly toward the black mirror across the room.
“Z’la Æmkù Falqotecha,” he uttered, sharp, heavy words that sounded like steel rods running across bone. A crack of purple light burst from the staff and shattered the murky surface of the mystical mirror. Large shards of black glass fell, breaking into a million smaller pieces that became beetles skittering into the cracks of the tiled floor. Within the hollow frame floated a black stone, faceted like a polished gem.
At long last they were together again! At long last they could be one once more! The Necromancer drifted across the room like a ghost and grasped the Shadow Stone in his greedy fingers. It sang to him, radiant and powerful. There was work to be done. He bowed to it, that vessel through which the power of the gods was his to command, and set to the task at hand.
“It is time to awaken the golem.”
Chapter 16
Up and down the corridors of Castle Ul’kor came the calls of the siren. It began akin to the braying of a pack of starving wolves, rabid to devour any flesh they could find, and twisted in timber until the ve
ry sound of it stung the eardrums of the living.
Logan cringed and covered his ears, trying to scream over the sound. “What is that?”
Raging banshees came whistling down the hall, battering the doors of the cathedral from the other side like angry giants. King Thorgar shouted commands to his warriors. The gnomes piled around that portal, bracing it with their backs as the very frame quaked and rattled against the unearthly forces on the opposite side.
Finally the ear-splitting screams cut out, all at once, leaving behind a mental echo that left Logan feeling disoriented and queasy. He looked around several times before he realized Corbin was trying to talk to him. His brother’s voice sounded muffled, lost behind a ringing.
“What?”
“I said, are you okay?”
Logan nodded and looked around for Bipp. He saw the gnome’s feet sticking out from behind a pew and dashed to the spot. Bipp was on his back between the pews, holding his head and moaning. Logan bent over and helped him sit up, bracing Bipp’s back while the gnome rubbed the back of his head.
“Are you hurt?”
Bipp shook his head and quickly thought better of it, holding still and groaning. “Ugh, got a bottle of bees swimming around between my ears.”
“‘Tis the Necromancer’s call,” Alma said from behind Logan. The priestess was patting another gnome’s back while he vomited on the floor. All around the cathedral, the king and his men were regrouping, shaking off the mental assault the Necromancer had just unleashed. Only Nero stood by unfazed, though at a loss as to what he should do to help.
“It was like he was shaking my insides,” Logan said weakly.
“Dark forces are at work here, my friends,” Isaac brooded.
“I could feel him,” Corbin said. “The foul sorcerer, he did something to the psychic aether, or at least those things he sent did.”
“You were able to feel them?” Isaac asked.
Corbin nodded. “They were some sort of malevolent spectres, dragged from the dark places at the edge of nightmares and sent to find us.”
“Then let’s be happy they weren’t able to break through the cathedral’s gates,” Logan said.
Bipp pulled himself to his feet and gave a woozy nod in agreement.
“I almost sank into the psychic aether to stop them,” Corbin said. “Maybe I could cleanse it from his dark touch and send them back to wherever it is they came from.”
“And a dire mistake that would be,” Isaac said forcefully.
“You think I can’t hold my own against his magic?”
“I think you are pure and noble for even broaching the idea of it,” Isaac said a bit more softly. Logan noticed he was leaning heavily on his staff, relying on it for support. “The Necromancer is wholly unaware of your existence. To give him a hint that a psionicist is in his midst, along with a Master Elementalist, is to invite his unveiled attention wholly on us.
“Alone, this is a formidable enough opponent that we have stumbled upon. But let us not forget, this is no ordinary servant to the shadow, lurking around his black altar and summoning demonspawn. No, this Hublin is an entirely different threat altogether, for he possesses—or more rightly is possessed by—the dark forces of the Shadow Stone.”
“I’m not sure I understand all of what Isaac is saying,” Logan said to Corbin, “but I’m pretty confident it isn’t good.”
“It is not,” Isaac said. “Keep your psionic magic hidden from the dark sorcerer, at least until we can figure out a way to use it that does not end in your death, or worse, induction into his undead ranks.”
Corbin’s eyes were dry and bloodshot. He felt like he needed to drink an entire pond of water to satiate his thirst.
“They’re coming,” Alma screamed across the room to the king. The color drained from her face and she swooned forward. She would have hit the floor face-first if the gnome she was with had not caught her and propped her up. The priestess’s eyes were rolled back in her head, a sight that made Logan’s stomach lurch uncomfortably.
“What do you see?” Thorgar asked.
“His dread ranks are gathering, already they are marching for the cathedral,” Alma said, looking as if she might be sick at any moment. “He knows we are here! The Necromancer knows we are in the cathedral!”
“To the Elium!” King Thorgar shouted. “Hurry now, there is not a moment to lose.”
The gnomes huddled behind the large statue of Ohm. Logan offered to help Bipp make it to the back of the room, but he swore he was better. The five of them joined the gnomes, with Alma and several of the others who had braced the door close behind. At the statue’s base, King Thorgar directed his men inside a small opening.
Logan could feel the urgency in the king’s body language as he waved them on. He had to duck to fit through the cramped entrance and was surprised to see it open into a sharply curving tunnel that led past the back wall of the cathedral. It was dusty and covered in cobwebs. Logan instinctively pulled Gandiva from her sheath, feeling some measure of comfort in holding the weapon. As he followed the warriors, he could not help thinking of lurking spiders and hidden eyes watching their flight.
“Do you feel that?” he whispered to his brother.
He could not see Corbin’s face, but he heard the fear in his words. “He’s searching for us.”
There was a resounding banging noise behind them, loud enough to make Logan’s heart miss a beat or two.
“They’re outside the cathedral,” King Thorgar said from the beginning of the tunnel. “Get a move on. We’ll be there soon enough.”
Logan was relieved to hear the king’s voice. It meant that he had made it inside, along with every last gnome. And true to the king’s word, they soon entered a large circular chamber. Immediately upon entering, some of the gnomes fell to work lighting torches that circled the area, revealing concentric steps that led to a squat amethyst the size of a boar on the center dais.
King Thorgar entered the Elium with Broxlin, and they closed the curved stone door together. Across the room, another door was being opened from the other side, and a battalion of weary gnomes piled into the room. It only took a couple minutes for the crowd of warriors to double in size, with another twenty or so of the king’s men joining them. The group exchanged many salutations at seeing old comrades still alive and well, though they certainly looked like they had had more than one run-in with the Necromancer’s undead on their way to the Elium.
“Hush now,” Thorgar said gruffly.
The room fell quiet and all eyes turned to him. The king stood beside the closed portal they had come through, his ear pressed against the stone. He was listening for signs that they had been followed, but nothing stirred in the tunnel. Once he was satisfied, he gave Broxlin a thumbs-up, and the one-eyed gnome motioned for the crowd to part. Alma came through and laid her bare hands on the Amythest, chanting a prayer to Ohm.
The newly arrived gnomes closed their entrance, and the companions watched the priestess intently. Her face grew tight and a vein throbbed in her forehead as she focused every fiber of her being into the prayer. Sweat beaded on her brow and her skin turned pink as if she’d been slapped.
Isaac stepped to the top of the dais, and Logan feared the mage might fall over. He suddenly looked very old and weak. “If I may, milady?” he asked, leaning over to place one hand on the massive gemstone and using the other to keep himself precariously balanced.
At once, the purple stone glowed from the inside, bathing the room in a pulsating violet light. The effect on Alma was instant—her shoulders sagged in relief as the mage’s power strengthened her own. King Thorgar too seemed to relax, and many of the gnomes began to sit on the stone floor.
“Wow, what is that thing doing?” Logan said.
“The værne stone will protect this place from the Necromancer’s dark gaze,” Broxlin said, staring into the heart of the stone. “We are sheltered here from the undead.”
That was reassuring. Logan looked back up to the top of
the steps and felt his heart drop. Isaac was crumpled beside the stone, barely able to keep himself propped in a sitting position. Corbin and Nero were already racing up to help him.
“He needs to lie down,” Alma said, though she looked just as weary. One of the gnomes pointed this out and earned a shoulder punch from the priestess. “Not until we know what is happening above.”
Nero pulled a cloth from his pack while Corbin adjusted a feverish Isaac so he was lying down. The android wet the cloth and pressed it to the mage’s forehead, while at the top of the dais Alma raised her hands and prayed for Ohm’s guiding eye.
The air above the amethyst shimmered momentarily and then opened in on itself, revealing a window into another room. Logan did not understand it at first, but then the scene came into focus. He was looking at the cathedral from above, through the eyes of Ohm’s idol!
The cathedral doorway hung in pieces and pews were strewn across the room as if a charging bull had run through them. A dozen skeletons in rusty armor circled the room, searching the rows of pews for some sign of the disappearing gnomes. Several of the warriors, including the King, gasped when a behemoth came into view. It carried a pew as if it were a toy and tossed it across the cathedral to shatter against the far wall and roared.
Logan could never imagine such a hideous creature. It was at least eight feet tall, with arms that were too long for its body and thick, meaty knuckles that all but dragged on the floor as it walked bent over. Its meaty head was misshapen and mangled, like someone had taken hundreds of pieces of skin and patched them together to make it. Thick stitching showed on the patchwork, and poorly tailored clothing draped around him.
“Seriously?” Logan exclaimed. “What the Hel is that?”
