by Rosie Scott
Valerius the Undying was born in 5592 G.E., just one hundred and ninety years before the Golden Era morphed into the current Mortal Era. The Golden Era was known as an age of discovery; books I'd read on the subject said it was a time when gods walked among mortals, the countries of the world formed after ancient wars for power and land, and magic was as misunderstood as it was fought over. Arturian Kilgor had not yet discovered the Kilgorian Law, so mages learned and used spells without understanding the sources or limits of energy reserves. Thus, magic was even more dangerous to wield at the time and rarer. Magic was the most powerful weapon of all, but few risked even learning it due to high mage mortality rates. In the current Mortal Era, necromancy was so taboo partially because it was common knowledge that its wielders could expand their lifespans by stealing life force. In the Golden Era, however, all magic was so rare that necromancy was even rarer; it took a catalyst to jump-start the common fear of necromancy by exposing its ugly truths. That catalyst was Valerius.
Much of what was known about Valerius was rumor or myth up until his defensive position on the island just north of Chairel was discovered. He possibly involved himself in wars or spats for land in Chairel to grow his power over the first two hundred years of his life. Some rumors stated he was the most prolific serial killer in the country and responsible for thousands of unsolved homicides. Other more ridiculous rumors claimed he had broods of children just to harvest their life force upon their birth. Whether one or more of those stories were true, Valerius eventually ended up on the island named after him just between southern Glacia and northern Chairel.
An old dilapidated watchtower remained on the island that Chairel commissioned centuries earlier during a war with Glacia. Chairel attempted to force the Icilic to adhere to their magical monopoly, and Glacia hit back with such force the war ended in a stalemate. The watchtower was reportedly a sturdy and excessively tall monument built to give the Chairel Army advance notice of Glacia's sea movements, but due to its odd location they abandoned it after the war. Though the island was said to be uninhabitable for the long-term due to its lack of wildlife and good soil, Valerius made it his home despite all the odds.
The Island of Valerius was large enough that he lived there undetected for many years. To the right of the island existed the only trade route between Glacia and Chairel that ended in Thornwell. Trading vessels belonging to both countries went missing until trade between the two came to a full stop. Because Glacia's isolationism prevented it from reaching out to Chairel diplomatically, Chairel investigated the seas. They found a family of krakens just east of the island that relentlessly attacked trading ships, dragged their loot to the depths of the ocean, and ate their fill of sailors. Because Valerius's island was so close, the shipwreck survivors would swim to its shores, where the necromancer was free to harvest their lives.
By the time Chairel declared war on the lone necromancer in 64 M.E., he had thousands of skeletons stowed away on his island, all equipped with weapons and supplies from missing trading ships. Valerius could call these corpses to his aid repeatedly while staying safe near his tower. Over the span of two hundred years, the Chairel Navy delivered thousands of men at a time in waves of attacks to Valerius, and he'd only overwhelm them and add the corpses to his army. Reports at the time stated that neither magic nor blade could puncture Valerius's flesh. The fear that grew of necromancy's power due to Valerius's seemingly never-ending lifespan and his growing undead army only worsened Chairel's morale, adding to their troubles.
Eventually, Chairel outsmarted Valerius by utilizing different tactics. Rather than surround the entire island, they blockaded most of Valerius's undead army on the western side of it and used mages to set fire to the tower after bathing its lower floors in flammable alchemical solutions. Then, they waited, doing nothing but watching the exits and keeping the flames stoked. Soldiers who witnessed the battle told scribes at the time that Valerius's screams of agony lasted hours even though bodies normally took minutes to burn alive. Valerius's skin not only rejected most blade hits, his lungs put up abnormal resistance to the damage of smoke inhalation. Only when all remaining skeletons on the island dispelled at once did the soldiers realize Valerius died, for he no longer controlled them. They found his body on the top floor of the tower, leaning over an open windowsill as if gasping for breaths. The last remnants of parchment were in his right hand as if he held a letter dear to him to his last breath, but due to its damage, its significance was never discovered. It was said that Valerius's body was in spectacular condition for one who'd burned alive. Even his eyes weren't destroyed, for his iris color was noted in the autopsy report: gray.
I found Valerius's story incredibly sad and intriguing. Unlike most, I didn't automatically believe Valerius was an awful person. Morality was such a subjective concept, and Valerius was birthed in an age when civilization still developed and formed laws due to varied biases. It was possible Valerius and I were alike in more ways than wielding necromancy. Perhaps he'd discovered death magic and figured out its life expanding powers simply by using it in standard warfare. Witnesses might have seen the magic in action and feared it, thus establishing his place in infamy before he had any say. Gods knew that had happened to me—I'd had no plans to use necromancy for ill until I needed it for self-defense. By harboring such irrational hatred for necromancy, the Seran soldiers had unwittingly turned me into the very thing they feared.
The laws of Chairel decided my fate. I chose not to accept it. Mercenaries, soldiers, and assassins alike were welcome to hunt me down. I'd do my best to be ready to face them and take as many out as I could before my inevitable demise. If nothing else, my name would go down in history with the other necromancers who refused to surrender, and word would spread of death magic's power. Eventually, necromancy might be so desired by the commoners of Chairel that they'd be forced to legalize it or risk rebellion.
This may have been a far-fetched dream, but it was the only one left available to me. That didn't mean I couldn't be excited about it. As I re-entered the Seran Forest in early Red Moon, nothing but determination filled me.
I decided to set up a base in the northwestern area of the forest, for it would be nearest to Sera while allowing me shelter from the worst weather and the eyes of the Twelve. The location along the woodland's border would make me an easy target, but if I planned on harvesting as much life force as possible and building a stash of bodies, the least I could do was cut down on the time and inconvenience for my foes. I wanted them to find me. I needed their energies, and their deaths would only lead to unorthodox recruitment opportunities.
I'd bought a tent in Brognel with which to guard me from immediate scrutiny and the harshest weather. During the weeks of traveling through the forest to find a good spot to live, I only used it during the worst storms. I tried to train myself to sleep in uncomfortable temperatures; I would never have a proper home again, so I needed to learn how to catch sleep anywhere. Still, I longed for the plush soft bed of Brognel's inn, but it seemed so far behind me now. During the worst storms of finicky Red Moon, I cursed myself for deciding not to stay in Brognel and venturing out into the wilderness. But for the first time in my life, I felt determined to make something of myself, and that was reason enough to fight through the worst inconveniences.
On the 73rd of Red Moon, I celebrated my sixteenth birthday by taking a break from searching for the perfect location in the forest. I fished for most of the day, adding as much food to my stores for the upcoming harsh weather as I could. Dark Star would approach in seventeen days. Its close presence marked the forest floor with a glimmering sheen of ice crystals instead of dew in the mornings, and the birds stopped their constant song in protest of the rapidly cooling weather. It wasn't the weather that made me uncomfortable, however. I needed to settle down somewhere soon, or the thinning foliage and upcoming snowfall would inconvenience me in terms of survival and defense. I'd been searching for denser growth in which to pitch my tent; as much as I wanted to
goad my pursuers to me, allowing myself to be surrounded or openly vulnerable would be ludicrous.
I continued on my search, trying my best not to be picky. Just a week before the seasons changed, something unique quite literally stuck out from the detritus ahead, giving me a sign. From a thick layer of dead pine needles, fallen gotton bush leaves, and twigs rose the right forearm of a human. The limb was stiff with rigor mortis. While the hand was in good shape and still wore a few rings, a wild animal looking for a nice cut of meat had ripped the brachioradialis muscle off the bone. The arm clearly still attached to the rest of a body given its upward angle, but forest debris hid the rest of it. The hand curled, but the pointer finger stuck out as if urging me to follow its direction.
I glanced to the right to heed the corpse's unintended advice. A thicket of dense pines and bountiful gotton berry bushes drew my attention like a beacon. I wandered over to the area, walking around the underbrush and looking it over with a judgmental eye. The thicket was set up in a U-shape that opened facing south, the brush so dense around its curve I could barely see through it. There was enough room to pitch my tent with space left over, and the family of gotton bushes dotted throughout ensured I would have a source of food nearby.
The thicket was the perfect location to set up camp. I dropped my gear within the protective hug of the plant-life and walked back over to the corpse, seeking information. This thicket was possibly an attractive prospect for more reasons than I could see; maybe others who lived in this wilderness fought over it. Of course, it was probable that others simply found it a convenient location to camp in.
Corpa te risa a multipla.
I released the area-of-effect magic. A dense black fog misted over the surrounding detritus until it separated into a dozen tendrils. One buried itself in the corpse with the exposed hand while the others slithered off and wiggled between scattered pine needles in the general vicinity.
Twelve corpses rose from the forest floor. Plant debris flaked off them and fluttered to the ground like red and green snowfall. All the corpses were human, and given their relatively good conditions had died recently. As they gathered around me to abide by my orders, I felt a smidgen of relief, for the loneliness burrowed into the thick walls of my soul dissipated just a bit.
The corpses were fully-armored, but they had seen battle. One woman's head was so bashed in by a spiked mace that only half her cranium remained, and it was hollowed out by hungry wildlife. Two corpses were decapitated. One had all four limbs amputated like he'd been brutally tortured. Whoever these people were, they'd died traumatically.
“Why were you out here?” I murmured, trying to understand what had happened. The corpses watched me with blank gazes, unable to respond. I walked up to the woman with the missing cranium, taking her right hand in mine and lifting it. She wore multiple rings, and I studied their designs. They were all arcanic, but none of them seemed to mean anything.
I went up to each corpse, looking for something that would tell me who these people were. A man who had died by a severe cut of the abdomen had the most answers. His thumb ring had a thick band of steel that showcased a skull. I held his hand still as I worked the ring off him and put it on my own thumb. Most mages wore jewelry, but many chose designs that meant something to them. The skull made sense for a necromancer to wear, but this man had been a mercenary. I wondered if he fancied himself, then, on being a killer of necromancers.
The corpse stared at me with indifference as I went through its pockets. Only when I scrounged through a bag hanging at its waist did I find my answer. Folded up amongst maps and bills of sale from Seran merchants was a death warrant with my face on it. It'd been updated since the last one I found on the Twelve.
WANTED: Cerin Heliot.
Charges: Necromancy, 19 counts of murder of Seran armed forces, evading the law, practice of magic without a proper license
Notes: Cerin has access to necromancy and life magic. BEWARE, for he has now claimed the lives of three Twelve veterans. Investigators of this latest battle report evidence of excessive strength with melee weapons unusual for a juvenile with no known prior battle experience. Criminal profiling of the aftermath suggests Cerin openly invites conflict, so he may be aggressive on sight. Given the site of the Twelve battle, Cerin may be scouting out his hometown of Thornwell and wishing to return. Interrogations of its populace revealed that Cerin has no living family and has not yet returned, though the fallen Twelve members visited the town before their deaths. No witnesses have come forward since Cerin's escape from Sera, and his plans are unknown.
REWARD: 5,000 gold offered for death. Body required. 500 gold offered for substantiated tips.
Satisfaction washed over me as I realized my bounty surpassed the highest posted in Brognel of Lisha the castrating serial killer. I doubted that meant I was Chairel's most-wanted criminal already, but I'd gotten their attention.
It fascinated me to see how parts of the warrant were true and some notes were completely off. Red and the people of Thornwell evidently hadn't admitted to my return, but I couldn't allow that to flatter me. Sirius's threats of them becoming enemies of their mother city if they saw me without reporting in likely kept them quiet. I hoped they would leave Thornwell alone from now on; they were the last people I wanted to inconvenience with my personal rebellion.
I added the updated warrant to my satchel with the older one, and then I pointed to the defensive thicket. The corpses followed my direction, filing into the thicker brush before I dispelled them. I would focus on burying them in debris later for safe-keeping. For now, I scattered loose detritus into the body-sized gaps the rising corpses left, removing any evidence of a necromancer being here at all. Though I searched for more information about the fight that took place here, I found nothing and could only wonder. The most likely explanation was that the mercenaries hunted me but came across an orcish war party. That would help describe the brutality enacted against them. With no nearby orc corpses, however, it was only a guess.
I buried the mercenary corpses at various locations within the thicket, covering them with loose dirt and debris. Then I set up my tent in the center of it all and took a much needed break. I would spend as much time as I could building a firepit and learning the intricacies of the surrounding forest in the upcoming weeks, finding sources of fish and water and berries.
For now, I only rested. I stared at the canvas of the tent peak, my mind at peace. Sera's willingness to set its most trusted mercenary parties loose to find me meant that Sirius likely also hired Alderi assassins. I wondered just how many people currently hunted or searched for me throughout northeastern Chairel. Living forever as a criminal could mean nothing but death, but this only felt like a challenge. I wanted to see how long I could last.
Thoughts of my potentially short lifespan caused my mind to wander back to Kai. I scrounged around in my satchel and pulled out her note, reading and rereading it for comfort.
I'll miss you, she'd written. Those words were always where my eyes lingered. The sentiment wasn't true. Not anymore. But perhaps I could always cling to denial. For as long as I was alone, I would hold on to this note and pretend I could one day resume having a normal life. There were plenty of war stories I'd read in Sera about men and women who went to battle and found solace in letters from loved ones, and I understood why now. Just the knowledge that Kai had once cared for me was enough. It didn't have to be true anymore.
I put the letter away and tugged out a book I'd traded for in Brognel. It was an anatomy book for alchemists, which was the closest thing I'd been able to find to a healer's guide. Healing books didn't exist in Brognel, for any mages there were migrants or visitors from Sera. Additionally, Chairel required spell book vendors to check for a Seran magic license upon any purchase, and I didn't have one.
The book I had was helpful despite its limitations, however. It described the uses of various plants in alchemical solutions and how to spot these plants in the wild. Many only grew in the mountains, not
the forest, but there were plenty of plants listed that I'd become familiar with as I learned the forest in and out. Some alchemical solutions would allow me to replace the oil and sealing I'd traded Beshil for once I ran out. Others were salves, potions, or mending solutions for injuries. In the descriptions of how to apply these was an abundance of information about anatomy and various ails that I studied over and over again, trying to supplement my Seran education. I expected to get injured no matter how well I fought and living in the wilderness could expose me to sickness. I needed to prepare for anything; mercenaries weren't the only threat to me in this forest.
But they were the closest one.
Seventeen
31st of Dark Star, 411
I peeked out of the flap of my tent, and a world of white greeted me with a sparkling wink. The two arms of the thicket surrounded me in a protective hug, but the gap between allowed for a view beyond. Inches of snow stretched out like a field over the forest floor, thinner beneath pines and the thickest brush. Snow and icicles weighed down tree branches until the plants themselves looked forlorn; some wooden limbs had snapped with the pressure and laid on the covered ground below. I'd never seen this much snow in the forest; even now, chunky snowflakes fell through the canopies, eager to join their kin on plants and ground. Last year after fleeing Sera I'd seen snow and ice farther west in the woodland, but last Dark Star hadn't been nearly as harsh.
