The Melaki Chronicle

by William Thrash

  He reached the doors.

  The skeletons stepped aside and pushed open the doors.

  He stepped into the throne room of evil.

  CHAPTER 10

  Melaki wanted to run. The dread that filled him crawled through his veins like wild worms.

  Ranks of skeletons formed on either side of a royal-red carpet leading up to the dais of the throne. Red light blazed magically from sconces along the walls behind them, casting eerie shadows. The ranks of skeletons had been at ease, halberds forward. They snapped to attention as one, bones clicking for a second. Skulls turned to regard him, eyeless sockets drinking in his soul.

  In front of the dais was a small stool and a pedestal holding a velvet cupped crystal skull. He had heard of such things, used for seeing far. Hints of other things he had heard in the Rukha suggested forbidden magic: necromancy.

  On the throne sat a figure robed in red. It was human or had been. But it was long disfigured in undeath. A head of wild white hair contained blazing red eyes giving off light of their own. Most of the cartilage on the nose had withered away, leaving skull holes. Its lips were gone, also withered away, leaving a death-rictus grin of malice and power.

  “Enter,” it said. The voice was raspy but almost moist with the vocal chords of a living thing. It had once been a woman.

  He took a step into the grand room.

  “Come forward and meet your new master.”

  He stepped forward, walking between the ranks of unmoving skeletons. “Master? Why? Did you think I would be impressed by a sweeping ghoul and some skeletons? Tricks.”

  The thing did not answer.

  Then Melaki saw something he did not want to see. He shook his head in negation.

  The thing laughed after noticing his gaze. It was a lich, a former human so evil that it had become the evil it had used.

  However, she was wearing robes of deep blood-red, embroidery along the edges and hems. Her sleeve bore ten braids of gold and black. This was the robe of an Imperial Wizard of the Court, one closest to the emperor.

  “I see they have told you nothing. Now you must wonder why the emperor sent you.”

  “I was sent to destroy you.”

  The lich sat back, diffidence in her posture and voice. “Here I am.”

  “You are too powerful--”

  “Of course I am,” she said, snapping off the syllables. The lich had leaned forward. “And that is why they sent you, not even of the tenth ward. To make it appear as if they are doing something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She stood. “You know nothing. I will deal with you later.” The lich snapped her bony fingers and two very large zombie creatures that had never seen the light of Earth at their creation came forward and grabbed him. He was lifted off the ground between the two and moved to the side, behind the throne.

  “Destroy me?” she said. The laugh that followed was full of scorn.

  The two zombie-creatures went still, holding him between them off the floor. His wrists were firmly held, but without pain. He swung his feet a little, but the zombies did not respond. He formed an oily pattern, hoping to conceal his real magic in case the lich knew anything of giant magic. Then he formed a delve, feeling along the lines and cords of power that permeated the palace.

  “That will do you no good.” The lich had settled on the stool and was leaning toward the skull. Her voice came slower. “The wards are too strong for even a wizard of the tenth.”

  He knew it was true. He could feel it, see it. Talin had been a puff of smoke compared to this. He delved the zombies holding him.

  “They are shielded, too,” the lich said. Her voice was very slow now, almost drowsy. Her hands were moving over the skull, spreading, pulling, pointing. Her attention was on the skull.

  The lich was right, everywhere he delved, the shielding over the magic was beyond anything he could have imagined.

  He hung for an hour or more until he started to doze. The lich never moved. The skeletons stood still, and the things holding him could have been statues.

  At least they do not smell like Piglet.

  He drifted.

  “Do you suppose,” a voice said, “that you were used as a sacrificial tool?”

  He opened his eyes, blinking, trying to clear away the fuzziness.

  The lich was before him, close, face to face.

  “I... What?” Melaki recoiled from the face.

  “Sent in alone. I could have overwhelmed you at any point.”

  He knew she spoke the truth. “And why did you not?” He was not certain he wanted to know.

  “You know nothing of me, do you?”

  Melaki shook his head. “Should I?”

  The lich squinted blazing eyes and nodded. “Such inconveniences are often hidden and purposefully forgotten. It is no matter.”

  “Inconvenience?”

  The lich clasped her bony hands behind her back. “I came once, such as you, but above your station. I came to confer with the necromancers at the bidding of the emperor. Tarep II. He is alive still?”

  “He is. But near his end.”

  “Ah, so that is why he pushed the venture.”

  Melaki began to feel sick.

  The lich nodded. “You see, do you not? Eight hundred and thirty one years, I believe. He should have another hundred years in him. He grows desperate if he sees death approaching. But we all must face death.” The lich turned. “In one form or another. I was Counselor Mokura.”

  The lich settled down onto her stool and bent forward to peer into the skull. Her voice was slow, dim. “If that means anything to you.”

  Melaki had not heard of Counselor Mokura. He had been taught histories in the Rukha, but almost nothing of the Imperial Court other than names of Emperors and important achievements. Still, what the lich said disturbed him. Tarep II had launched the conquering of the rebellious isle after he started to become frail. His frailty was early. Death came sooner than he desired.

  Had Tarep sought to conquer the Northlands and seize the secrets of necromancy for himself? He could not go to the Rukha; necromancy was not only forbidden, but no record of its practices kept. Tarep would need to go direct to the source – practicing necromancers – for what he needed: immortality.

  At one point, if the lich Mokura was to be believed, Tarep had sent her to confer with the necromancers some time in the past. By the looks of the robes, a hundred years or more. Mokura had not returned and instead had apparently embraced necromancy.

  Why had the imperial agent, working for Tarep, sent a wizard of the ninth ward in alone? If the lich Mokura, a wizard of the tenth ward and personal counselor to Tarep had failed, why would Tarep send a weaker vessel?

  To fail deliberately? As an offering to the necromancers? Did Tarep know that Mokura yet lived?

  A flick of Mokura's wrist caught his attention. It was accompanied by the movement of a skeleton. The bones walked behind the throne and disappeared behind the blood-red drapes that hung from the walls all around the room. A king's chamber, then, as was customary. It would lead to the king's chambers deeper in.

  The skeleton re-emerged holding a parchment. The lich had not moved, busy instead peering into the skull. The skeleton stopped by her and handed her the parchment. From this distance, he could still see diagrams and drawings and notes scrawled on it.

  He glanced quickly at the place in the wall leading to the chambers beyond. The skeleton had not been gone long – several seconds. Mokura held her necromantic secrets just beyond that drape.

  If he stole her secrets somehow and could make it out, would that satisfy the emperor's agent? Was the agent fully aware that a stronger vessel had gone before Melaki and failed? What would satisfy the agent? If he failed, was that part of the plan? Certainly, Roke would not have told Melaki he was to be an offering. If Tarep and the agent knew Mokura lived, Melaki was likely a dead man. If Mokura had intended to remain in the sphere of Tarep's influence, she would have sent correspondence.
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br />   No, they had to assume that Mokura was dead or an enemy. At the very least, Tarep had directed the agent to send Melaki. The emperor, then, was using him as an offering. Roke may or may not know the emperor’s real purpose.

  He sighed. He just wanted to be on a boat to Iberia. Instead two enormous zombie things had him suspended in the throne room of the Lich Queen of Dramlos.

  Wonderful. How do I get away from a lich and live? If the lich did not kill him, would Roke? He could handle Roke. If he could get away, then he could get off this cursed island. Let the Altanles Empire claim it a victory.

  He could fool another wizard into thinking he was using spirit-magic. But his magic was not strong enough to fight the lich. Her power stank off her in a miasma of doom. Even a surprise attack would do nothing. Her shielding was solid and constant – it never wavered or changed.

  What?

  Magic had to be manipulated and maintained. Even spirit magic. His own tests using drawn patterns in the ground had shown promise, but dissipated over time. An active manipulation squirmed and undulated, changing vibration constantly. Mokura's shielding did no such thing.

  What was in her notes behind that drape? The secret to her weakness? Did she have a weakness? He would have to enter that chamber to find out.

  * * *

  Melaki was wakened again by her voice.

  “Let us see what my offering holds.”

  Magic delved him, bringing him instantly awake. His stomach heaved. Her touch was worse than oily and slimy; it was vile. The stench of dung touched his soul in a magical way. He groaned, resisting the urge to vomit.

  “Something about you is different. Fresher.” The red eyes blazed close to his. Her head moved close, tilting, as if to kiss him, but not touching.

  He coughed, gagging.

  “Perhaps making him my apprentice is not such a bad offering, Tarep.” She was talking to herself.

  “I will not indulge in necromancy.” He struggled in the grasp of the two things.

  “Oh, you will. It is a simple matter. But I would have you learn willingly rather than by force.”

  Force.

  Something tickled at his mind. Her magic was shielded. The things holding him were shielded. He could not sever their magic and he was not strong enough to penetrate the magic shield. He doubted if ten wizards of the tenth ward could. He even doubted twenty could. But force used in another way...

  “Yes, I will start soon. As soon as I am done with my newest raising.” She turned and walked back to her stool. Sitting, she leaned over the skull and began her necromantic trance.

  She will be there for an hour or more. I must do something. He looked up at the hands holding him. Then he remembered something Talin had done knowing magic of the tenth ward and it sparked a thought of reversal. A cover, like my oily pattern. Hmm.

  He began forming a bare pattern of light, using his own magic. It was blocked as well by her shield. He thought of the pattern and then began working it in reverse, from the finish to the start, backwards.

  Wonder filled him. He felt the magic, awkward, summoning. A brilliant amber light erupted in front of his face. He was shocked for a second, unable to move. He dropped the pattern in a panic. Had she felt it? He looked over at her, but she was absorbed in her crystal skull.

  The usage had worked; the magic was hidden from normal shields and detection.

  He formed a force pattern in reverse and tried to alter the hands grasping his wrists. His magic, though undetected, hit the shield.

  He sighed.

  Then he remembered the zombies launched by Piglet. Force had worked not against the magic but at the motion. He glanced up at his wrists. There was no motion, but...

  He formed a pattern of force in reverse at his wrists, causing the force to expand as if his wrists were expanding. The zombie-creatures were simplistic, doing what they were told. Hold him without crushing his wrists. Their grasps loosened and he slipped out and down to the floor. He crouched there, panting, at once victorious and fearing.

  Mokura had not moved, except that her hands continuously worked over the skull. She was unaware.

  Glancing up at the zombie-creatures and seeing them unmoving, holding their hands as if still gripping his wrists, he rose. He took a step, ready to unleash any pattern that came to mind in attack.

  Which would only lead to my death. Her shield is impenetrable.

  He took another step, glancing over at Mokura.

  Do or die. Or do and die. Not much of a choice. I wish Domo were here to drink to my effort.

  He walked on shaky legs to the drapes behind the throne. With a trembling hand, and constantly looking around, he parted the drapes and found the doorway. He entered her study. Shelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls – some so old they were moldy remnants. From the time before the necromancers.

  A large black-lacquered table with gold and brass fittings dominated the room. A smaller version of the throne was behind it. Against the back wall was an ornate cabinet in the same fashion as the table.

  Atop the table was a mess of scrolls, parchments, quills and something that caught his attention right away to the exclusion of all else. A massive book, so large he would need both hands to carry it. Bound in leather with brass fittings, it was open. The parchment was browning. It was old and closed would be as thick as his head. Several hundred parchment pages were in that book.

  He quickened his pace and moved around the table to see the book. The parchment was well-worn, even in danger of falling apart – the edges frayed. But what was on the pages exposed made him recoil in revulsion. Filthy magic, of sacrifice and death, dominated what he glimpsed. Things that should not be said, aspects of one's self that should never be exposed to the evil required for necromancy. Not just rape, but domination of the soul. Murder. Wickedness he wanted to scrub from his memory.

  His heart thumped so hard it brought him up short.

  That is not my heart.

  No, something was beating against his back. It was steady, and felt of its own source of evil.

  He spun, limbs trembling in excitement. The cabinet. Yes!

  He gripped the two handles and yanked. Instead of clothing, the black velvet-lined cabinet held a stand of gold. On that stand pulsed a deep black gem that sent dim flashes of deep violet outward.

  He felt something, a shift in magic.

  This was his way out and he knew he had triggered something in the magic around him, Mokura's magic when he opened the cabinet. He would have to be fast. He would have to be forceful. The floor under him was marble.

  He felt her stirring, faster, her magic gathering.

  He gripped the gem and ripped it from its stand. Agony ran up his arms. He formed a force pattern backwards in his mind, fighting the pain, fighting the lack of time. He screamed as the pain threatened to rip his body into shreds. His heart came to a stop, being squeezed painfully in his chest. He could no longer breathe.

  Raising the gem high overhead, he spun to face the doorway. The pattern was done. Mokura was there, eyes blazing, racing into the room. Spots swam before his eyes. He threw a fast, normal pattern of magic shield and hurled the gem to the marble floor. He applied the force pattern to the gem's descent. He had the briefest instant where he hoped his shield gave him enough time to destroy the gem.

  Mokura's hands shot out and his shield was swept aside faster than the finest silk. Her magic followed faster than he could see. Her shriek of rage was potent and full of its own power.

  The gem, pushed faster by force, hit the marble floor. An explosion so violent he was thrown through the air had him wondering whether it was her magic or the gem.

  I spend more time in the air against other wizards than fighting them...

  Blackness stopped all thought.

  CHAPTER 11

  Melaki groaned.

  Voices were all around him.

  He peeked open an eye to see Roke's ugly face. It was keen with knowledge. The imperial officer in charge of the fo
rces in Dramlos was there above him, too. His face was bright with victory.

  “What?” he croaked.

  “You did it.” Roke sounded as if he disbelieved it.

  “Is the lich dead?”

  Roke nodded.

  “Luck was with me.”

  Roke stared into his eyes, saying nothing. He was tapping his dagger against Melaki's pack.

  He sighed deeply, relishing the breaths he could take. Placing a hand to his chest, he felt his heart beating.

  My heads sure hurts as if all the demons of hell danced in it.

  The imperial officer was beaming. “You are a hero of the empire.”

  No, I do not think so.

  Roke's look confirmed his suspicions. “I believe you said you were going to Iberia?”

  Melaki tried to sit up. He gasped in pain. His whole body felt bruised. “Yes, I do desire to go to Iberia.”

  Roke tilted his head as if considering his orders. Apparently finding none that fit this situation, he nodded. “Then you shall go.”

  Having finally managed to sit up, Melaki glanced around. Scrolls were blown everywhere. The book was gone.

  Roke noticed his glance and his grip on the dagger firmed.

  Melaki glared at him. “Roke, do not do something you will not live to regret.”

  “Perhaps Iberia is indeed the best solution for you.”

  The imperial officer looked quizzically back and forth between the two. Sensing that Roke had been about to do something bad to his hero, he growled. “I believe I will take this man into custody and see him onto an imperial ship to Iberia.”

  Soldiers who were poking about in the chamber and grinning at Melaki suddenly went stone-faced and drew swords.

  Roke stood. “There you go, wizard, Marshal Stakar has spoken. I am rinsed of responsibility.” He slid his dagger back into its sheath.