Necromancer Awakening

by Nat Russo

  “I should have known. This is how you disappeared from the boat.”

  “No,” Tithian said and held up a second orb. “This is how I disappeared from the boat. The one you’re holding is what I went back for. I wasn’t betraying you, Mujahid. I was saving your life.”

  The shield around Mujahid’s well disappeared and his chains broke free. A guard turned at the sound of metal hitting the cage floor, but Tithian waved him away.

  “I’ll forgive you for trying to kill me if you forgive me for arresting you,” Tithian said and smiled.

  Mujahid looked out over the valley once more.

  “Let’s survive this war,” Mujahid said. “Then we’ll tend to forgiveness.”

  Mujahid channeled power into the orb and the world disappeared in a flash of blinding light.

  Mujahid materialized inside a small cave, which was no more than six feet across by ten feet deep. He glanced around, making sure no one had seen him appear. A lone snake hissed in the corner, dark-brown jasper in color with no identifying marks. A harmless anklebite. Other than that he was alone.

  At least he found a private place to attune the orb.

  He dropped the orb and crushed it under the heel of his boot, grinding it to a black powder. It wouldn’t do to be in possession of a magic object if he was captured again.

  The anklebite slithered through the remains of the crushed orb toward the entrance, tasting the stagnant air with its forked tongue as it passed.

  The cave opened onto a dusty plain that looked much like the one he had just left.

  Such a shame.

  He’d gotten used to it over the years, but of all the evil he expected the barrier to bring, he never expected this. Tildem had once been a land of rolling green hills. Now, lifeless tree trunks stood like statues in a cemetery, arms outstretched over a land that would never rise again. If he couldn’t bring that barrier down, the whole of Erindor would be a cemetery.

  The Great Orm River flowed less than one hundred yards to his left, rushing south on in its eternal march toward King’s Bay. He estimated it was close to a mile across. The river only reached that breadth at Rotham. He was close.

  As he made his way toward Rotham on Orm, Mujahid tried to remember when he’d last seen it. It was before the creation of the Great Barrier.

  He remembered the brilliant turquoise sky over the castle of the Tanmor kings, and how a person could eat off of the streets without fear of getting sick. The citizens of Rotham took great pride in their city.

  They were unlike any he had met elsewhere. He remembered people approaching him on the street who wished to show him around, or teach him about the history of the streets he walked.

  He recalled how majestic the city’s two main plazas were. Marble fountains surrounded by intricately carved obelisks, which detailed the history of Tildem, beginning with its war for independence from the Erindorian Empire, and ending with the reign of the last Westbury king. The story played out in two parts, and a person would have to visit both plazas to see all of it. Strict laws kept merchants out of the plazas, forcing them to ply their trade along the many twisting city streets, creating a bustling atmosphere of citizens, businessmen and street sweepers.

  The city gates rose in the distance, as did the power in his well. He’d enter through the northern gate, close to his favorite inn, The Dancing Shriller. The building was a marvel of non-magical construction, shaped like a triangle with a rounded front corner, at the intersection of two streets that met at an acute angle.

  He knew he should lower his expectations, but nothing could have prepared Mujahid for what he saw.

  Rotham had become a ghost town. The remains of stone pathways lay strewn in pieces, intermingled with debris from once grand buildings lying in ruin. The few people walking toward the gate crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him. He could almost smell the fear.

  The fetid stench of death reached Mujahid’s nostrils and he covered his mouth and nose. His power increased as he approached the gate, but now it came upon him in a great wave. Disgust mingled with confusion as he watched two men drag a corpse toward a pile of bodies stacked against the northern wall.

  Is it a plague?

  “You there,” he said to a woman passing by. “What is the meaning of this?”

  She looked down and picked up her pace.

  Mujahid swore.

  Tithian had once asked him what he thought would happen if the world abandoned the old religion and forswore allegiance to the gods. The answer was written on every corpse in that pile.

  The scene repeated itself every couple of blocks. People piling corpses into reeking stacks of decay. This was madness.

  He came to the triangular intersection where he had hoped to find his favorite inn. It was no longer recognizable as a building. A familiar turquoise shape caught his attention in the rubble and he stooped to take a closer look. It was the remains of a sign. The lower half of a shriller.

  Exhaustion and depression overcame him. Destruction and decay surrounded him, pressing in on him, and he laid the blame squarely at Kagan’s feet.

  Nuuan should be here, somewhere.

  There was no time to lose. William’s idea had been sound. The Great Library was no more than a few blocks away, and if anything had been written about barrier magic it would be there.

  The sound of boots clacking against the pavement caught his attention and he turned, but there was no one. And the sound had stopped as quickly as he stood.

  He shook off the uneasy feeling and left The Dancing Shriller behind, praying silently that he’d learn something of use at the library.

  There were no death piles this far into the city, but the smell permeated the air through shifting winds.

  Mujahid was on guard after hearing the boots near the ruined inn, but the sound never returned.

  The library was easy to find. The shining white structure, capped with five domes, four smaller domes at the corners and one large dome at the center, soared high above the skyline of ruined buildings.

  A polished marble staircase leading up to the library was cracked in various places, but the main structure was intact. The library was a masterwork of masonry. The building and everything in it was carved from a single piece of marble, predating the Kingdom. Some said it predated the Erindorian Empire.

  The interior was a maze of stone bookcases that rose to the ceiling, carved out of the floor itself. Massive inset slabs of quartz in the ceiling, spaced every fifty yards, allowed natural light to fill the building. Mujahid made a mental note to be far away from those slabs if another quake began.

  “May I be of assistance,” a voice said, catching Mujahid off guard. He squinted through hazy light.

  A gaunt man, who looked as old as the library itself, approached with the assistance of a walking stick.

  A brief wave of nausea passed over Mujahid. The sensation reminded him of his awakening, many years ago. He felt disoriented and lightheaded, as if his mind wasn’t processing what his eyes were seeing.

  “You’ll be safe enough under the stone, sir,” the man said. His face was devoid of expression. “They’ll not be falling to the ground any time soon.” The man glanced up at the ceiling before settling his gaze on Mujahid. “And if they do, you’ll not live long enough to care.”

  Mujahid smiled. “Perhaps you can be of help, librarian.”

  “My name is Saul,” the man said, his face never changing from that stony expression.

  “Saul,” Mujahid said. “I have a problem, and I believe the answer lies somewhere within these tomes of yours.”

  “And you would be Mujahid Lord Mukhtaar.”

  Mujahid’s chest tightened. Not only did the old man know he was a Mukhtaar Lord, but he knew which Mukhtaar Lord.

  “Your identity is safe with me,” Saul said. “There is no knowledge in Erindor that does not exist under this roof, and knowledge is dangerous. I don’t merely give it away because someone asks for it.”

  �
��Lower your voice, man.” Mujahid looked around to see if anyone had heard, but if there was anyone else in the library, he couldn’t see them.

  “What type of problem could one such as yourself have?” Saul said.

  “A historical problem.”

  “The historical references are deeper within.” Saul ambled up the path between two massive bookcases.

  The stacks reached from floor to ceiling and were filled with bound works of all shapes and sizes. They stood like monoliths in yellow beams of light that shone through the quartz windows, casting ominous shadows on the floor below.

  The place seemed empty, but Mujahid couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

  “What period of time are you interested in?” Saul asked.

  “The creation of the Great Barrier.”

  Saul stopped. After a moment he faced Mujahid. “Excuse me, my Lord, but I was under the impression you were present when it was created.”

  “Many plans were hidden from me during my tenure at the Pinnacle. Plans I would seek to understand now. I did not support, nor take part in the creation of that monstrosity in the sky.”

  “I would think not, given how much the archmage hates you,” Saul said.

  “Which Order did you profess vows to, Saul?” There wasn’t a library in Erindor that wasn’t operated by a religious order, and something about this Saul intrigued him.

  “I’m partial to the Order of Arin, but I profess no vows. I am content to play my part while the priests of this world worry over theological and philosophical matters. I am a layperson, one might say.”

  There was something odd about Saul’s choice of words, but Mujahid couldn’t determine what it was that triggered his suspicion.

  “Any tome covering world events around the time of the barrier’s creation will be helpful,” Mujahid said.

  Saul’s eyes moved back and forth, as if he were trying to remember something.

  Saul gestured toward a large table and chairs. “I will select some reference works. But understand that without specific direction, this may be a futile search.”

  Mujahid spent the next couple of hours reading through texts as Saul brought them to him. Most were standard works of history that every Mukhtaar clan necromancer had read. He skimmed through them anyway, hoping to find some spark of knowledge he hadn’t considered before, but he found nothing new.

  A dull thud made him turn toward the nearest stack. Again the sensation of being observed washed over him. But no one was there. It was probably the old man dropping a book.

  Saul walked out from behind the stack, confirming Mujahid’s suspicion.

  Maybe I’m approaching the problem the wrong way.

  “Let’s focus on histories that are…somewhat less popular,” Mujahid said.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Do you maintain histories of the religious orders here?”

  “Religion often drives the course of world events. One cannot fully understand history without considering the influence of the temples.”

  “Let’s start with the Order of Arin. I’ll work my way through more obscure orders if I find nothing interesting.”

  “As you wish.”

  Saul returned a few minutes later with a stack of three large books. He took the first off the top and handed it to Mujahid.

  The title intrigued Mujahid—The Great Debate. Mujahid was well versed in philosophy, but he wasn’t aware of any world event that could bare the lofty title of The Great Debate. The book was covered in dust that threatened to start him coughing as he opened it, but the reason for the title became obvious after the first paragraph.

  The author identified himself as the Chief Scribe of the General Superior of the Order of Arin. This book wasn’t intended for the public. This was a secret history of the Order of Arin. Religious orders believed theological discussions were above the comprehension of the laity, so they often kept such discussions secret until they came to consensus. The records of these discussions were kept in a secret history, which the Order used in the theological training of novices.

  In several places, the book referred to something it called the Last Word of Arin, but it was short on details. It was as if the scribe assumed the reader would know what he was writing about.

  A passage about the archmage so surprised him that he had to read it a second time. Kagan had approached the Order of Arin for help in constructing the Great Barrier. Mujahid was never aware of this. According to the history, the priesthood rejected the archmage’s request, quoting the Archbishop of Arin as saying “I cannot agree to be complicit in such an act without calling a general assembly. It is my opinion that our god would reject this request outright, and therefore we will debate this matter as an Order and act as one body, as our god would wish us to do.”

  The Great Debate took place at the Temple of Arin, here in Rotham. The order sided with the Archbishop and rejected the creation of the barrier as violating basic tenets of their theology. When the Archbishop of Arin informed the archmage of the Order’s decision, Kagan declared the possession of magic items to be illegal outside of the Pinnacle and removed the Great Orb of Arin from the High Temple.

  The Order declared every divine communication from that point forward, as relayed by Kagan, to be treated as false prophecy. They agreed to keep this knowledge secret from the world until definitive proof could be obtained.

  Mujahid laid the book down and leaned back in his chair. This was unprecedented. Kagan, as archmage, was the conduit of the voice of the gods. It wasn’t possible for him to utter false prophecy. There were safeguards. Divine safeguards.

  What would cause an entire Order to turn against its own god?

  The archmage was the Order’s conduit to Arin through the Rite of Manifestation. Without the archmage, and the Rite, there would be no communication scrolls. The Order existed to serve the archmage, so that the archmage could serve Arin.

  What they did was tantamount to rejecting their calling.

  He needed to speak to the order himself. He’d pay a visit to the Temple of Arin and see what information he could rattle out of the local bishop.

  The click-clack of hard-soled boots echoed on the marble floor.

  He had been right all along. He was being watched.

  Mujahid turned to see two Tildem Royal Guardsmen approaching. The royal guard wore no armor except blue linen coats, fastened from neck to waist with large gold buttons, hanging down over snug leather breeches. Sabers hung in ornamental scabbards, covered in gold leaf, giving the impression they were more ceremonial than practical.

  Mujahid stood and the chair fell backward with a loud crash.

  One of the guards raised his hands, as if in surrender.

  Knocking the chair over had been unintentional, but it had a pleasing effect. He didn’t embrace the power, knowing that his eyes would give him away.

  “We’re not here to arrest you, sir,” the guard said.

  That’s a first.

  “We’re on the business of King Donal. We’ve been following you…on the King’s orders, of course. We mean you no ill will. He wishes to speak with you.”

  “Why the dramatic entrance? Why not just ask me out on the street instead of spying on me?”

  “As I said. We’re on the business of the king.”

  Refusing would just make a mess of things. Besides, he was here for this very reason.

  Mujahid smiled. “How can I refuse the king?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Mujahid entered the audience chamber and all eyes turned to him. Members of court were gathered in small circles in private discussions, but everyone became silent as he approached the king.

  The audience chamber of King Donal Tanmor rested at the heart of Rotham Castle. Functional tapestries depicting the crest of the Tanmor dynasty and its vassals hung from the wall. Where other royal families surrounded themselves with gold and other precious metals, there was nothing here that didn’t serve a practica
l purpose.

  King Donal sat on a large stone chair at the far end of the chamber, behind a small table, dressed much the same as the Royal Guard.

  The king was young, close in age to Nicolas. He had not yet been born the last time Mujahid visited Rotham. His father, the first Tanmor king, had been an imposing figure with long hair and beard, but Donal was average of height and build. His hair was as long and unkempt as his father’s, and his face hadn’t seen a blade in too long. His bearing was statuesque, regal, and Mujahid would know he was the king even if he dressed like a pauper. But there was something violent just beneath the surface that Mujahid couldn’t identify.

  Mujahid bowed at the waist. Protocol demanded he avert his eyes, but Mujahid stared at Donal. Was the king’s authoritative presence real, or would it collapse under the gaze of a forceful personality?

  “Your Majesty,” Mujahid said.

  Donal stared back, expressionless as he rested his chin in his hand.

  Mujahid lowered his eyes. He had his answer.

  “Was it your mother or father who believed you would be a ‘fighter for the gods’, Mujahid?” Donal asked. “Or are you a zealot?”

  “Your Majesty’s grasp of the old tongue is impressive. It was my father who named me. After—”

  “After one of the Thirteen. Yes, I’ve read the Origines. I’ve even studied the Coteonic Commentaries. It was a different time when a father felt comfortable naming a son after one of the first necromancers.”

  “Indeed, Majesty.”

  “Rise,” Donal said. “Please, take a seat.”

  Mujahid sat in the chair Donal had indicated and gathered his thoughts. It was vital he leave this meeting with Donal’s friendship.

  “Tell me, Magus, do you hail from Religar?” Donal asked.

  Was the king was being cautious or paranoid? Mujahid hoped the former, but whatever was hiding under Donal’s composure made him wonder.

  “I consider myself politically agnostic, your Majesty.” Donal’s support of necromancy notwithstanding, necromancy was anathema, and a ruler who violated religious decree soon felt the wrath of his own people.