Necromancer Awakening

by Nat Russo

  “Nicolas has never given me reason to doubt his integrity, Sabba,” Lamil said.

  “How do you know this, my son?” the high priest asked Nicolas.

  Nicolas was taken aback for a moment. This was the first time the high priest had ever addressed him in such a familiar fashion. He looked at Siek Lamil for approval.

  “Go on,” Lamil said.

  Nicolas recounted his journey to the Plane of Death, and subsequent trip to the bottom of the lake. By the time he was finished, everyone in the room was speechless.

  “This is not possible,” one of the priests said. “He was hallucinating, nothing more.”

  “It is not merely possible,” the high priest said. “It is understandable. It explains much of what none of us could comprehend. Nicolas merely gives voice to the fear buried within our hearts. He has grasped what every master necromancer in Aquonome failed to see.”

  The high priest stood next to Nicolas and faced the other priests. Lamil appeared surprised by the gesture.

  “If what Nicolas says is correct,” the high priest said, “then the fates of Erindor and Terilya are merely the beginning of a much larger problem. If Zubuxo is not restored to his throne, all living beings will be condemned to undeath, unable to pass into the Plane of Peace.”

  “I have to put an end to this,” Nicolas said. “The Orb of Arin is the source of that barrier. And if the orb is at the Pinnacle….” He let the sentence go unfinished.

  “We will do whatever we can to assist you,” the high priest said. “There is the issue of your training we must address.”

  “Sabba, no,” one of the priests said. “The last time—”

  “Is he ready?” The high priest turned to Lamil, ignoring the priest’s comments.

  Lamil nodded. “There is nothing else I can teach him.”

  “Then it is decided. Nicolas, you are to be elevated to the midnight blue. You will take your rightful place among the master necromancers of Aquonome.”

  Had he heard that right? How could he be a master necromancer?

  “Your ordination will take place tomorrow. Tonight you will spend in meditation. Siek Lamil, see that he is ready at the appointed time.”

  “Of course, Sabba.”

  The priests withdrew, leaving Nicolas and Lamil behind.

  “That was…most unexpected,” Lamil said. “Though it doesn’t surprise me. There is little more I can teach you. The rest you must learn by experience.”

  Nicolas didn’t know what to say.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I doubt anyone here is. Come, let’s discuss your preparations.”

  Nicolas followed Lamil into the training dome.

  “I knew you’d get there before me,” Toridyn said. “No one’s ever mastered two symbols in less than a year. Crazy. What’s your secret?”

  “Ignorance and immaturity didn’t hurt,” Nicolas said.

  “Funny,” Toridyn said. “Fine. Keep all the glory for yourself.”

  Nicolas tried his best to smile, but it was difficult.

  “So…you’re really leaving?”

  Nicolas nodded. “I don’t have a choice, Tor. I don’t know what’s more important, getting back home or bringing that damned barrier down. But I can’t do either here.”

  Toridyn was about to say something, but was interrupted when Siek Lamil entered the room.

  Lamil was carrying something under his arm, but Nicolas couldn’t tell what it was.

  “Do you remember the responses I taught you?” Lamil asked.

  “I’d be lucky to remember my name right now.”

  “Wear this. Then follow me. Both of you.”

  He handed Nicolas a white garment, like an alb that priests and altar boys wore. Nicolas changed and they marched out of the dorm.

  When they entered the temple dome, a large crowd had gathered. Three student formations spread out in front of the Orb of Zubuxo in silence. Lamil led him to a point between the orb and the formations, and then faced the high priest.

  A priest stepped forward and handed Lamil a large square of dark material. Lamil took and unfolded it into a large, midnight blue robe. He held it open, behind Nicolas, and Nicolas slipped his arms into it. It buttoned in front, from top to bottom like a priest’s cassock, but there was something else. It was identical to the robe in the mosaic at Mujahid’s estate.

  The ordination ritual began and the high priest intoned the words Lamil told Nicolas to expect.

  “Nicolas Ardirian,” the high priest said when Nicolas was dressed. “You hold the powers of the priestly caste, but you have not been elevated to the priesthood. Do you seek elevation?”

  “Sabba,” Nicolas said, hoping to get all the words right. “I seek to be counted among the priesthood. I seek elevation.”

  “Siek Lamil Jiskossa,” the high priest said. “Is Nicolas Ardirian, your student, worthy of elevation?”

  “Sabba, all cichlos—” He stopped as if uncertain of how to proceed. “All people are weak and unworthy of elevation. We elevate for the sake of others, not for the sake of the priest.”

  Nicolas kneeled and the high priest and his assistants chanted the names of the gods, invoking their blessing on him. Each time they named a god, Nicolas felt something strange near his well of power, as if the boundary of the well was being pulled or pushed against.

  When the invocation was over, the high priest stepped forward and held a hand above Nicolas’s forehead.

  A subtle hum reached Nicolas’s ears, and a black aura formed around each of the webbed fingers of the high priest’s hand. The aura grew larger and enveloped Nicolas in shadow, making it impossible for him to see. The boundaries of his well of power grew outward like a balloon being inflated, and something burned at its core. When the expansion was complete, the aura vanished and he could see the high priest once more.

  The high priest handed Lamil a midnight blue cowl. Lamil placed the cowl around Nicolas’s shoulders and fastened it in front.

  “Nicolas Ardirian,” the high priest said. “Rise as priest, sab, master necromancer.”

  Nicolas stood up on legs that were shaky at first. His well of power was full when he entered the temple, but now that the ritual had expanded it, he felt as if it were empty.

  “Priests of Zubuxo,” the high priest said, no longer chanting. “I present to you Sab Nicolas Ardirian.”

  Applause filled the temple changing the atmosphere from solemn to joyous. Nicolas wasn’t sure how to react to the applause. He had never been good at receiving praise from people. When the applause died down, he smiled and shrugged awkwardly.

  Toridyn was smiling so broadly Nicolas thought he was in danger of unhinging his jaw. In a burst of excitement, Toridyn rushed forward and engulfed Nicolas in a bear hug.

  Nicolas laughed. “Ok, happy fish. I think that’s probably too much for the occasion.”

  Lamil gave Toridyn a disapproving look as he released Nicolas, but Toridyn kept smiling.

  “Sab Nicolas,” the high priest said. “May the robe and cowl you wear be an ever-present reminder of the dangers and challenges you will face in the execution of your priesthood.”

  The high priest extended his hand, and Nicolas realized he was trying to shake hands according to the human custom. Nicolas reached out, surprised by the gesture, and gave the high priest’s hand a firm shake.

  “I’ll fix this, Sabba,” Nicolas said. “I’ll confront my father, and I’ll bring down that barrier.”

  Nicolas had never been so sure about something in his life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Mujahid had filled Donal in on the details of what he discovered at the Temple. As much as Donal sympathized and agreed action was necessary, he didn’t have the resources to sustain a war.

  “Perhaps the best action is to ask for terms from the archmage,” Donal said.

  Mujahid shook his head. “We cannot allow him—”

  “If I oppose the Pinnacle it is the people who will suffer. Those people you see wal
king the streets, afraid of their own shadows…those people are my only vassals.”

  “You have more vassals than you know, and their weapons are far more effective than steel. At least hear me out before you decide.”

  The king leaned back in his chair and looked away.

  “For forty years, necromancy has been driven underground,” Mujahid said. “My people, once the pillars of our society, live in caves and travel under cities for fear of being tortured and executed. But your kingdom is different, Majesty. That is why I asked my brother to come here.”

  Donal stared at Mujahid, saying nothing.

  “Where do you think most of the necromancers wound up after the Purge? The other two nations would arrest them with few questions asked. But in Tildem….”

  “They’d live in peace,” Donal said. He looked up at the ceiling as if considering something.

  “Your kingdom has been a thorn in Kagan’s side since before you were born,” Mujahid said. “One way or another he will remove you from power. An army gathers as we speak. It flies the Red Dragon of Religar, but you can rest assured Kagan holds the reigns.”

  Donal shook his head. “I cannot afford this war, Lord Mukhtaar. The cost in lives alone would be too great. And even if I could muster the force we need, with what would I pay them? Maintaining a single city has stripped my resources bare. I cannot afford to oppose Kagan directly.”

  “You already oppose him. You look the other way at necromancy. You ban his Pinnacle guard from your borders. You harbor a banished archbishop in the most influential temple in Erindor. Like it or not, Majesty, you are already at war with Kagan, regardless of the lack of formal declaration.”

  The king remained silent for a moment, and placed his hand on the back of his head. “If the necromancers went to ground here when the Union and Empire hunted them down….”

  This was Mujahid’s chance. He had to strike now. “Act boldly. Release a proclamation legalizing necromancy within your borders. Escalate the conflict between yourself and the archmage and you will raise an army the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since the Necromancer Wars.”

  Donal sat deep in thought for several minutes. “Will they follow you?”

  “They are bound by sacred oath,” Mujahid said. “But these men and women practice the old religion. They need no oath to know what is right.”

  “If this fails, Lord Mukhtaar, it will mean the end of my kingdom.”

  “If you fail to act, then the end of your kingdom is already at hand.”

  Donal exhaled. “It was always going to come down to this, wasn’t it?”

  “Your Majesty, I know—”

  “You’ll have your proclamation. Let’s hope I have my army.”

  Mujahid prayed Nuuan had found more priests.

  Gods, where is my festering brother?

  The royal proclamation sent shock waves through Tildem society. The atmosphere of fear began to lift as news spread of the return of the old religion, and Mujahid began the task of removing the death piles. He instructed an army of volunteers in the method of interring corpses in makeshift mausoleums along the city’s walls, built from pieces of collapsed building and debris from destroyed walkways. If Rotham on Orm was to be defended by an army of necromancers, those crypts would be more valuable than arrows and boiling oil. The local Arinian priesthood joined in the effort, lending whatever assistance Mujahid required, but there were too many dead to purify for a single necromancer.

  He had the royal tailor make him a midnight-blue robe. It would be good for other priests, still uncertain about revealing themselves, to see a Mukhtaar Lord had no fear of identifying himself as a necromancer.

  The librarian Saul was never found, and this disturbed him. He had seen some strange things in his days, but ghosts were the creation of fanciful imaginations. The dead didn’t return to life under their own power.

  Two weeks after the proclamation Mujahid remained the only known necromancer in Rotham. The people may be relieved that necromancy was legal again, but it didn’t take a military strategist to know what would happen if the Religarian army arrived before he could muster a force of necromancers.

  He swore as he approached a death pile. If the priests in hiding didn’t trust Donal’s offer of amnesty, this would be a short-lived resistance. He vowed it wouldn’t be as short as their worthless lives if he ever found them. Tildem deserved better than this. Donal’s kingdom was the last great hope for the survival of the old religion. Mujahid couldn’t do it alone. He needed a powerful ally. A king. And this was how the clan repaid his efforts, by ignoring that king’s amnesty and hiding themselves away.

  He scowled at one of the volunteers before catching himself. He was in a foul mood, but he couldn’t allow himself to take it out on them.

  Someone cleared his throat behind Mujahid. “Ahem.”

  A diminutive man, standing barely four feet tall and wearing brightly colored floor-length patchwork robes, approached Mujahid from the street.

  “Good day, good sir,” the man said. “I presume I am addressing none other than the infamous Mujahid Lord Mukhtaar.”

  Mujahid raised an eyebrow.

  “Ahh yes. The infamous eyebrow of the infamous Lord Mukhtaar…practitioner of the darkest arts. Bane of Shandaria. Demon of Religar. Rapist of…innocents or livestock or something in Caspardis, however the story goes. But my presumption was correct. You are, in fact, the Lord Mujahid Mukhtaar.”

  “And what makes you think I’m a necromancer, much less a Mukhtaar Lord?”

  “If the eyebrow wasn’t enough, I dare say the midnight blue is a dead giveaway, man.” The man laughed and acted surprised at himself. “Dead giveaway. Amusing.”

  Mujahid smiled and chuckled…not because he was amused, but because the gods had a cruel sense of humor, and today they were in rare form.

  “I don’t know you, sir,” Mujahid said. “So I’m going to extend the courtesy of a warning. If you choose to continue speaking, and the next words out of your mouth do not sufficiently impress me, I’m going to bugger you with your own head.”

  The man smiled a toothy grin. “Then allow me to introduce myself, buggerer of little people.” The man bowed as if he were on stage. “I am Digby, master necromancer, drinker of wine, dread pirate of…no, that’s someone else…ravager of women—yes, that’s me—and, I jest not, bosom friend of your brother, Nuuan Lord Mukhtaar.”

  Mujahid raised his other eyebrow. “That was…sufficiently impressive.”

  “Superlative. Now that both my head and my arse are safe, we can get on with more serious matters. And know, good sir, there are few things I take more seriously than the drinking of women and ravaging of wine. I’ve raised it to an art form, you see. Why the whores of Arin’s Watch actually call me—”

  “More serious matters, Magus Digby?”

  Digby deflated. “Yes. Well. Stories for later, I suppose.” His expression grew serious. “There are problems up north. Big problems. Your lord brother sent me ahead to warn you. He’s dealing with the situation as best as he can, but you need to be aware.”

  “North. Three Banks?”

  “Religarian forces captured Three Banks and blockaded the river a week ago. And they weren’t alone, my Lord. The Pinnacle has joined them.”

  “Tell me they stopped there.”

  “They stopped there.” Digby smiled, making an exaggerated show of touching his teeth together.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Of course I’m lying, man, you think Kagan’s daft? His force separated in twain. One half marches west, and the other marches here with Religarian soldiers in tow as we speak. This is total conquest.”

  “And what of the others? There must be other priests who have heard about the proclamation.”

  Digby shrugged.

  Mujahid swore. After a moment, he placed a hand on Digby’s shoulder. “You make a strange first impression, Magus Digby…master necromancer. But you’re a sight for sore eyes. Come. There’s work to b
e done.”

  Six weeks after the proclamation, not a single priest had come forward except Digby.

  Mujahid had found a friend in Digby. The flamboyant man was a hard worker and a highly-skilled necromancer. He placed Digby in charge of the backlog of funerals, and the man worked without rest to perform the rites. Whenever he questioned Digby about Nuuan, however, Digby would smile lasciviously and say, “You know Lord Nuuan.”

  Mujahid hoped to be in command of a dozen or more necromancers by now. He swore as he and Digby climbed up the ladder to the top of the north wall. He swore again when he saw the Religarian army spread out on the dusty plain beyond the wall.

  Tildem was outnumbered four to one.

  He wielded considerable power, and Digby was a force to be reckoned with as well, but two necromancers wouldn’t decide the outcome of this battle.

  Where were the siege engines? The army Tithian showed him had dozens of catapults and ballistae, if not more. He supposed it didn’t matter. All the empire had to do was blockade the city and wait.

  The wall might be able to withstand one or two waves of attack, once the siege weakened them, but no more. Where was Nuuan? If he couldn’t find twelve necromancers in Tildem, then an ascended one would be their equal. But where was he?

  There was no longer any denying it. Mujahid had failed. He had failed the king, and he had failed the soldiers. Worse, he had failed the people of Rotham, who never asked him to bring war to their doorstep. It was time to deliver the news to Donal. The man’s kingdom was coming to an end, and he had a right to know.

  “You,” he said to a nearby soldier. “Find your commander and ask her to join me below as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Fear not, my Lord,” Digby said. “These are my kind of odds. Besides…they haven’t seen my secret weapon yet.”

  “I am afraid to ask.”

  “It wouldn’t be secret if I told you, now would it?”

  “Join me in a few minutes down below. You may find the tactic I intend to employ here…distasteful.”