Necromancer Awakening

by Nat Russo

  A guard across the plaza shouted.

  So much for stealth.

  Dozens of Pinnacle guardsmen rushed from the barracks on the far side of the plaza, drawing swords and shouting battle cries.

  When Mujahid looked at the barracks, for the first time in decades, it was as if everything he hated about this place, every bad memory he had, came flooding back.

  He thought about the day they banished him and stripped him of an office he never asked for. He thought about Kagan’s tyranny, and how the archmage usurped the voice of the gods themselves. He thought of all the dead, trapped in a hellish existence, waiting to be judged by a god who could no longer help them. And he thought of his brethren—men and women of Clan Mukhtaar, who suffered agonizing deaths at the hands of Kagan’s agents for no other reason than their faith.

  He thought of Nicolas, too…the infant, ripped from his world and birthright…the young man, torn away from his true love and the only home he had ever known, thrust into a conflict he didn’t ask for or cause.

  He thought of all these things, and something snapped. The carefully-crafted prison that kept his rage in check came crashing down, and he made no move to stop it this time. He welcomed it. He encouraged it.

  Now. Now is the time for you to be free.

  The hatred flowed through him, and he smiled. They would all suffer. These guardsmen defended Kagan, and that would cost them their lives.

  The symbol of ascension ignited in his mind and he raised his hands over the plaza. He heard the guardsmen shout as one before they charged.

  He wove threads of energy through symbols of power, forming patterns he had never attempted before. The hatred was leading him to hidden recesses in his consciousness that, until now, were undiscovered…and his smile grew broader.

  Symbol after symbol ignited and pulsed with power as he imbued them with necromantic energy. He flooded the dancing symbols in a crackling bath of arcane force, channeling more power than he thought possible, until the pain in his head grew unbearable.

  And still he smiled.

  He heard Yuli’s battle cry, as if from far away, and archers releasing arrows into the charging patrol. He listened as soldiers on both sides fell. It no longer mattered if they were friend or foe…they added to his power. Power was all that mattered. No one would live. A Mukhtaar Lord decreed it so.

  No…the being he was becoming decreed it so.

  And still he smiled.

  He cast the power forward, summoning the entity that demanded to be summoned.

  Time slowed its eternal march until it stopped. He turned to his right and saw men with mouths wide open, their arrows hanging in the air as if frozen in a wall of translucent ice. He turned to the oncoming charge of Pinnacle guard, and watched as some of them hovered over the ground, caught in mid step.

  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Only power mattered. Only hatred mattered. Only the being he was becoming mattered.

  And still he smiled.

  The entity was inside him, allowing him to operate outside the confines of time, and growing stronger at an alarming rate. The absence of the namocea disoriented him, but clarity soon followed.

  He knew what this was. The ancient Mukhtaar Chronicles spoke of it as myth. Transfiguration. The Legendary power of a Mukhtaar Lord.

  When the entity’s rage grew to the point of consuming him, the part of his mind he controlled fought back, and he imagined himself casting the entity’s essence forward, using the symbols of power like a sieve, until the being was both captured and empowered by them.

  Violent, wracking pains tore through Mujahid’s limbs as every bone in his body broke and shifted, shortened and elongated into shapes that defied human form. He grew taller and wider as his own bones ripped through the skin on his back and began to stretch and fold inward, forming skeletal wings devoid of flesh. He screamed in agony as his blood rushed from the exposed wounds in his back and streamed down the length of his legs.

  And still he smiled.

  Flesh tore from his body and disintegrated before it could touch the ground, and his internal organs liquefied and evaporated. He could taste his own flesh as it melted away from his jawbone and ran down what was left of his throat into the sacred fire that burned at the center of his body. His lower body fell away, leaving the tail of his spine exposed, and he floated in midair as the liquefied flesh dripped to the ground below. The pain was exquisite.

  Light altered around him. The shadowy areas of the small plaza rose up and sped toward him, and soon he was shrouded in darkness—a darkness that burned with the heat of a thousand suns. The shadows merged and formed a cloak around his now-skeletal body. He gazed out over the crowd, standing three times his normal height, and the pain grew stronger still.

  And still he smiled.

  From deep within, a voice…whether it was his own or something alien, he didn’t know…told him that he must survive the transformation, or he would die like a novice failing in the halls of power. This was his new hall of power. This was the destiny of a Mukhtaar Lord.

  Time resumed and the oncoming patrol slowed their charge, staring upward at him with looks of abject terror. Yuli backed away, mouth agape. The part of him that refused to believe what was happening wanted to turn and see what Yuli was looking at, but he knew the truth. He had transformed into something terrible. There was little of Mujahid left. He was a Lord of Hell now, transfigured by the sacred fire within.

  A power came over him that was both alien and familiar. It pulsed through his skeletal arms and guided his spectral hands through a series of complex gestures over the crowd of Pinnacle guardsmen. The sweet scent of freshly-cut roses overloaded his olfactory senses until he could smell nothing else. It was such a welcome smell after the pungent scent of his burning flesh. He must surrender himself, become one with his cet, and allow the gods themselves to guide his mind.

  Many of the guards turned to flee.

  He cast power forward, and the marble ground erupted into shards that transformed into skeletal hands large enough to encompass a man’s thigh. The deathly hands grasped the guards in vise-like grips that would not be broken. The guards swatted, screaming in fear, but the gripping hands grew tighter.

  The hatred that dwelled inside helped him see the possibilities, and the possibilities were limitless. He was a god.

  Something was wrong. He remembered this. It was a memory long dormant, now returned to the forefront of his mind. The Rite of Testing had transformed him and manifested those changes in unexpected ways.

  His field of vision changed, and he found himself looking out over a sea of fire that was not of this world. It felt real to him, but he knew it was a vision. The sea was contained within an earthen dome that rose miles above the tallest flames. He remembered this place—the sacred fires of Paradise. The Rite of Testing always ended here…at the sea of fire. A voice declared that Mujahid would soon become one with the sacred fire. The Rite was coming to an end. The memory hidden in his mind since that day came roaring to the surface. He remembered the Rite…and how it ended…all too well now.

  The vision left him, and he opened his mouth in wonder as the fires of Paradise grew within him, warming him with a mystical heat that fused the cloak of shadow to his spectral body.

  He exhaled a cone of fire into the patrol of guardsmen, lighting them like kindling. Nothing burned hotter than the fires of Paradise, not the combined fires of the six hells, nor those of the seventh hell that few knew existed. The fire would consume everything…he would see to it.

  The screams were terrible as the guardsmen stood there, burning alive and unable to do anything about it. Their pain was brief, however, as the sacred flame consumed and liquefied their bodies, before transforming them into a macabre vapor.

  He had become death incarnate, and the power within kept growing, seducing him, teasing him with thoughts of domination, as if all he had to do was reach out and take it.

  Something inside was trying to be heard. The
entity was telling him not to listen, but for the first time he questioned the entity…for no other reason than he hadn’t questioned it before. And that was unlike him. A realization came to him like a bolt from a crossbow.

  This is wrong.

  A shock rippled up his spine and he became more aware. The entity was a hellwraith, and he had dealt with their kind before. The wraith had almost won, but it hadn’t counted on Mujahid’s nature. Mujahid was the lord, not the wraith. The wraith was his to command, not the other way around.

  If he didn’t do something soon he’d be lost. The wraith would consume him, shredding his soul, as it had several Mukhtaar Lords before him.

  He thought back to the Rite of Testing. So much of his memory of it had been taken from him when he ascended, yet some remained. To be one with the fires of Paradise required…self-knowledge and control—perfect balance between self and lack of self. Yes, that was it.

  He stopped smiling.

  He knew who he was. He knew what he was. He focused his mind and spoke the sacred words taught by Zubuxo.

  “I am Mujahid Lord Mukhtaar, priest, Lord by Rite of Testing, cast into the sacred lake of fire by the hand of Zubuxo. I am one with the sacred lake, one with the fires of Paradise, a necromancer ascendant. I call upon my dominion over the seventh hell and command you to relinquish your control. We are as one…but you are no more.”

  The sacred fire consumed him and all he could see was pure light. It flowed around him and through him. It warmed him and made him feel whole.

  His flesh returned as if it had never left, and he collapsed onto the ground when the final word left his mouth. The smell of roses faded and the acrid smoke of burning flesh returned. He was confused for a moment because he wasn’t burning.

  A new construct formed in his mind, starting at his well of power, and radiating outward through the sphere of power symbols. A ring, or rather a thin sphere was beginning to take shape around all of the symbols of power, containing them and binding them together. He probed the sphere and recoiled when he sensed the presence of the hellwraith. The presence was mindless, however, and the sphere would allow him to transform at will, but with complete control. He touched the stone surface of the plaza. Yuli knelt over him.

  “He lives,” Yuli said to the others. She moved her head closer to Mujahid and spoke in a whisper. “Whatever you were saying was gibberish to me, but two guardsmen survived the fire only to drop dead at the sound of your voice.”

  Mujahid wanted to speak, but his voice wouldn’t obey.

  “Who was the woman behind you?”

  Woman? There was a woman? He remembered smelling roses, but he didn’t recall a woman.

  “She was doing something with your hands…moving them around. The whole place smelled like a rose bush.”

  Something must have caught Yuli’s eye, because she stood, barking commands at her men.

  Five council magi had stepped out of the barracks.

  A volley of arcane power struck Yuli, throwing her back through the eastern arch into the plaza beyond.

  The magi advanced, shouting as they tossed volleys of explosive energy.

  Mujahid lay on the ground of the plaza, too drained of power to make the transformation again.

  He would have to do this the hard way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  “Everything I need to know about you I learned out there,” Nicolas said. “In the world you almost destroyed.”

  “Did that traitor tell you about the Barathosians?” Kagan said. “You can’t possibly know what we were up against. The armada would have destroyed us. And they’re still out there, on the other side of my barrier, waiting to decimate everything in Erindor.”

  The floor rumbled, sending particles of dust through the beam that reached up from the Orb of Arin.

  “Looks like you beat them to it,” Nicolas said.

  Nicolas had wondered if their hair or nose would be similar, but Mujahid had been right all those months ago. It was the eyes. Looking at Kagan’s eyes was like looking at his own. But it didn’t matter. He could never think of this person as his father.

  “You betrayed your own gods,” Nicolas said.

  “You think gods are worthy of undying loyalty? They were no longer worthy of mine, I can tell you that. They would have allowed our complete destruction. They would have nullified my office…your birthright, Nicolas. That name…Nicolas…how did you come by it?”

  Nicolas wouldn’t answer him. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He tried to draw power into his well, but the shield was blocking him. He could feel necropotency. But he couldn’t touch it.

  “I’m not interested in your office, and neither are those people suffering on the Field of Judgment.”

  “I was hoping you would be spared the superstitions of this world, but—”

  “Life magic hurts them, and you know it. It robs them of their purification.”

  “Mukhtaar lies, designed to hold on to an ancient religion that no longer has any place in this world.”

  “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I’ve stood on the Plane of Death, and I’ve seen the Field of Judgment. I watched as the hellwraiths came and took people. Took children.”

  “This is worse than I thought. Not only do you believe his lies, but you are delusional as well.” Kagan smiled and it made Nicolas feel dirty. “Think about this logically. Traveling to the Plane of Death is a one-way trip. And it requires the use of an object that no longer—”

  “The Orb of Zubuxo did the trick.”

  Kagan’s smile disappeared.

  Tendrils of energy entered Nicolas’s mind.

  See anything you like, Kagan? Perhaps you’d like to see what I saw beneath Zubuxo’s throne? Nicolas concentrated and sent every image he could recall through the telepathic link into Kagan’s mind.

  The tendrils withdrew and Kagan staggered.

  “The traitor managed to train you. Was he hiding the orb?”

  “The gods are more powerful than you give them credit for.”

  Kagan stared through unblinking eyes. “They raised our bloodline to this sacred office centuries ago. They made a covenant with our family. Did the Mukhtaar Lord tell you that? Listen to me. Justifying myself to a boy. And how is that possible? You should be a man of forty years, yet I’m looking at a person half that age.”

  Nicolas couldn’t have answered Kagan’s question if he wanted to.

  Kagan continued speaking but Nicolas was no longer listening. There had to be a way through the shield Kagan had placed around him. There had to be a reason why he could feel the power, even if he couldn’t channel it.

  He thought about his lessons under Siek Lamil, trying to remember anything that might help.

  Knowing the siek, he’d probably start by quizzing me on the laws.

  The laws. The Third Law of Necromancy said there was no distinction between life and death, and he had learned that lesson better than anyone. But something didn’t add up. There may be no distinction, but everything died just the same. Animals. People. Vegetation. They all wound up dead.

  He embraced his cet, waiting for the clarity that would follow. He thought of all the strange things he’d seen these past months. Bizarre four-legged turkeys at Mujahid’s estate. People with eyes like cats. The tiniest trees, too tiny to be useful.

  Animals. People. Vegetation.

  Four-legged turkey. Vegetables tastier than anything—

  How did I miss that?

  The cycle of life and death existed inside him. His digestive tract contained death because he consumed life for nourishment. Even his cells were in a continuous state of death and rebirth. The undead cichlos, Cisic, had told him a priest could never be separated from his power, and now he understood. His own body had been the source of that ever-present energy following him wherever he went, but existed just beyond his reach.

  He turned his mind inward on his own body, combing through dead cells and partially digested food, and gathered every drop o
f necropotency he could find. It wasn’t much…but it was enough to help.

  He summoned a penitent.

  A fraction of a second later a six-foot tall skeletal warrior materialized, unarmed and unarmored.

  Kagan took a step backwards, and the newly-summoned penitent dove for him.

  Kagan was more adroit than Nicolas imagined he would be. The older man side-stepped many attacks and countered with his own. Nicolas concentrated on the shield, probing the mystical fibers that wove together into an unbreakable bond. His penitent wouldn’t last long against Kagan. If he planned on accomplishing more than a diversion, he had to bring the shield down.

  No. He needed to untie it.

  He sent tendrils of energy around the shield’s interior, examining its properties and looking for weaknesses. The shield surrounded him, but there was something different about the portion that covered his chest, as if it weren’t as solid as the rest.

  It made sense. When the shield first went up, it hit him from the back and wrapped around to the front. He concentrated his efforts directly in front of his heart.

  The necromantic link vanished, and his penitent along with it. His time was growing short now. He had attacked Kagan, who was climbing to his feet. There was no going back.

  He started manipulating the fibers of energy in front of his chest, freeing threads of vitapotency from what felt like tangles.

  Touching the vitapotency was odd. Unsettling.

  Necropotency felt like a footprint, much the way Lamil and Mujahid described it. But vitapotency felt like the foot. And there was something else…something disturbing. The power seemed aware of him.

  Foot and footprint. Can’t be a coincidence.

  A cloud of smoke appeared in front of him. It transformed into an enormous ghost-like hand that inched its way toward him.

  “I had hoped you would be happy here,” Kagan said. “You defied the odds and somehow managed to find your way back after so many years. And the first thing you do is attack me? Unprovoked?”