Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles

by Nat Russo

“Azazel?” Kagan said. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in…”

  “There he goes again,” Aelron said.

  “I think it is,” Kaitlyn said.

  “…kindly old man. He came across the ocean with the Barathosians. Once he discovered…”

  “I think you broke dead Kagan,” Toridyn said, flicking Kagan’s shoulder with his over-sized finger.

  “The Old Testament uses the word a couple times,” Nicolas said. “But not as a demon, now that I think about it. The usage is a bit confusing there. But when dad made me read the Book of Enoch, it was used as the name of a fallen angel. In fact, if I remember correctly, Enoch says Azazel was responsible for damned near every evil ever committed.”

  “Charming,” Kaitlyn said.

  Aelron sniffed. “This Enoch of yours would reevaluate Azazel’s contribution to evil if he knew about Kagan.”

  “I don’t like this,” Nicolas said. “If I can move between worlds—”

  “You do what?” Aelron asked.

  “Then it stands to reason I’m not the only one,” Nicolas said.

  “Wait,” Kaitlyn said. “You’re saying you think a demon flits back and forth between Earth and here?”

  “It can’t be a coincidence,” Nicolas said. “I’ve seen too many things here that are similar.”

  “Of course you have,” Kaitlyn said. “They’re just as human here as we are.”

  “No, you don’t get what I’m saying. How do you explain a baroque cathedral under a mountain in the Shandarian Union?”

  Kaitlyn pursed her lips.

  “Mujahid’s pad,” Nicolas said. “Looked like Saint Peter’s Basilica. Now how do you explain that? They don’t have our religions here, but they build a structure based on Roman mythology? They have to have gotten it from someplace.”

  “Or we did.” Kaitlyn said.

  Nicolas had once said the same thing to Mujahid. Did Erindor get the symbolism from Earth, or did Earth get it from Erindor?

  “Either way,” Nicolas said. “If there’s a fallen angel involved in this, we have bigger problems than the Barathosians.”

  Nicolas put his hands on top of his head.

  “It’s too much, Kait. Just one of these problems is enough to make me lose sleep, and we’ve got like…twenty-seven now.”

  “And we’ll solve them all,” Kaitlyn said. “One at a time.”

  Nicolas exhaled through pursed lips. “You’re right. Let’s get back to camp and get these people to Caspardis. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can see about the city’s defense. You never told me what you did to that water skin, by the way.”

  “I don’t know what I did,” Kaitlyn said. “I can’t even tell you what I was thinking the last time I held it.”

  “I reckon the cichlos were right to give us the boot.”

  “You reckon?” Kaitlyn asked. “Twenty years in Texas and you never reckoned anything, now you’re all cowboy?”

  “I’m bringing culture to the heathen,” Nicolas said with a smirk. He faced Aelron. “What about you? You planning on killing anyone else tonight?”

  Aelron shrugged. “I usually don’t plan on it.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Nicolas shook his head. “I have a brother. Go figure. Every time I come to this damned world, I end up with a new family member.”

  “Let’s get our dead father back to the refugees before his demon friend makes him go on another genocidal rampage,” Aelron said.

  “You see?” Nicolas said. “It’s statements like that the nuns didn’t prepare me for.”

  Kaitlyn took his hand and they walked back to camp.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Of all the edifices known to have been constructed with magic, there is none more mysterious than the Mukhtaar Estate. Ahmed Lord Mukhtaar was said to have been deeply troubled by it, finding something new—a room, an object (unsubstantiated rumors even claim a person)—every time he returned.

  - Coteon of the Steppes, “The Mukhtaar Chronicles: Coteonic Commentaries” (circa 680 BCE)

  Mujahid channeled power into his eyes, and the narrow tunnel winding through the underbelly of the Algidian mountains came into sharp focus. The porous stone of the tunnel walls seeped moisture. Coffins that once lined the passage in neat alcoves lay strewn about, spilling bones this way and that. His vision came to an abrupt end a hundred feet ahead, stopping at the limit of the light spell he’d cast on his eyes.

  He could sense the portal he sought in the distance, like the nagging presence of another person in a dark room.

  Judging by the debris in the tunnel and lack of any tracks, it was doubtful the Barathosians had discovered it yet. There should be time to unseal the estate and relocate the portal.

  Mujahid touched the sigil pouch at his waist to comfort himself. Even if the Barathosians detected the portal, they’d have to defeat his sigil magic to access it.

  Mujahid stopped when he spotted a smooth, flat stone—about the size of his palm, though much thinner—resting against the tunnel wall. A flood of emotion caught him off guard.

  Mordryn had always enjoyed playing games with him when she was here, and this stone was the result of one such game. He’d asked if she’d always love him. She’d responded by tossing a stone over her shoulder, stating if it came to rest leaning against the wall, that would prove her undying love.

  And so it did.

  There it remained to this day, through decades of quakes. He’d tried to move it himself once, but no strength or power he had in his possession could dislodge it.

  Do you love me still, Mordryn, wherever you are? Do you think of me with longing or regret?

  Mujahid turned away from the stone and kept walking. After all, she’d turned away from him.

  The tunnel widened into a ramp, and he descended into the small settlement of Paradise Minor, which was a massive circular cavern, approximately one hundred yards in diameter. The entrance to the Mukhtaar Estate would be behind a cube of rock, on the other side of the cavern, beyond the ruined merchant stalls, beyond the area they’d once set aside as an infirmary.

  When last Mujahid was here, he and Nicolas had been in a great deal of haste. Pinnacle Guard had invaded—with the help of some traitor within the clan whom Mujahid had yet to identify. The destruction of the Orb of Power burned in his memory, and the fumes from the burning vendor stalls still stung his nostrils. But he wasn’t prepared for the wave of necropotency that swept over him as he walked into the ruined settlement.

  Death was everywhere.

  Burned corpses—preserved in the dry, cool atmosphere under the mountain—littered the massive, circular cavern. The Council magi and Pinnacle Guard had slaughtered hundreds of innocents to retrieve Nicolas for Kagan’s nefarious purposes.

  A familiar glint of metal drew his attention to the frame of a burned-out merchant stall to his right. It was the merchant stall where little Geoffrey, a boy no more than seven years old, once played while his father worked. Mujahid peered around the side of the frame and had to close his eyes.

  Charred remains clutched a tiny ball in arms outstretched in a pugilistic pose.

  Gods no.

  It had to be Geoffrey. He was the only child in Paradise Minor—another unintended consequence of Kagan’s barrier.

  Mujahid couldn’t leave the boy here like this. It may not be possible to give him a proper burial, but at least he could perform the purification.

  He ignited the symbol of ascension and cast the energized skull symbol into the child’s corpse.

  The symbol rebounded into Mujahid’s mind and he smiled. There would be no purification necessary for the child. He was beyond Zubuxo’s power now, having moved on to the Plane of Peace.

  But how many others awaited a purification he didn’t have time to offer? He’d have to return with more priests, once he’d relocated the portal to the estate.

  I will give you rest, brethren. I vow it.

  He left the burned-out stalls and charred corpses behind a
nd hurried toward the only thing that mattered here anymore; a cube of vitrified rock, ten feet on each side, guarding the passage to the portal. He’d created that cube to make the entrance to the estate impenetrable when he and Nicolas fled the caverns.

  Mujahid ignited the symbol of ascension and wove the symbols for water and fire together. This was going to take considerable power, but there was no shortage of necropotency here. He had the Council of Magi to thank for that.

  Alone, the symbol of fire was used for cremation of bodies. Alone, the symbol of water was used for…well, what water was always used for, in quantities both great and small. But combined—a feat only a Mukhtaar Lord could accomplish—they could liquefy solid rock and forge it whole once more.

  He cast the combined symbols forward into the vitrified rock and became a conduit of power.

  The heat struck him long before any visual change occurred. The rock glowed, first a dull red, then a bright orange, until it radiated white hot and flowed like viscous lava.

  Mujahid channeled necropotency around the rock to guide it away from the tunnel, until a bright yellow stream formed and flowed along the side of the cavern wall.

  When the last of the rock melted and flowed away, Mujahid cast the symbol of water at the cavern floor and stepped back as steam filled the tunnel. He may have guided the molten rock away, but the ground would melt the soles of his boots if he didn’t cool it down.

  As the steam faded, Mujahid stepped back in surprise and ignited the symbol of ascension.

  He wasn’t alone.

  A small figure stepped out of the dissipating steam from a place no human should have been. A place closed off behind tons of rock.

  A diminutive man, no more than four feet tall, in bright, multicolored patchwork robes.

  “Lord Mujahid,” Digby said as he bowed at the waist. “What a most expected non-surprise.”

  Mujahid gaped. “Where were you? And where’s Nuuan?”

  Digby waved his hands in a placating gesture.

  “Both are interesting questions, no doubt,” Digby said. “And both are equally impossible to answer. Other than to say here and there, though I’m sure that’s not a very satisfying answer.”

  Mujahid liked Digby, but he and Nuuan had been missing for months since vanishing from within a cyclone of death and slaughter outside the walls of Rotham-on-Orm. An explanation was in order.

  “Nuuan is missing precisely when I need him most,” Mujahid said. “I would know why and how!”

  “Time is not on our side, Lord Mukhtaar. Nuuan cannot help both you and the girl simultaneously. Not yet.”

  “What girl?”

  “Kaitlyn, of course.”

  What? How did Nuuan know about Kaitlyn? What in the festering hells was he up to?

  “I must speak with him,” Mujahid said.

  “In due time. Kaitlyn is his sacred charge. He must attend to her first. All else comes second to that. The goddess cannot intervene directly.” Digby shook his head. “Oh dear. I’ve likely said too much.”

  Heat rose in Mujahid’s face.

  “What does that mean?” Mujahid asked. “And how did you get in here? That rock was mystically sealed.”

  “Yours isn’t the only entrance, Lord Mujahid,” Digby said.

  “Impossible.”

  Digby spread his arms and bowed. “Behold the impossible.”

  Mujahid ignored the bow and shoved past Digby, toward the wall that concealed the portal. He channeled power into the sigil pouch at his waist and the wall vanished. What remained was a pitch-black mystical field that filled the space within a door-sized archway. The symbol of ascension—a levitating person in meditative pose emanating rays of light from their eyes—burned at the top of the arch, indicating its destination was the Mukhtaar Estate.

  At least he hasn’t manipulated the portal. But how in the hells did he get in here?

  Mujahid stepped through the portal beneath the archway and rematerialized in front of the estate.

  The familiar gold and black scroll work decorating the palatial estate, reflected the light from the multicolored orbs floating within the cavern. He climbed the wide marble steps, past the undead guards in the shadow of Zubuxo’s statue, to a small entrance embedded within the middle of three monolithic doors at the top of the steps. A door within a door.

  Footfalls behind told him Digby had followed.

  “I need to visit the crypt before I relocate the portal,” Mujahid said. “You dodged my question adroitly, by the way.”

  “And which question would that be, Lord Mukhtaar. There were so many.”

  Mujahid narrowed his eyes.

  “What did you mean by sacred charge?” Mujahid asked. “What does Nuuan have to do with Kaitlyn, and how is he helping her?”

  Digby looked up at Mujahid without raising his head.

  “Knowledge in the absence of wisdom is a dangerous thing,” Digby said. “I understand you’re fond of that saying. And well you should be.”

  “What…did…you…mean?” Mujahid said, enunciating every syllable. He wouldn’t let the little man wriggle his way out of this again.

  “Very well,” Digby said. “Nuuan has waited a long time for Kaitlyn’s arrival. At Mordryn’s request.”

  Mujahid had to press his hand against the door jam to keep himself standing.

  “Did you say Mordryn?” Mujahid asked.

  Digby walked under Mujahid’s arm and made a show of ducking, though he didn’t need to. He walked toward the staircase leading up into the higher levels of the Mukhtaar Estate.

  “You have a guest in your chambers who can shed light on recent events,” Digby said. He climbed the stairs without looking back.

  Mujahid’s stomach clenched. The crypt could wait.

  Not only had Mordryn left without warning or provocation, but she had also conspired with Nuuan in the process.

  His pulse, which had been racing with anticipation and urgency earlier, slowed. His breathing became shallow.

  How could Mordryn have known anything of Kaitlyn? Even if Mordryn could somehow travel between Erindor and Earth, she disappeared forty years ago—twenty years before Kaitlyn’s birth.

  In a daze, Mujahid climbed to the fourth level of the estate and approached the two intricately carved wooden doors leading to his chambers.

  Digby stopped and gestured for Mujahid to open the door.

  “These are your private chambers,” Digby said. “It would be rude of me to barge in ahead of you.”

  Mujahid stared at the door, but his eyes were focused beyond it at no definite point.

  “Lord Mujahid?” Digby asked.

  Mujahid pushed the door open, revealing the large windows on the other side of his chambers that opened out upon the floating lights in the cavern surrounding the estate. He turned toward the bed he hadn’t slept in for more than a year and almost didn’t notice a person sitting on its edge.

  His eyes refused to believe what was right before him.

  “Hello, Mujahid,” Mordryn said. “It’s been a long time.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Orbs of power are among the rarest of rare objects of power in the multiverse. Rarer still are the molds in which they were forged. Oh the divine power they must contain! They are the very archetype of Orb of Power. The final state of perfection the Orb of Power strives to achieve, just as every other object in the multiverse strives toward its own incarnation of perfection.

  - Coteon of the Steppes, “The Mukhtaar Chronicles: Coteonic Commentaries” (circa 680 BCE)

  Caspardis was the last place on Erindor Nicolas ever wanted to see again, but there it was, looming over him at the end of the road. Armored guards walked among flags of Caspardis—a cat’s eye on a red field—that flew at regular intervals along the crenelated, sandstone parapets. Something glinted in the shadow beneath the city’s arched sandstone entrance. The portcullis was down!

  Why is the city still on lock down?

  Kagan, who was pulling a hand-d
rawn wagon behind the group, had said it meant Caspardis was either keeping something in or keeping something out. Had the Barathosians tried to attack already?

  A gust of cold wind brought the smell of the lake to Nicolas’s nose, and he suppressed a chill. If the sight of the Caspardis flag didn’t bring back bad memories, the smell of dead fish, slaughter houses, and tanneries certainly did.

  The brisk wind carried with it the sound of voices.

  Robert and Philomena were arguing with the gate guards, but the guards didn’t seem interested in opening that portcullis any time soon.

  Nicolas would have to do something about that. There was little time to waste.

  As he stepped forward, the statuette he’d found on the road poked into his leg, so he pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it. It was a happy little figurine, smiling and clasping its hands.

  A lot happier than Caspardis should be.

  His mood grew dark, and he forgot why he’d taken a step.

  I should level the city. I should summon another penitent, fight my way to the magistrate’s court, and slaughter everyone there.

  It was less than they deserved. He wanted them to suffer. And the more he stared at the smiling figure the more pain he wanted them to feel.

  He needed the gate opened. Wasn’t that reason enough to attack? To slaughter? To force them into submission the way they’d forced him? Maybe he should treat them the way the argram once treated humans…pulling their limbs off and—

  Someone slapped the figurine from his hand. Aelron. His big brother.

  “Hey!” Nicolas said. His mood improved, but he was still shocked by Aelron’s reaction.

  “You’d have done the same if you were looking in a mirror,” Aelron said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That look on your face,” Aelron said. “You were snarling. And it gets worse every time you touch that thing.”

  Nicolas glanced at the figurine, which was laying in the dirt at his feet. Was it an object of power of some sort? Was he witnessing another case of something being imbued by an enchanter?