Book of The Dead

A flash of light caught Tyron’s eye, and for a moment he was confused. The array was set into the wall, flashing a bright orange light right in his face. A second later, he remembered what it was: his alarm.

Someone had entered the shop.

Since Almsfield Enchantments was closed and he’d stopped taking commissions from re-enlisting Slayers, that could only mean one thing. It was strange; after fearing the moment of discovery for so long, to have it finally arrive felt almost anti-climactic. He was prepared; the persona of Lukas Almsfield had outlived its usefulness and he could cast it aside.

It was time for Tyron Steelarm to reemerge into the light.

Filled with sudden energy, he sprang up from his chair, grabbed his staff from its place against the wall and began to work. His hands flickered as he rapidly deployed the words of power, shutting down some arrays, bringing others to life and triggering his final surprise.

As he did so, Filetta emerged from the sewer tunnel, a dozen skeletons arranged by her side.

“Time to go?” she asked, business-like for a change.

When he was done, Tyron lowered his hands and nodded. “Time to go. Is everything ready?”

“Just the way you wanted it.”

There was a moment of hesitation from the undead.“Are you sure about this?” she asked him.

Tyron turned towards her, unwavering resolve burning in his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” she apologised.

“What will be, will be,” he stated. “There’s no going back from this point forward.”

The Ossuary had been closed, his study was barren of his work, not a single scrap of writing remaining. Everything of any value to him had been removed long ago, leaving nothing for his pursuers to find, except for the connection between the basement and the sewer. It wouldn’t take them long to discover where he’d gone.

Well, they’d be slowed down a bit. Of that, he was certain.

With a final glance over his shoulder, Tyron bid farewell to his study, the store, and any semblance of peace in his life. It was fine, he willingly cast it away. Peace did nothing more than weigh him down; where he was going, he wouldn’t need it.

With Filetta and her skeletons falling in around him, Tyron drew up the hood of his cloak and strode into the darkness of the sewer, staff in hand.

~~~

As it happened, finding Almsfield Enchantments wasn’t all that difficult. The enchanter had a good reputation for producing durable, quality work at a reasonable price. In a mere afternoon of intelligence gathering, Nostas Jorlin’s people had compiled a laundry list of glowing testimonials for the store.

On the surface, it seemed as if Lukas Almsfield was exactly what Master Willhem had said he was: a talented, hardworking Arcanist who, for whatever reason, had decided to establish himself beyond the walls of the city in Shadetown rather than within Kenmor proper.

Yet Lord Jorlin was convinced there was more to this case. The timing lined up too well, the fact that ‘Master Almsfield’ had been so diligent, almost to the point of mania, his low profile, all of it raised his suspicions further and further.

Only hours after his raid on the properties of Master Willhem, Nostas strode through the streets of Shadetown with a veritable army by his side. To apprehend the culprit, no effort would be spared; even Duke Raugrave had provided some of his personal Soldiers, along with the finest Mage Catchers in the province.

Guilty or not, Lukas Almsfield would be screaming in the deepest pit under the castle before long, becoming familiar with the Duke’s Questioners.

The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky when they reached the market district. With a gesture, Lord Jorlin ordered his people forward, and they responded like the high levelled professionals they were. Gliding over the ground like panthers, they spread through the streets, forming a wide perimeter around the district and then started to pull it tight.

Doors were locked and windows barred as the citizens raced to get out of sight and protect themselves from being caught up in the confrontation to come. Whatever was about to happen wasn’t something they wanted to be involved in, and when they saw the livery of House Jorlin on the Lord’s armour, they knew that blood would soon be spilled.

The Lord himself waited with mounting impatience and fury, grinding his teeth as the necessary precautions were taken. Anti-magick fields were being established, eyes put on every path in and out of the district. Only when it was certain there was no way out for the prey did the circle begin to draw closed and finally allow Nostas to stride forward, armoured feet pounding the cobbled road as he gripped the hilt of his blade so tight his knuckles turned white.

The store itself wasn’t anything impressive, though the building was larger and more ornate than those around it. Stone columns and a carved landing extended from the front door, giving the entrance an officious air, a large embossed copper plate hung over the door that read “Almsfield Enchantments,” the letters themselves gleaming with a subtle, magickal light.

Yet through the broad windows that flanked the door, it was clear the interior was dark and empty. It had been some time since this ground floor had seen a significant number of people come through the entrance.

Nostas ground his teeth. Had the suspect already fled? No matter. It delayed the capture, but wouldn’t prevent it.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The Lord pushed forward, only for Captain Mykl, leader of the remaining Jorlin family Soldiers, to catch him on the arm.

“You aren’t going first, my Lord,” the grizzled veteran said.

It wasn’t a question. In his anger, Nostas bristled at the lack of respect, but strangled his protest. This could be the hiding place of a Necromancer powerful enough to kill everyone in his family estate; it would be foolish to rush forward blindly.

He gave a short nod, and only then did Mykl remove his hand, moving forward himself along with a few of his trusted men.

“Is the anti-magick field ready?” the Lord demanded.

The highest ranking of the Mage Catchers stepped up beside him.

“It is, my Lord. Currently, we don’t detect any unusual sources of energy within the building, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. An accomplished Arcanist has many ways to conceal magick from our eyes.”

“Would the field suppress it regardless?” he demanded.

“The short answer is no,” she replied bluntly. “Large bursts of power can overwhelm anti-magick fields. They are useful tools, but not infallible. Caution is always advised.”

He grunted and eyed the woman sideways. Specialists at hunting rogue Mages, the Order of Silence belonged to the Empire, or more directly, to the Duke. Their abilities were so narrowly focused, there wasn’t much call for many of them, only three existed in the entire Western Province as far as he knew. At Gold Rank, she had reached the peak of what she would be allowed to achieve in her Primary Class. He’d been told to treat her with respect and refer to her as Sister Ceril.

If it allowed him to find Tyron Steelarm and tear the bastard apart, then he would gladly comply.

Both of them watched intently as the door was punched open, the Soldiers rushing inside while others kept the building completely surrounded. A mouse wouldn’t be able to slip out a window without being noticed, even wearing an invisibility spell.

Lord Jorlin simmered as he was forced to wait while Marshals and Magisters stormed into the building after the Soldiers, rushing up the interior stairs and turning over every box and table within the store.

“Still nothing?” he ground out.

Sister Ceril shook her head, her green eyes focused, unblinking on the structure as some form of power swirled within them.

“There are small readings; flashes and pulses, but those could just be from enchanted bits and bobs that were being sold. The field is soaking up that energy without issues, but there’s nothing significant.”

For five agonising minutes, the Lord of House Jorlin fumed in the street as the building was turned inside out, only for Mylk to emerge and report the building was empty.

“No sign of him at all?” Nostas growled.

This wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“So far, no. He was living here, recently even, judging by the state of the rooms upstairs. There’s still a fair few cores and other materials lying about, but so far nothing that would indicate Necromancy.”

“I want to know where he’s gone,” Nostas demanded. “Find me something I can use.”

“Allow me to inspect the building,” Sister Ceril said. “If anything has been hidden using magickal means, I’ll find it.”

“Go,” Nostas ordered and turned toward Mykl. “Is the building secure enough for me to enter?”

“I would prefer you waited for the Sister to complete her search, my Lord,” the Captain replied, eyes glittering, “but I suspect you won’t tolerate further delay.”

“You’re right, I won’t.”

The interior of the store was almost insultingly normal. Glass cases set atop long tables, plenty of space for clients to walk through the rows, admiring the pieces on display. Of course, it had all been overturned and now the space was in total disarray, but compared to what he’d hoped to find, this… normality… grated on his nerves.

A store counter, a safe, storerooms in the back, workrooms upstairs alongside private rooms for the owner. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

There had to be something.

It was Sister Ceril who found it.

“I believe this storeroom has a false wall,” she reported when he rejoined her downstairs. “I can feel enchantments built into the wall and floor behind it. If I’m right, then there should be a staircase going down into a cellar.”

Nostas’ eyes widened as he felt his anger flare anew in his chest. Had he been right? Had his brothers’ killer lived in this very building?

“So tear it down,” he demanded. “I want to see it!”

“Wait,” she said, her eyes as cold as ice. “Unless you want to find yourself in an early grave, allow me to drain the power from the cores I can sense. Then your men can break down the wall and enter the basement safely.”

Before Nostas could argue, Mykl was by his side placing a hand on his arm.

“My Lord. If this is the person we’ve been chasing, there is no need to risk yourself. Allow us to take on the risk, that is what we are here for.”

The young Lord ground his teeth.

“Fine,” he said.

Once he had exited the building, Sister Ceril began her work, joining him outside when she was done a half hour later.

“I couldn’t sense anything further,” she told him, “but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. The Mage responsible for creating these arrays is… skillful.”

“Are you praising the murderer of my family?” Lord Jorlin grated.

“If my prey is skillful, then I will say so,” she replied evenly. “It does no good to… GET DOWN!”

Breaking off mid-sentence, her face paled in an instant and she threw herself into him, bearing the Lord down to the ground as he shouted in protest.

There was an inaudible thump that seemed to pulse through the ground and into Nostas’ very bones. A moment later, a dark cloud boiled up out of the basement, filling the store and spilling out the door and into the street.

Even though he wasn’t a mage, Nostas could feel just how much power was contained within that cloud. It was dense with mystic energy.

“That’s Death Magick,” Sister Ceril gasped from atop him. “We have to get away. Get up, quickly!”

She scrambled to her feet and, along with his nearby Soldiers, helped to haul Nostas from the ground.

“What is happening?” he demanded as they rushed to get further from the building.

“I felt a surge of power from the basement, incredibly potent magick. I feared it would cause a detonation of some sort, but now I worry that might have been preferable,” the Sister told him.

“That doesn’t answer my question!”

“I’m not sure exactly! There is some spell bound into the cloud, but I can’t tell what it is. The anti-magick field will eat into it, but it will take time.”

“How long? What if he’s still down there?” Nostas shouted.

Behind them, the cloud of dark magick continued to expand, rising in the air, but it didn’t grow any wider. After a minute, it had formed a pitch black pillar that engulfed the store entirely and rose a hundred metres high.

Then it began to rotate, creating a dark vortex that grew faster and faster as purple lights began to flicker and flash within its depths.

“Break the spell!” the Jorlin Lord roared.

Sister Ceril didn’t reply, her face a mask of concentration as she and the other mages in attendance turned all their focus to overcoming this magick.

A cold mist began to pour out of the base of the pillar. Slowly at first, it thickened rapidly until it became so dense it was impossible to see through. Vague shapes twisted within the cloud, causing the mist to eddy and swirl as it stretched its tendrils further outward with each passing moment.

“I… I have it!” Sister Ceril cried, sweat dripping down her face. Her hands rose and flashed out a series of quick gestures as she chanted.

When she was done, a change could be felt in the air, and the towering vortex began to slow its rotation. Within seconds, Nostas could see signs it was breaking apart.

The mist, however, did not fade. In fact, it was still growing.

From within, he saw a twisted, ethereal face, wracked with anger and pain, barely visible hands grasping, reaching for him.

“Ghost,” he said, pointing at the spectre. “There’s a ghost in the mist!”

Then there were more. The mist swirled and danced as wraiths emerged, filled with hatred for the living.

Hundreds of them.