Book of The Dead

“Where are they?” Recillia demanded.

“I-I don’t know,” Grand Magister Tommat replied. “It must be taking longer than anticipated to settle matters in the city.”

The fear was so prevalent in his tone that the Lady of house Erryn could no longer prevent her contempt from showing on her face.

“This tower is rotten from top to bottom,” she hissed, her voice full of venom. “I have been too soft on you Magisters. That will change in the future.”

Tommat quailed in the face of her open hostility. He had never seen such an expression on her face or heard such open dislike from her. The mask had finally slipped, and the snake within was baring its fangs in his face. All of his years as a Magister had not prepared him to confront a Noble in such a state. He felt weak, unable to act or think in the face of her rising anger.

“To think so many of you are scions of the Houses. It makes me sick to think I share blood with a single Magister,” she growled. “Fat, indolent and useless, every one of you. If I had my way, the Duke would hang the lot of you and we could draw replacements from a pig farm. Torturing you for your incompetence is wholly insufficient. A single mage has breached the tower! One! Are you so incapable of managing a single person if they aren’t branded?”

She leaned down, right in his face as her diatribe continued, her eyes boring into his own, and the old man could not look away. If she wished it, he would die, he knew that, all she had to do was say it.

And, in truth, she was right. They were weak against the unbranded, so much of their power was bound into the curse, its application, use and management. They were not battlefield mages and never had been, that wasn’t their role! With less than a fifth of all available Magisters still in the tower, how were they supposed to hold?

Yet all the excuses died on his lips. He couldn’t bring himself to give voice to his true thoughts lest she use it as an excuse to punish him further. Instead, he said the only other thing that came to mind.

“Y-you can kill him, my lady,” he whispered.Lady Recillia Erryn didn’t move, her eyes only widening further as her fury erupted.

“What,” she demanded slowly, “did you say?”

Silence was not an option for Tommat. All around them, a dozen red-robed Magisters stood, casting their gaze askance while their leader was humiliated in front of their eyes.

“With… with the Divine Mandate, my lady,” he said again. “He will die… if you command it.”

Recillia straightened and drew a deep breath through her nose as she tried to restrain herself… but failed.

SMACK!

In one smooth motion, she raised her hand overhead and then brought it down across Grand Magister Tommat’s face, sending the mage sprawling to the ground with her Gold Ranked strength.

“You dare think to order me?” she whispered, her tone filled with ice once more. “You were born to serve, Tommat, and I was born to rule. You think to ask me to do what you cannot? Do you understand what I am?”

Still trembling with rage, Recillia drew on her power, on her authority.

“Kneel,” she commanded.

The weight of that word hung in the air as a physical presence, one that pressed down on everyone who heard it. Every Magister in the room crashed down to their knees, pressing their face into the floor. Even the Grand Magister, sprawled on the ground, had to pick himself up so he could properly kneel in accordance with her will.

Eyes cold once more, Recillia pressed her foot into the back of Tommat’s head, grinding his forehead into the stone.

“This is the true order,” she said. “I am above you, and I have been since The Divines ascended and the Empire was founded. Your place is to serve, a task at which you have failed miserably. I will not forget.”

She withdrew her foot and released her will, allowing the Magisters to rise once more. They did so with ashen expressions and trembling limbs, terrified of the power they had just experienced.

“Accompany me, all of you,” Recillia commanded. “We will seek out this Necromancer and I will destroy him myself. Then we can cleanse this tower of the true corruption that infests it.”

There was no doubt as to what she referred to, but without the ability to resist, each of the mages rose and fell in behind her as the Noble strode from the room. Grand Magister Tommat pulled himself to his feet, using the wall as a brace. Never in his life had he felt so exhausted, so drained and depleted. Yet what could he do? As Recillia had said, he had been born beneath her. When thought and will were stripped back by the Divine Will, all that remained was obedience.

In his heart, a tiny voice whispered that perhaps… just perhaps… the Necromancer would be able to rise above it… but he knew he could not. What was a mortal in the face of the Divines?

Unaware or uncaring of the thoughts of her underlings, Recillia walked through the tower at her own, dignified pace, her expression cold and hard once more. Hands folded genteelly before her, head high and shoulders squared, she exuded authority and control, something the Magisters were more than willing to cling to in the current crisis. As their world crumbled around them, she was a stable bastion, one they might detest, but reliable nonetheless.

As they descended the stairways, the sounds of fighting became louder. The screams of the dying, the sounds of magick, chanting, burning, a hint of smoke in the air, all began to assault their senses with greater frequency and intensity. To the dozen mages following her, only the unmoved presence of the Lady was enough to settle their nerves. They clung to her, hoping that she would succeed where they could not.

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The further down the stairs she travelled, the more evidence she found of the incompetence she had railed against. More than once, she found Magisters cowering in corridors, or fleeing towards her, desperate to avoid the conflict below. She had the others bind them so they could be appropriately dealt with later, when there was sufficient time. All the while, her impatience grew. She wanted to find this Necromancer, this mortal who dared insult the Divines, and put an end to him, as one would destroy an unruly animal which no longer recognised its master.

And then, suddenly, they were face to face.

She rounded the staircase to find him below her, foot on the next step as he made his way up. The moment she saw him, he raised his head and saw her, the two meeting each other’s gaze.

Recillia wasn’t sure what she had expected to see. Certainly, the man looked quite the villain, covered in plates of bone armour so black they seemed to suck in the light. A cloak with burns and holes covered his shoulders and fell down along his back, while beneath him a dense black mist churned, inching its way up the stairs behind him. From that darkness, a host of skeletons slowly emerged, but not completely, only showing their heads and burning, purple eyes, while the rest remained shrouded.

Slowly, the Necromancer brought up his hands to grasp his helmet, which he removed, revealing his face.

Gaunt, pale, with dark hair and thin lips, his features were far from pleasing, but they weren’t what captured the Lady’s gaze; it was his eyes. Dark, they burned with an intensity so powerful she could almost feel it. Anger, resentment, grief, confidence, elation all blended together to form a storm directed towards her. He didn’t even seem to see the Magisters behind her, which was fair, they hardly mattered at all.

“Lady Recillia Erryn,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “This isn’t our first meeting.”

His voice was flat, devoid of the emotions she knew were roiling within him.

“So I’m told,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “Master Lukas Almsfield. I’m curious how you were able to maintain a false face in front of me.”

“Some mysteries are not for the likes of you to know,” he replied. “However, you can be at ease, I am here wearing my true appearance. Tyron Steelarm, at your service.”

He didn’t bother to offer even a modicum of a bow, not even in mockery. Recillia felt her lip curl. She almost hadn’t believed it when she’d been told.

“Steelarm,” she said coldly. “I shouldn’t be surprised that the offspring of those two would similarly show such disrespect.“

A hint of anger showed through on his face at the mention of his family.

“Enlighten me, if you could. What exactly did my parents do that required them to be tortured to death?” he said, his jaw clenched.

“They refused to do their duty,” she replied coldly.

“You ordered them to kill their only child.”

“I did. I personally gave the order, if you wanted to know.”

The Necromancer shook his head.

“You gave it to the Magisters, but that order came from far above you. Far, far above. I was given this Class so you could issue that order, the sole reason. Why? Do you even know?”

That gaze hardened even further, if it were possible, as he searched her for answers, as if he could rip them straight from her head. Her upper lip curled.

“You see shadows and plots where none exist. You are a deviant, that is why you have that Class. Look around you, the truth is plain to see just what you are.”

The young Steelarm stared up at her for a time, then he shook his head.

“Lying or unaware. Whichever it is, it doesn’t matter; I’ll have the truth of it soon. I’ll tear the answers straight from your shrieking soul, Recillia. There will be no peaceful end for you. I promise you, in the names of Magnin and Beory, you will suffer a thousand years of agony, and I still won’t be satisfied.”

He was so sure, so arrogant. She almost pitied him.

“Who are you? A pathetic mortal, like all of the others. Regardless of how much power the Unseen has lavished upon you, it doesn’t make you any different. You are subject to a will greater than your own, and you have been your entire life. Here, in my presence, you are not a human, you are an insect, and you live only so long as I suffer for you to do so.”

She stared down at him, hands still held together, her gaze unyielding.

“My patience has come to an end, Tyron Steelarm. Like your parents before you, die in vain trying to strike at that which is so much greater than yourself. I command your heart to cease beating. By the Will of the Gods, make it so.”

As she invoked the Divine Will, her words changed from simple air to something greater. Speech capable of reforging reality, much like the words of power, but it was not through Recillia’s will that this change took effect, but that of something far above.

That presence was felt as she uttered her commandment, everyone present could feel it, even the Necromancer, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

Divinity had spoken.

Tyron Steelarm jerked as if he’d been stabbed, a hand clutched at his chest as he coughed blood onto the stairs. His helmet of bone fell to the floor with a dull thud before rolling down the stairs. Recillia watched in satisfaction as he lost his balance and began to pitch forward onto the staircase.

This was the inevitable consequence of trying to overcome the wall that could not be surmounted. Just as his parents had tried to leap above their station and been beaten down, so too did the son meet his fate.

“A tragedy,” she murmured.

Recillia moved to turn to the Magisters cowering behind her, but stopped as the Necromancer took a step. No, not a step, he simply thrust his leg forward to stop himself from falling over. The Lady watched impassively as he continued to press his hand against his chest and hack out blood, his entire body convulsing.

It was a macabre sight, yet she found she couldn’t look away. How fascinating, to think his drive to enact vengeance was this strong. Then, after another shuddering cough, he raised his head, blood dripping from his chin, and stared into her eyes.

He was grinning.

“Did… you really… think… death would be enough?” he rasped, a dangerous light blazing in his eyes.

With a roar he thumped himself in the chest with one hand while the other gripped tight to his staff. Again, he cried out and pounded his chest. Then, as he withdrew his hand, she saw something; threads of magick, thin as wire leading from the tips of his fingers and into his own chest.

Still grinning wildly, he began to flex his fingers in a familiar rhythm.

Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Dum-dum.

“Impossible,” Recillia gasped, realisation blooming in her mind.

Tyron Steelarm laughed then, wild and unrestrained, the laugh of a maniac, the laugh of a madman. For a moment, Lady Erryn began to wonder if she would actually die in this place.

Still, his hand continued to flex, as steady as the finest drummer.

“All things are possible, Lady Erryn,” he rasped, blood continuing to drip from his lips. “With enough hate, you would be amazed what someone can achieve.”

Shaky at first, but with growing confidence, he took a step, rising up the staircase and drawing closer to the gathered Magisters and the Noble at their head. Almost involuntarily, the mages stepped back, transfixed by the horror taking place before their eyes.

Recillia did not retreat, stunned by what she was seeing, and by the pure malevolence that radiated from the person before her. Was it really possible for one man to hold so much wild grief?

“I’ve waited a long time for this, Lady Erryn,” Tyron grinned, eyes wild. “What a marvellous undead you will be.”