Book of The Dead

The Lady Recillia Erryn was furious. Beyond furious. She sat behind her desk, demeanour so icy the unfortunate Magisters summoned to her office felt their breath should have been misting in the air.

Unlike the various functionaries, who scurried in and out of the office, for Grand Magister Tommat Baln, there was no escape. Seated at a second desk at a decidedly lower level than the Noble, he was forced to endure her fury at close range as best he was able.

“How many times did the Red Tower commission this heretic and criminal, Grand Magister?” Lady Erryn asked, her voice emotionless and flat. “Surely you have determined the final number by now.”

Even her face was a still mask, giving no hint of her underlying emotions, but there was no doubt as to how she felt. The heat of her gaze was scalding, and the chill of her words was icy.

“Well, uh,” Grand Magister Tommat stuttered, flicking through the stack of loose papers in front of him. “We contracted Lukas Almsfield on… at least three occasions. He did…” more shuffling papers, “... several jobs for us in each commission… his speciality was conduit magick, which is widely applicable.”

Lady Erryn folded her hands together in front of her on the table, a genteel gesture, but the old Magister couldn’t help but feel she was restraining her hands lest she rip his throat out.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she said quietly.

Her glare was like a roaring bonfire, and the Grand Magister wilted even further. He retreated to the only tactic that remained to him: honesty.

“We brought in dozens of Arcanists on limited contracts through that period,” he pleaded. “All the work was documented, but it's difficult to rifle through the paperwork so quickly. I have ten Magisters and documentarians going through the records, but it will take time.”

“Time we don’t have,” the reply was swift and sharp. “Unless you haven’t noticed, the city has been plunged into a state of emergency. I’m told there are ghosts and zombies roaming the streets and the gold ranked slayers have been turned out to fight, which means our people need to be actively monitoring the curse. How can we do that when the security of the Tower has been compromised?”

The old man grimaced. There wasn’t a good answer to that, yet he reached for one anyway.

“Does it really matter if we can’t immediately say what the Necromancer worked on?” he asked. When Lady Erryn raised her hands, he continued hurriedly. “You subjected him to the Divine Authority. If he uses any of his knowledge against us, he will immediately die. Doesn’t that give us some level of safety?”

Recillia Erryn struggled to restrain her temper. The Grand Magister could only be partially blamed for his ignorance; he was a symptom, not the disease. The complacency she had been working so hard to rip out by the root had coddled the old man his entire life. To think an enemy could penetrate the heart of the Red Tower, work extensively on its defensive enchantments, and still they couldn’t feel the blade on their neck was maddening.

They had received a message less than an hour ago informing them that the mysterious attacker who had slaughtered everyone at the Jorlin estate had been identified. The name ‘Lukas Almsfield’ hadn’t caused any alarm bells immediately, but she had soon recalled that she had in fact heard the name before. When she’d eventually placed the name, she remembered meeting him. A lean, yellow-haired young man with dark eyes and an intense air about him.

Of course, somehow, that hadn’t been his real face. As a matter of course, she had tested whether the Arcansist had a glamour concealing his true features, but had failed to break it. She had no idea how such a thing was possible, but she couldn’t deny the now-clear reality of the situation.

“I want everything that maniac touched to be dismantled by the end of the night,” she demanded, deciding to do as she always did and ride roughshod over the Grand Magister’s sputtering protestations. “I don’t care what you have to do, get it done. Delegate someone to supervise it, since I want you to personally oversee managing the gold Slayers’ curses. If something goes wrong tonight, I will personally see to it that you are crucified in the courtyard tomorrow.”

The Grand Magister paled, and pushed himself up from the table.

“V-very well,” he muttered, trying to preserve his dignity. “I will s-see to it immediately.”

Before he could make his exit, the double door to the office burst open, a red-faced Magister rushing in and shouting.

“He’s here!” he gasped out. “There are skeletons climbing out of the sewer around the tower!”

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“What?” the Grand Magister gaped, while Recillia rose calmly from her seat.

“Let us prepare to welcome him, then,” she said, eyes glittering darkly. “I can’t wait to see him dead.”

They rushed out of her office. Well, the Magisters did. Lady Recillia Erryn moved in a stately manner that somehow still kept pace with the Mages' more energetic motion. Every level of the Red Tower featured a corridor that ran the entire circumference. From there, narrow, slitted windows coated with protective enchantments allowed a good view of the surroundings and for spells to be cast through in relative safety.

Magisters crowded around several of the windows before Recillia and the others arrived, but they quickly made way when they recognised the Grand Magister, and more importantly, herself. Staring down into the street, the Noblewoman could see what had raised the alarm.

Skeletons were climbing out of several sewer entrances, gathering into neat ranks in the street. Even more were coming from nearby roads, marching out of the darkness, no doubt having used sewer exits nearby. Already there were hundreds of skeletons, their massed purple eyes emitting an eerie glow that blended with the magick street lamps that lined the broad avenues around the tower.

The heavily armed and armoured warriors who guarded the gate were all assembled, their ranks formed up behind the rapidly closing gate as archers rushed into the towers and along the top of the wall that ringed the tower.

“How many Magisters will be available for the defence?” Recillia demanded.

Grand Magister Tommat blinked as he turned reluctantly from the grisly scene on the street.

“W-well. We need at least twenty to manage the gold rank curse markers. Then… at least a dozen to work on dismantling the enchanting work.”

“The Necromancer is already here,” she reminded him icily, “there is no point fiddling with the enchantments. Get those Magisters to the windows. Now.” ꭆ

The old man nodded and turned to his brother Magisters, issuing stammered commands that sent several robed figures running away while others conjured communication sigils.

The Noble Lady kept her eyes on the streets below as more and more skeletons continued to emerge. They held back from the Tower itself, massing across the broad avenue under the cover of the awnings of the buildings.

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How many were there? Hundreds, and more emerging constantly.

Then her eyes flared as the Necromancer himself climbed out of the sewer, in full view of the tower. It was difficult to make out the details of the figure, as he was obscured by a sphere of blood as well as the thick, plated bone armour he wore, yet she could feel something coming off that person, an inkling of power that prickled against her skin.

“He’s Gold Rank,” she stated. “Hit him, now!”

The Magisters turned to stare at her words, then back to the windows as she issued her command. Immediately, they raised their hands, muttering words of power as they began to shape their magick into spells.

The Necromancer below looked up immediately, as if he could sense the spells coming, then raised his own hands in response.

The air rippled as if struck by an invisible fist. At first, Lady Erryn couldn’t understand what had happened, then the phenomenon repeated, and again.

It was the Necromancer, she realised belatedly. He was casting a spell, and reality was shaking as if it were a drum being struck. Several of the Magisters staggered under the effect of that powerful warping, but others held firm, thrusting forth their palms and launching their spells.

Five beams of ruby red light blasted down from the windows, streaking toward the figure below, who did not react. The light smashed into an invisible barrier, scattering across its spherical surface, sending shards of light arcing through the air and skittering across the cobbled road.

The Necromancer did not stop casting, every word impacting the air with a physical force as he moved from sigil to sigil with flawless precision.

“Keep casting,” Recillia ordered, “the shield will break.”

Except it didn’t. Skeletons emerged, different from the others, holding glowing staves in their hands, some of them with strange, eerie green flesh. Dozens of skeletal mages came forward, reinforcing the shield as the Necromancer brought his spell to a close.

A grand arch began to form, formed entirely of intertwined bones. A large door was set in the centre of the arch, and uncaring of the barrage of spells falling on him, the Necromancer stepped to the door and pulled it open.

Dark smoke billowed out of the door sweeping across the ground and rising into the air, obscuring the Necromancer, the door and arch in moments. Moments before it rose high enough, Recillia caught a glimpse of a massive skeleton stepping out of the door and rising to its full height, a huge, black sword gripped in its hand.

The black cloud billowed outward like a wave, crashing against the iron gates of the compound as ghostly lights flickered in the darkness. Arrows began to fly, along with spells, sending the warriors posted in the high places ducking behind the crenellations to gain cover.

“Deploy the Tower shield,” she demanded, and for once Tommat Baln was ahead of her, already communicating with someone through a sigil.

Moments later, there was a powerful surge of energy, so strong the air fizzed with it, causing the hair on the back of Recillia’s neck to rise. Through the window, she could see the shield descend as it was projected from the top of the tower, falling like a red curtain to envelop the grounds.

Surrounded by the scarlet glow of the shield, the tower took on a maddening, hellish hue, bathing the features of everyone near the windows in a blood-red tint.

“We will be limited in what magick we can send through the shield,” Tommat said, stroking his long beard nervously with one hand. “It will be difficult to fight off the undead without the full support of the Magisters.”

“We don’t need to win,” Lady Erryn told him. “All we have to do is hold our ground. Eventually the Duke, the Noble Houses, Marshals and Soldiers will descend on this place, even the Slayers. So long as he doesn’t get in, he’ll be crushed by the might of the Western Province.”

“R-right you are, my Lady,” Tommat nodded.

Through the black cloud, it was almost impossible to see what was happening in the street. Even the highest point of the bone arch was now hidden from view, the entire avenue outside the tower grounds concealed in darkness. Arrows and spells continued to fly, but they bounced harmlessly off the shield or scattered across its surface.

Against a defensive measure designed to keep out an army of Slayers, Recillia doubted a single man would have any hope of even scratching the surface.

“Can you sense that?” Grand Magister Tommat asked.

For a long moment, there was silence in the crowded corridor, Mages looking at one another, or staring blankly into space as they used their arcane senses to probe their surroundings.

Lady Erryn turned her glare on the Grand Magister, wishing the old man would be more specific.

“What have you found?” she demanded.

Tommat frowned, his eyes roaming upwards as he tried to discern just what it was he had glimpsed. Then it came again, and his face paled.

“It’s the shield!” he gasped.

“What about it?” Recillia said icily.

“I think… I think…” the Grand Magister muttered as he continued to tilt his head this way and that, trying to grasp what he was sensing. “I think… that… we have a problem.”

Several nearby Magisters had begun to weave spells, using them to inspect the surrounding magick, or to communicate with their fellows who were working the vast arrays that powered the Tower’s enchantments.

“Power is being syphoned from the shield!” one of them announced, his eyes afire with blue magick.

“That’s impossible!” Tommat shouted, but by his face, Recillia could see he doubted his own words.

She grit her teeth and turned back to the window, staring down at the billowing darkness.

“Burn away that cloud,” she demanded. “Dispel it. Destroy it. I don’t care, but I want to see what is happening down there.”

Tommat nodded and began to coordinate with his fellow Magisters, his pale, sweating face inspiring little confidence. At least when it came to magick, they were competent enough to get the job done. Soon they had several dozen Mages working in concert, using their power to break apart the magick sustaining the cloud.

As they did, Recillia noticed that the light of the shield was starting to dim. It was slow, very slow, but even she could discern it with the naked eye.

For several agonising minutes, the Magisters warred against the darkness, until finally it broke. The cloud scattered, fading away rapidly once the magick that produced it had been destroyed.

Audible gasps filled the room, and for the first time, Recillia felt a tinge of fear run down her spine as she took in the scene.

The street was filled with skeletons. Not hundreds. Thousands. All of them carrying arms forged of midnight-black bone. There was a sea of burning purple lights in their eyes, all of them staring directly forward at the tower. Throughout their ranks were more impressive undead, with full sets of armour and more elaborate weapons, and there were also cauldrons formed of grinning skulls held aloft here and there by groups of skeletons bearing them upon their bony shoulders.

There were a dozen of the enormous skeletal creatures, each one twice the height of a man, standing stock still, waiting, staring toward the gate.

Just before the arch stood the Necromancer, in the centre of an ornate ritual circle drawn in white sand. Every word, every gesture sent a ripple through the air as a mass of dark power over his head continued to swell with each passing moment.

“He’s draining power from our arrays!” Tommat gasped. “Somehow he tapped into the conduits!”

“There’s no way he was allowed to work on the shield arrays!” another Magister protested.

“Stop your babbling and kill him!” Recillia roared, pointing a finger at the Necromancer. “He’s right there!”

There were hundreds of windows facing that side of the tower, and from them, Magisters began to send a barrage of spells, all targeting the man conducting his ritual in plain view.

None of them got through. Surrounded by his undead servants, they used magickal shields of their own to protect him, or raised their shields of bone to cover his body, or even sacrificed their skeletal forms to prevent spells from reaching their target.

All the while, the mass of dark power grew, draining away energy from the tower itself, slowly taking on the form of a hand made of dense, black mist.

With his shields flickering, and his minions battered and driven back, the Necromancer raised his staff, then tilted it toward the tower gates.

The black hand surged forward, reforming into a fist of Necromantic power the size of a horse-drawn wagon.

Recillia subconsciously braced herself.

The fist crashed into the gate with tremendous force. The shield shattered with a deafening crash even as the gate was blasted inwards. A shockwave rippled outward from the impact, rattling the tower and sending the Magisters down to their knees.

Silent as the grave, the skeletons advanced.