“Rune Lore shifts in time. Lost in translation as ages pass and Keystones become victims of age. Use not a rune that you do not understand. Many are enchanted with dark magic.” Jeremiah Delalande, Lecture on Necromancy.
“I am not looking to escape my darkness, I am learning to love myself there.”
Rune Lazuli
“I have been accused of being a ‘black magician.’ No more foolish statement was ever made about me. I despise the thing to such an extent that I can hardly believe in the existence of people so debased and idiotic as to practice it.”
Aleiester Crowley
This is another short story for this month’s prompt as I explore the world of the Necromage.
Dragon Stone: Rune Lock
The Necromage moved toward the Chapel of the Undead, satisfied the rune locks were active, and no future wanderer through the Dragon Gate could access the deeper necropolis. Once the sanguisuge was expelled, he would call on The Matriarch to seal the portal to her Heart Stone. That left only the entry gate, and the dead would be tasked to hold that secure.
Outside, he concluded the sun was ebbing in the twin-mooned sky. Soon, dusk would fall. He knew this because the undead stirred within the chapel. So far, his touch was a caress. Skimming the essence of the creature within. A deeper act of necromancy would follow once it was added to the Library of Souls and collected.
If that was the chosen path and it refused to join his ranks. It may be better to let it flee and then send it to the earth as a watcher on the other side of the Gate. Either way, it would either willingly offer the whereabouts of elf and dwarf or find the dark arts extracting it.
He approached the stone steps, wary that decay and lichen smeared the risers. The doors hung in rotted shards off old iron hinges that had rusted to almost nothing. The slightest of breezes would send them crashing to the floor now and likely most of the stonework it was attached to. Mortar crumbled under the steady drip of time in a dark cubiculum fuelled by moisture and rot. Even the air was now toxic to those with living breath to inhale it. He considered the rune lock overkill. If anything breached the gate into the catacombs, then slow death would follow as mould spores opened to infest lungs that would join this cubiculum full of rancid fluids.
Matriarch, can you meet me on the other side of this Dragon Gate? Between us, we can snare this revenant and then close the portal.
The reply was instant: I am waiting, fool.
The Necromage allowed a smile. All dragons adopted superiority. It was a trait their kind showed as arrogance. It had undone them once, and this time, he would ensure the task ran to completion.
He turned his mind back to the tomb. The path to the mercuric lake rose in a spiral near where the catafalque inside rested. The map he carried from the Builder, who was a willing accomplice. Not that he was stupid enough to know that escaping the silvery tomb was his primary goal. Then again, stupidity rested with the Builder. If he felt his soul would rest once the lake drained, then it might be that he’d want it filling again once he touched him again.
###
Inside the coffin, the sanguisuge stirred, aware now that something stalked its mind. Mild amusement surfaced; if this were a grave robber, then they would receive an unexpected bounty. Perhaps a small token of what was about to transpire might add the effect, add a touch of creepiness to the creature outside that was about to find death waiting. Then, it would be time to hunt down the Dhampir daughter. His hands flexed as his mind drew on the mists of the vampire.
The Necromage stood watching. Mild amusement filled him. If he were a man clutching a torch in the darkness that cast fingers of dim light into the shadows, the effects might cause terror. Providing, of course, that he could breathe the toxic vapours permeating the cubicula. As it was all before him was visible. He could see fog drifting through the coffin lid to spill on the floor. A sheet that covered the ruinous path ahead. A vapour of false confidence. Nocturnes were as bad as dragons for arrogance, and it seemed this one lived by it. The price so far was to lose an arm to the elf. Granted, undead were regenerative, but lessons should be learned, not ignored. If she has bested him once, next time, it might be his head.
He pointed the serpent staff toward the tomb, using it to probe through the mist while necromancy did the rest. To think an undead could lock him out demonstrated arrogance. Anything glaring through cemetery eyes was wishing his reach. It was just a matter of when he would turn the screws. Fear was his first move. Enough to crawl through its mind, creating a need to flee. If that succeeded, he need never reveal his presence. A considerable advantage in a war of minds. Further damage to the crypt was to be avoided. Losing one access to the lake rune was unacceptable. To lose a second would be stupidity. He sent the instruction to fly laced with religious overtones in an effort to persuade what lay within that an exorcist approached the coffin.
The response was instant. The drifting fog of the undead ceased, leaving tendrils to dissipate amongst the debris on the floor. Any remaining near the catafalque was sucked back inside the coffin. The Necromancer felt arrogance turn to dread as his touch sank in. Embellished with the demise of past vampires that had crossed swords with those intending to destroy them.
Inside the coffin, red eyes flared open as the image of a stake plunging into one of the ancients entered his mind. The vampire’s torso arced upwards as the wood entered. A moment of pure agony before flesh turned to ash as a sanguisuge long centuries turned to a husk whose bones crumbled into the death shroud it once rested on. So real was the vision that it felt as if his life was ending. Rage blurred with anxiety. What sort of monster could invade his mind with hallucinations of exorcists? The urge to fight fled, and his attention turned to escape. The route to the portal was locked in his mind. A few hundred meters and this god-forsaken Chapel would pass into a bad memory. The original choice was accidental, and injury coinciding with sunrise had forced him into a cave. One that seemed innocuous until he explored deeper and found himself passing through a shimmering vertical membrane. It was after passing through that he beheld a room with all an undead required. Solitude, time to regenerate and darkness blacker than night. A mighty kingdom from which to grow a legion of followers.
On top of a once ornate catafalque sat a black oak coffin. Ideal for resting and, for some reason, vacant apart from some ancient bones that he discarded on the floor. Now, peace has been invaded by something more ancient than even he was. Worse still, it carried an evil that surpassed his own. One that delved inside the minds of the dead and extracted all memories as if they were scrolls in a library. He counted down and hurled the coffin lid in the direction he thought the nightmare stood. After that, he fled.
###
The Necromage watched. Impassive and smiling. The lid crashed into the floor some distance away, where it shattered. Another worm-ridden carcass that this dank cubiculum had rotted to nothing. The vampire, he knew, was intent on escape. Leaving the bones of the husk that once rested inside his place of trespass was a mistake. A hand of bone closed as he began a conjuration to reanimate the husk. It was followed by a single command, “Follow.”
A shade rose from the bone pile. A single glance at the Necromage killed any desire to refuse. Instead, it turned and flowed after the undead creature that had just passed through the Dragon Gate.
Matriarch, the undead, has left the Necropolis.
So, I have witnessed. The revenant stands guard. It is now trapped between that and the oncoming dawn.
Satisfied, the Necromage moved to the catafalque. It was as the Builder described. Hidden under dust and mildew, there was a rune stone. In the centre was a hole into which he placed his staff. The serpent’s eyes illuminated blood red. Somewhere, an old mechanism creaked into action. Isolated from this cubiculum’s atmosphere in a shaft so ancient even the dust had decayed to nothing. The catafalque lurched backwards, exposing a narrow stone stairwell. Unlike those he had already encountered, the risers remained unsullied by use.
Watch while I drain the lake. If either leaves the cave, let Dragons Breath decide their fate.
As you wish, Boy. Be swift.
The use of Boy was new. Something was amiss. He frowned as an unlikely thought invaded his confidence. That was the word used by The Black. One who was close to the Matriarch. Had that intercepted his sends?
No matter, The Black could be turned. It was dead in this world already. But if it had joined The Matriarch, it could present a greater risk, or he stood to let the gravity of his idea settle. He held the Heart Stone of the old wyvern, and The Black belonged to a Hybrid, both of whom were dead in one world or another. Was it possible to draw all to his ambitions? It could wait until he accessed the lack drain.
The stairs spiralled upwards in a tight coil. Unlike the cubiculum outside, it was arid and dedicated. Part of the old complex, and it had not passed him by, had a further descendant stairwell disappearing into the depths below, presumably to additional levels that had lain unsullied by outsiders for an eternity. He paused, even older knowledge to be exhumed when time allowed. The smile returned. A horde of undead could be rallied here to create a mighty black army. This thought had appeal.
The stairs ended in another chamber. A level between levels. Builder, did an Assassins network once thrive here?
Aye, even in yore, distrust existed. The solution rested with espionage and political culling if the ambitions served from those of the Originator.
Noted, Builder. So, the husk trapped within a conjurer’s bubble was a dictator. Also gifted with strategy, which meant caution was needed. If there were a way out, it would no doubt find it.
Ahead, he spied another rune lock. This one he understood. The drain rune lay to one side. Immaculate and almost out of the reach of time. More knowledge he could use. A thought struck him: the spy network would include the hatchery. The implication was that the eggs could have been tampered with long ago. Was The Matriarch aware?
He activated the drain, and more ancient machinery turned in the distance. In the Chapel of the Dead, a silvery pool began to empty.
###
Outside and overwatching the Dragon Gate, The Black heard all. It was here at the request of an old friend. At the edge of the cave stood one it had heard of. The father of the elf. He could pass, but the husk behind would burn. Vast wings unfurled, providing darkness to the cave. There is another cave nearby. Seek it, Vampire.
The undead needed no further prompting. As it left, Dragon’s Breath filled the cave, melting rock and blending it with the ashes of the husk. It left the tunnel smooth and the Gate unscathed. Attention now turned to locking it to The Black Heart Stone that sat with the Hybrid. Nothing save Wayland could now enter or leave. Any who forged a new tunnel would find themselves in another time and world; without the Gate, temporal displacement required old magic that was lost.
###
The Necromage paused as he felt the husk connection break. It confirmed one thing: others were moving. If it were The Black outside, then it was there at the request of The Matriarch. That meant both intended to secure the hatchery. If they intended to regenerate Dragonkind, then he would need to make use of the Assassin’s network.
Builder, I need your assistance.
