Rise of the Dead Prince (21 page)

The other skeletons seemed suddenly dazed, and then Meier closed his bony hand. The remaining five were then abruptly sucked into the first like iron to a magnet, only much more violently. The sound of snapping bones and crushed skulls filled the air like the crumpling of a thousand sheets of paper. Meier’s glowing eyes grew wide, and then through clenched teeth, he let out an ethereal hiss that chilled Raven’s blood. A gruesome smile crept on to Meier’s purple lips. With a few more cracks and grinding noises, all that was left of the bonewalkers was a large floating ball of bone meal and unrecognizable fragments. Meier opened his skeletal hand, and the bones fell apart and splashed into the muck, making a grisly
heap.

Raven had a hard time flying back to Meier. He was simply astonished, and for the first time in years, he was more than a little afraid. The fight was over, but Meier had not changed back. Raven kept his dist
ance.

“Meier
…
it’s time to come back,” he said cautiously. Meier could not hear him though. He was having difficulty letting go of the anger. He rose both hands, and the heap of bones floated up from the muck. It ground into a sphere again, and Meier’s expression turned to one of strained determination. Holding his hands out as if grasping an invisible ball, he started to twist and grind the thing into a fine dust. Soon there was nothing but fine white sand. When it could be crushed no further, Meier felt the rush of the draw back to the world of color. It hit him so hard that he fell backward into the swamp, gasping for air. Raven flew over and landed beside him on a small island of peat moss. He tilted his
head.

“Meier
…
do you remember it? Do you know what just happened? What you did?” Meier looked around blea
rily.

“Yes, I remember it all, Raven
…
I just don’t know
why
I did it,” he said, clearly disturbed. Raven blinked his golden eyes t
wice.

“You’ve got real darkness in you, Meier. That was the most powerful display of destruction I’ve ever seen come out of a beginner. That spell was at
master
level. It was a bit excessive though,” he said, looking at the pile of bone sand. “Ah well
…
such is the way with the destructive
half.”

Meier stooped in the water and rinsed the mud off as best he could. He was beginning to wonder why he bothered. The water was just as dirty. “What does that mean for us? Am I ready to go south?” Meier asked. Raven hopped twice and c
awed.

“It means that you
pass
, Meier. And yes, we can head south now,” said Raven, who then cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Meier. You are now a
Dark M
agus.
”

28
The Black Hand

D
eep in the Arnovo swamp, there was a stirring in a place where no natural light shone. No living thing dwelt there. No sounds could be heard. There was only the silent dark and the dead. Rising high into the sky, a black spire spilled shadow across every inch of the surrounding mile. Beneath and surrounding the spire, a foreboding citadel sprawled outward and clawed the heavens with sharp points of blackened stone and glass. From above, if in fact it could ever be seen that way, the whole of it was in the shape of an eight-pointed star. It was quite beautiful in that its dimensions were precise. This could only have been a result of its unnatural construction. Nothing else would suffice for the dark presence within. Beneath the citadel and spreading from it were great cracks and fissures in the earth that bled a sickly green light. It was such that the whole of the area was bathed in the color of death, for no other light could be found. Indeed, the light was dim and did not cast itself for any great distance, and it was only the contrast to the inky void that caused it to seem bright or even visible. Sometimes, though rarely, there was a pulse that emitted from the heart of the citadel and spread outward in a vast circle like a shock wave. It was a throb of pure and unfiltered hatred that destroyed any living thing that might have strayed into the circle. The animals of the swamp, and indeed even the flora, avoided the circle as though continued life depended on it; and this was most certainly correct. There was only one reason that the pulse continued to claim life. It was gro
wing.

Within the spire, near to the top, there was a platform. Centered perfectly upon the platform was a pedestal with a wide obsidian bowl resting on it, held in place by claws of the same flawless obsidian. There was no manner of ascent to reach the platform, save by magical means. Within the bowl was a pool of liquid that emitted a deep purple glow. Despite the nearly invisible light, it hurt the eyes to look upon it, and where the light was cast, it perverted the colors it shone upon. It played upon the bottom of the visible spectrum, that which was closest to darkness. Above the bowl hovered a clawed black hand sheathed in a wicked black gauntlet. It was the hand of the necromancer. The face of the necromancer was shrouded in a hooded cloak. Only the eyes, which were without sclera and black as a nightmare, could be seen around the face wrappings the necromancer
wore.

“It would seem they endured the welcoming party, Father,” came the ethereal voice from behind the face
wrap.

“As we expected,” came another raspy voice, cold as ice daggers. From the floor of the platform, a twisted, ghostly form rose. It was the shape of a half-skeletal man, thoroughly rotten with pieces missing from his translucent form. Thin white wisps of white smoke surrounded him, like writhing tendrils or whips. Slowly, the ghastly form solidified until it was almost opaque. The man was clothed in rotted robes with a hooded cloak that was thrown back, revealing his moldering head. On his face were the remnants of a black beard, patchy from his decomposition. “What matters is the pleasure of watching them suffer the carnage of another battle. Had we sent enough to wipe them out, we could not hear their wails for the newly dead
…
Were you satisfied? Did their hearts bleed for you?” asked the fa
ther.

“No, Father. They did not suffer nearly enough,” replied the necromancer with a hint of frustration. The ghost of the father rasped a wicked l
augh.

“Patience,” he
said.

“Of course,” answered the necroma
ncer.

“What matters now is the swarm,” said the father. “How goes the preparation?” The necromancer waved the black gauntlet over the pool and peered into it. The image of an army slowly emerged from the pool and rose up until it could be seen from all sides, hovering above the pedestal. Hundreds of rows of skeletons were shown, all dressed in some form of armor and all carrying some type of weapon. Nearby, there was a shadowy passage into which the huddled
strigoi
were walking. Sounds of tearing and scouring came from the place. Once stripped, they emerged from the other side as clean skeletons. There was a mass also, all wandering aimlessly and knocking into each other like marionettes with missing strings. The necromancer sighed and then gro
wled.

“I will extend the circle when I have the strength. For now I will have to delve deeper into the source.” The father laughed a
gain.

“Too much for you? Well, I can understand. Not even in my prime did I have the opportunity to control so many. Such poetry. Killing them with their own dead. You make me proud.” The necromancer looked in the father’s
eyes.

“Be proud when I snuff the line of kings. I want to make them suffer before the
end.”

“Your cruelty exceeds even my own. Where I was content to smash an insect, you would pull out the legs, one by one, even as a child,” replied the father ruminatively, looking at the image of the countless rows of
dead.

“How many now?” he asked casually. The necromancer concentrated in silence. A purple light shone from behind the face wrappings. It got brighter until the whole platform was alight. The black gauntlet clenched and rele
ased.

“Some three hundred thousand now, Father,” replied the necromancer. Far below in the darkness of the northern quarter of the circle, the wandering dead suddenly straightened into a line and began to don armor from a giant heap. The ends were fastened by others, working in an abrupt harmony with each other. It required an immensely complex level of skill to order so many at once. The power of the source was truly incred
ible.

When the orders had been given, the purple light faded from the necromancer’s eyes, who then had to suddenly find support on the pedestal. Again, the father lau
ghed.

“You need rest,” he said. The necromancer growled again and then pulled on the bowl to gain foo
ting.

“There is no rest for me while the living walk in these lands!” said the necromancer ang
rily.

“Suit yourself,” said the father. “Just remember what happened to your mother.” The necromancer, in an incredible display of will, rose up again and, with eyes alight, caused the workers in the image to quicken their
pace.

“My mother, you say?” the dark figure replied bitterly. The father watched on, a grisly smile on his face. He did so love to watch his successor at work. The light grew brighter, and the workers from the next mob over began working as well. The father laughed a
gain.

Suddenly, the workers began to slow and wander. It had been too many. All at once, the there was a pained grunt, and then the necromancer abruptly collapsed on the platform. The hood and face wrapping fell away, leaving only an exposed face. The hateful expression was fixed at first but fell away by degrees as all consciousness faded. The father just shook his head and floated to where his progeny
lay.

“Foolish child,” he said. “Still, what father would not be proud to have a daughter such as
you?”

In an uncharacteristic show of preternatural affection, he lifted her neck and gazed on her face for the first time in a long while. Her eyes were sunken, and her cheeks were gaunt to the point of being skeletal. Her skin had long since blued; and her hair, once a deep red, had turned to the color of dried blood. She had once been quite pretty, not that it mattered to the
dead.

The father put his other hand beneath his daughter’s knees and slowly they sank through the platform to the room below. “Such wondrous power you have, my daughter. Soon all will know the name of Beol Suvira, daughter of Beol Lovo! They will shudder at your name, Suvira, and if they do not, you will
make
them.”

29
A Jagged Line

M
eier and Raven walked the crooked path south. When Raven was tired, he perched on Meier and tucked his head under his wing. He could do this only so many times, however, before they had to stop and let him rest properly. They also found that after fighting the undead, it was necessary for Meier to recuperate as well. As per Raven’s instructions, Meier slept like the living every night. Each night he dreamed, but unlike the first time, he did not remember a thing when awoke. The images were lost in the night, and he couldn’t save a single one of them. Raven told him to keep trying. Meier still had no idea
why.

Along the way, they found several campfires, each about a day’s journey away from each other. They found the sites of many other battles as well, and these were all clearly one-s
ided.

“They must have been very skilled,” said Raven thoughtfully as they passed a particularly large pile of defeated un
dead.

“I wonder how many of them there were,” Meier said casually. Raven cawed a l
augh.

“With your newfound skills, I almost forgot how incredibly dense you are.” He did not follow it with any explanation. This was another one of his challenges to get Meier to start paying attention. Meier was quiet for a while and then noticed what he was supposed to have seen a long time p
rior.

“There are two sets of footprints through the mud,” he said at last. Raven cawed a
gain.

“My, but that certainly took you an embarrassingly long time to get. Still, better late than never, I suppose. Now try this one. What did they look like and what did they use to cause all this damage?” Meier just chuc
kled.

“Are you being serious? Tracking was always my brother Ian’s thing.” Raven just blinked and then squawked in Meier’s
ear.

“It’s not
tracking,
Meier. It’s observation. Now do your best and tell me what you’ve seen.” Meier was quiet for a good while. He wasn’t sure what the point was. Sure, it was nice to be able to do these things, but weren’t there more important endeavors? Perhaps, he thought, they were just passing the time. Eventually, he began to see th
ings.

“One of them used a bow,” he said at last, noting the arrow wounds in the
strigoi.
“And one was bigger than the other one by a sizable margin,” he said, noting the heavier boot prints. Raven hopped on Meier’s
arm.

“Yes? And what else? Hmmm? A baby could have figured that much out.” Meier just shru
gged.

“I’m sorry, Raven. That’s all I’ve got.” Raven just clicked his beak and made his sighing n
oise.

“Very well then, stupid. The big one used a long weapon with a narrow blade on the end. It was almost certainly a farm tool, a hoe most likely. The little one used a common hatchet. You can tell by the cuts made and where they stood when making them. As for the bow, that was fired by the smaller one. You can tell because of the steady stance and the straight line between predator and prey, so to speak. He was most likely a hunter.” Meier whistled in admira
tion.

“That’s impressive,” he
said.

“But even you could have got that much, Meier,” continued Raven. “Just look. The footprints of the smaller one are the ones that lead up to retrieve the arrow. It’s all so painfully easy that I weep inside for having such a terrible pupil,” said Raven. There was no retort to the insult, and they walked on for a long time in silence before Meier finally had a question. It was something that had been nagging at his mind for a while. The answer lead somewhere, he was sure, and he knew it had to be impor
tant.

“Why is it that you were so nice to me when I was tired that first time? Now it seems that you’re worse than ever. I’m just curious really,” he asked. Raven sighed a
gain.

“You know what they say about curiosity, Meier?” Meier shook his head. He didn’t know, but he knew he was about to be told. “It kills idiots,” said Raven at
last.

“That’s clever, Raven,” said Meier in a rare sarcastic moment. His delivery was very dry. Raven just cawed. Again, they moved carefully along for a while, trying to avoid large groups of undead as they passed. Naturally, Raven was invaluable in this regard. That evening when they settled, Raven spied a small group of undead. Specifically, it was three bonewalkers and about ten
str
igoi
.

“You better get in gray state, Meier,” he said authoritati
vely.

“Can’t we go around them?” Meier asked
idly.

“Yes, but we aren’t going to. I like this spot, and I’m tired. Now do like I told you, dark magus! It’s time for your next lesson.” Meier sighed and complied. He started the generally slow process of going
deep.

“No, no, not too deep, Meier. We’re going to try something before they get here in a minute.” Meier, unable to respond, shifted fully to the gray world, but not any deeper than his usual state for running. “All right, are you there?” Meier nodded and gave an undead grunt. “All right then. Imagine a wall, like a bubble around you.” Meier di
d so.

“Now try to keep up, which I know is hard because of your stupidity. This is basic stuff, and so far, you’ve only used pure offense. Imagine that everything that approaches the bubble is repulsed, like a magnet in reverse. Now look at this symbol.” Raven scratched it into the ground. “You got it?” Meier nodded a
gain.

“This symbol is called ‘Ka-Be.’ It means ‘wall.’ Picture the symbol then recite its name in your head. Together with your image of the spell, they make a shortcut to execution,” Raven explained. Meier nodded again. He thought he had it. He studied the symbol. It was foreign, but it looked eerily familiar. Raven flew up and off Meier’s arm and fluttered down to a safe dist
ance.

“Now once you have the wall, I want you to push lightly outward and make it bigger. Not too big though, because it will get weaker and dissipate, leaving you wide open.” Meier tried to dig up the fire of revenge inside, but it was hard from such a light state. Somehow it dawned on him that he should dip down and then pull up. It was easier said than done, but he man
aged.

Meier pulled the bubble from inside and spread it out to about six feet around him. “That’s bigger than I meant, but whatever,” said Raven, but unfortunately, it was too late to stop what came next. The bubble that was up was the one that Meier assumed that Raven meant by “close,” and so without warning, he pushed “lightly” per his instructions, or so he tho
ught.

Everything within twelve feet suddenly blasted back, including Raven. The screaming bird tumbled end over end in a line directly away from Meier. “
MEEEEIIIIIEEEEERRRR
!” he yelled as he rolled along, unable to get his wings fully opened. Meier, seeing the blunder, immediately dissipated the bubble and lurched back into the world in c
olor.

“I’m so sorry about that!” he said, much louder than he should
have.

“That was just brilliant, you stupid idiot!” said Raven, flying back to his original position. Again, Meier was uncertain of whether the bird was congratulating him or scolding him. “You may be a moron, Meier, but you’re a powerful one!
AHAHA
!” So it was both. Raven was both incensed and elated. How odd it was to be insulted and praised at the same time. “Guess what! That little screamed apology of yours has attracted another group of bonewalkers from the opposite direction. Wait, make that two groups. They’re coming on three sides. You can do this, so think fast!
AHAHA
! As if you could!” It was all true, not that Raven would lie about such a thing. Meier could hear the approaching footsteps in the muck on all three s
ides.

Soon they were in sight. The bonewalkers started to spread out in a circle to trap him. Meier felt a rush of panic. He had little to console him, but it was a good thing he had just practiced a very useful spell. Still, this would be the biggest group he had gone up against so far. And what good was defense without offense? There was no time to think about it. Raven started yel
ling.

“All right, Meier! Get ready! This is it! Now listen very carefully. Make the bubble again, but this time, instead of just pushing, I want you to
pull
also. You can move them around that way. Give it a try, you nit witted genius, you. Oh, and one other thing
…
don’t lose!
AHA
HAHA
!”

Great
, Meier thought from the gray state.
He’s laughing while I fight for continued existence.
Within twenty seconds, the dead were in range. Meier made the bubble as he had before, but it was shaky at best. The first group approached from the east, and Meier suddenly found himself calm and perfectly concentrated. It was the same thing he had felt on the battlefield at Milco River a lifetime ago. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and suddenly realized that he could
feel
them coming. As they grew closer, he opened his eyes widely as the spell flowed through him. The running bonewalkers outpaced the
strigoi
drastically, and so it was them that slammed into the bubble at top speed and bounced off. So far, so good. Meier pushed. The bonewalkers flew back into swamp and collapsed in a pile of tangled b
ones.

Not bad,
said Meier to himself. That had gone better than expected. Unfortunately, the bones were not broken. The momentarily limp skeletons quickly righted themselves and reared for another try.
Figures,
he thought. He retracted the bubble to a more manageable size, but by that time, the group from the north had joined the fight as well. They were pushing on the wall mindlessly like a person walking against the
wind.

Meier pushed again, and quite by accident, he pushed much harder. His eyes were open and blazing with violet light. There were cypress trees on all sides, the nearest ones at about twenty paces. The bonewalkers, nine in all, flew backward with such force that two of them hit trees and completely shatt
ered.

“Not bad, Meier!” yelled Raven. “Now remember to pull them and push them at the same time when they get back. Oh, and here comes the southern group. Concentrate on a tight cycle of push and pull. The faster the better!” Raven was hovering at first but quickly found a branch high on the nearest tree. Still, the distance was more than sufficient for his shrill voice to carry to Meier’s heightened ears. Meier tightened the circle as much as he dared. His eyes dimmed somewhat, but a cruel sneer appeared on his face. He found that he was enjoying himself. Meier found the thought disturbing, but it wasn’t the time for analysis. Soon the remaining bonewalkers were pressing against the wall on all three sides, hissing and clicking furiously. The
strigoi
were not far behind. He decided not to wait for them. He tried pushing and pulling at the same time. The result was that the bonewalkers stood stock still, unable to move. He had essentially grabbed them, as if by a
fist.

“Push
then
pull!” cawed Raven. Meier gave it a try. The skeletons rocked forward and then back, and then again. “Faster!” cawed Raven again. Meier sped it up, pouring all his malice in to the gesture. The skeletons began to shake, slowly at first, then much faster. Soon they were vibrating violently in p
lace.

“That’s the way, Meier! Shake them to pieces!” yelled Raven with a heretofore unseen sadism in his voice. Meier’s face became a madman’s grin. He opened his mouth slowly, and a plume of frigid air escaped. Or was it smoke? Raven couldn’t tell, and Meier was unaware of it. The skeletons began to rattle around like fragile dolls in his invisible hands. Meier released a blood-curdling hiss, and the skeletons began to break apart like china cups smashed by a hammer. The sound of snapping bones and cracking skulls filled the air. Meier began to lose him
self.

He realized that he had accidentally gone deeper in the gray world than he had ever gone before. Things were starting to go black. He saw the sparks of magic that animated the dead, and it was a dim purple light. The bonewalkers’ spines were glowing, and when they broke apart, the light dissipated like smoke. It gave Meier a deep feeling of satisfaction. Given the chance, he would snuff them all, and good riddance. The
strigoi
finally arrived. Meier knew that if he kept the barrier up at this speed, they would practically be liquefied the second they hit it. He solidified the barrier. He had decided that such an easy extermination would not give him the cruel satisfaction that he suddenly wa
nted.

“What are you doing?” yelled Raven, but Meier just looked at him with his soulless gaze and grinned again. Meier raised his skeletal hand and pushed the
strigoi
back a dozen paces or so. They tumbled over backward and were slow to get up. Meier dropped the barrier comple
tely.

Raven started to yell at him, but Meier didn’t hear it by then. Meier raised his right hand, and the snapped and crushed bones of the bonewalkers floated up in a fan before him. As the
strigoi
found their footing at last, Meier let out a raspy, ethereal laugh. The pieces and shards of bone began to fly out violently, like missiles into the crowd, embedding in or ripping cleanly through the rotting bodies. One by one, they started to fall, but it wasn’t enough for him. In a long chain that lasted a few seconds, Meier fired all the bone shards in a macabre volley from left to right, moving his hand along the fan as he did so. The result was that the
strigoi
were shot to pieces, falling apart where they stood. It was horrible to witness. As the last one fell, Meier expelled the remaining ammunition into the fallen where they lay, mutilating the bodies fur
ther.