Noble Arcana

The forbidden magics aren’t forbidden just because they’re dangerous. It’s because they’re destabilizing. Necromancy nearly destroyed Drakthiss once. Had it not been for the Union it may have succeeded

High Magus Luther

The next leg of the journey passed in a haze for Solomon. He spent his days deciphering the journals and his nights embroiled with visions from the Crimson Command. After the first intense vision the others had been much more minor. Snippets of battles his ancestors had fought, formal meals they’d eaten with the blade at their hips. He’d awaken with a taste of copper in his mouth or the whispers of an important conversation drifting from his mind. He attempted to document each of these visions, but the impressions they left were fleeting.

His mind felt as if it was drifting on seas of time, each vision or journal entry tossing it like a harsh wave into a memory that wasn’t his own. He looked forward to the upcoming Arcana meeting to provide him with an anchor in the present.

Until then though, he focused his attention on his uncle Victor’s journals. The last several entries had primarily involved the increasing whispered demands of the Tall Thin Man and his hunt for a suitable source of mana for himself. He’d dismissed trying to hunt for a fey or other magical creature for a number of reasons and had settled on game much closer to home.

Sabuthon was a Blue Boot, roughly five foot four, whose arcane focus seemed to be utilizing mana’s destructive potential to its fullest. Unfortunately, his hands had been horrendously damaged in a fight with an orcish shaman while he was supporting the Drakthiss army. Due to the damage, he could no longer cast his most effective spells. The Union seemed to be treating him well in spite of that, at least that seemed to be the case based on how easily he paid his enormous tabs at the end of every evening.

I had been following him for nearly a month at that point. Observing his routines, hearing his boisterous claims at each tavern he stumbled into and out of. I would have preferred to take even more time with my preparations, but the whispers were growing louder and more frequent. I needed to begin upholding my end of the bargain and I knew that I needed mana to manage it.

The day I decided to act I donned a disguise. A military uniform I’d acquired. It didn’t fit me perfectly, but that was ideal. I covered one eye with a patch and allowed my beard to grow out for some time as well. I approached Sabuthon when he was already well into his cups. He might’ve been a sharp man once, but that was no longer the case. It was difficult for me to adopt an air of friendliness and camaraderie, but I managed well enough that he didn’t question me when I invited him for another drink at my home.

I had purchased a cheap basement room near the bar and while the blue boot had a concerned look upon entering, it faded after I offered him a seat and a cup of something strong and brown. I had laced it with a powerful draught of poppy and he was sleeping in moments.

I dragged him into the center of the ritual circle I’d already prepared and covered with a rug. I gave the entire ritual another review to ensure that every rune was exactly where I needed it to be. I began the incantation, and after only a few words it felt as if the incantation was working through me rather than being spoken by me. I still remember the moment that first drop of mana hit me. It felt intoxicating.

Solomon took his eyes off the page and stood up from his desk. He went out to the porthole to look out at the blackness of the sea and relax his eyes. The clawmarks that had been carved by the mer had healed, making it look as if the ship had never been damaged.

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His uncle’s obsession was familiar to him. That intoxication that he’d described was something Solomon himself had felt many times. He wasn’t sure that he’d go as far as to drain the magic of a Union blue boot, but he’d already done many things he’d never thought to do before. His draining of the elven god had been a matter of life or death for his servants, but he would’ve done it anyway. The creature had looked at him with only hate in its eyes. To try and bargain with it would’ve been foolish, and had he simply released it he was certain he would’ve been unmade or torn to shreds.

He went back to his desk and blew out the candle he’d been using to read. He grabbed the Crimson Command as well as the notebook he’d been using to record his recollection of his visions and he carefully balanced in the hammock with all of them, letting the gentle rocking of it and his own mental exhaustion carry him into sleep.

…

Cordaire swung his blade through the head of the zombie, sending the top half of it flying into the air even as he barked orders.

“Archers! Target the necromancers and their human thralls! Ignore any groups of skeletons!” It took far too many arrows to actually bring them down.

He dodged a lunging bite by another zombie and deflected a skeleton’s pitchfork with enough force to break it, one of his men-at-arms then finished it off with a swing of his warhammer. They’d both lost their mounts during a charge and had only just managed to fight their way back to their lines. The horde was numerous, but they weren’t strong.

He backed away from the front, managing to cut down a few more of the zombies before turning from them to find a horse. It wasn’t long before he found a cavalrymen who he ordered down so he could take his mount. He rode up onto a nearby hill where several other commanders were gathered.

“Give me the orders your men need and I’ll relay them.”

They nodded, familiar with the powers of his sword and he was able to send out broad orders to their army as a whole as well as more specific orders to those who needed them. They’d been overwhelmed by the sheer force of the undead and had nearly lost their cohesiveness, but with fresh orders in their ears the men were quickly rallying.

There was a loud screech from above them and something black dove down from the sky.

Cordaire barely managed to raise his shield as he was thrown off a mount for the second time in the battle and thrown to the ground. Two of the commanders next to him weren’t so lucky and they screamed on the ground as they bled from deep gashes across their chests.

He pulled himself back up just in time to see a hideous chimera of flesh and bone in land in front of him. It looked like a vulture that had been formed by the combination of dozens of corpses.

As he pulled himself to his feet, his guess was proven true.

The flesh of the creature seemed to flow like water and the bones that provided a frame flowed with it until before him stood two dozen skeletons and as many zombies. They immediately swarmed outward and he found himself nearly overwhelmed instantly, slashing his sword desperately to stay alive.

He saw through the press of flesh and bone a woman, or at least a creature in the shape of one. She was unnaturally tall and wore a white cloak that had been stained with blood on the edges. She pulled down her hood to reveal a beautiful and terrifying visage. Half of her face was pale white and lovely, the other was bone. While one side held an eye of palest blue, the other had a burning ember of fierce red.

She turned her attention to him as her zombies managed to nearly push him over and spoke in a high and surprisingly soft and feminine voice.

“Good try.”

Cordaire Morrow struggled, screaming for help from anyone who would listen as he was overwhelmed. Just as all light seemed to be blotted out by the press of zombies against him, he felt a sudden heat and tongues of flame burnt threw the press of undead-

…

Solomon awoke, the sights and sounds of battle still fresh in his mind and the smell of rot and decay lingering in his senses. His heart was still pumping as if he himself had been facing off against the endless horde of the dead.

He had recognized the necromancer in his vision. Not their face, but their voice. It had been Death.