《A Necromancer's Village》 Chapter 1 - The Ritual Annel had every reason to think the ritual would kill him. Not once did he think of stopping. Also, it was wrong. Morally repugnant. Prone to disastrous results. A stark contravention of the laws of man and god. In tune with the desires of demons, outsiders and abominations. In short, evil. During his schooling -- lengthy years of it, followed by an even lengthier apprenticeship -- all of these points had been drilled into his skull, vigorously and repeatedly. He''d had more than one class devoted solely to what not to do. And Annel had been a very good student. One of the elite, the few who have the potential to reach the top. Indeed, he had been born on course for greatness, if one considered his good upbringing and abundant talent, intelligence and drive. Once he had known that he might one day be an Archmage, it had become an inevitability. But in this world, nothing is truly inevitable. A single event can change anything. Even a mage. And this night, a mage would do what he had been taught, very specifically, not to do. But reaching this point hadn''t been as easy as snapping one''s fingers, or perhaps more appropriately, jumping off a tall bridge. While the choice to jump can only be made by winning an intense fight against one''s survival instinct, that fight only needs to be won for an instant. Performing a ritual of the Forbidden Arts was different. It took ongoing effort, for a long period of time. It took a constant re-affirmation of one''s own insanity. It took a long, protracted struggle to break through the barriers of what a human mind cannot, or at least, should not understand. Annel had studied long and hard to perform this particular ritual. He had performed heinous crimes, in pursuit of knowledge and components. He had drawn the blood circle, and consecrated himself therein. Now he was ready to begin. First, with the lighting of seventeen candles, rendered from human fat. Fortunately, crafting those candles had only taken the murder of a single, particularly obese crime lord. Insane he might be, but Annel still understood the concept of restraint. He had exercised restraint when harvesting the blood for his ritual pentagram. It was sheep''s blood; no need for human sacrifice. The pentagram took some time to complete. It was drawn so that its outer ring enclosed the candles, and a sigil surrounded each individual candle. Within the inner ring were the ritual subject, and Annel. It goes almost without saying that mages usually do their best to stay out of pentagrams. But this ritual had its own, twisted logic. Annel then drew five thigh bones from a bag, and laid them around the inner boundary of the pentagram. He sprinkled the floor with dried mandrake root, gathered during the darkest night of the month. On the subject''s forehead, he placed a large black mana stone, measured at eighty carats. Regrettably, that had required an assault on a well respected magic shop, leaving it in flames. Perhaps nobody had been injured; Annel had been unable to stick around to check.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. The preparations complete, he began to chant the magical formula that he had read a thousand times, and failed to comprehend all but once. Now, he knew the incantation by heart. Measured syllables fell from his lips. Annel had enacted similar rituals before, albeit much safer ones. He would make no mistakes here. A darkness came by the chamber, and stopped to listen. As the chanting went on, the darkness swelled into a cloud and drifted over the candles. It concentrated in the spaces between the light. Then it began overcoming the lines of the pentagram, flowing inward. Annel uttered a forbidden name, a crackling whip of five syllables. A jarring shift in reality sent dust trickling down from the ceiling. The chant went on, and another name was called. In total, six names were spoken. Six presences answered, each giving an omen of its arrival. The chamber shook and creaked. The air grew heavy and difficult to breath. Sight faded, leaving only seventeen points of light, like fading stars in a dying universe. Annel''s voice droned on. He made his obeisance, and spoke his offering. With his true name, he sealed himself in perpetuum to the contract. Not only his life, but his soul. It was worthless, anyway. Across the thin barrier between reality and madness, the visiting presences convened. They whispered to each other, weighing the offer. Looking ahead, perhaps, through time and fate, to discern whether the deal favored their alien designs. Annel awaited the answer. Only his yearning, his devotion to his cause, remained. Silence fell. Then the leader of the visitors spoke. What did it say? There is no human language that could translate it. But all of creation understands the fundamental binary. And in that language, the answer was: Yes. The mana crystal, lying atop a corpse''s forehead, abruptly burst. Gloomy energies swirled upward, forming into a shell. Two links were formed to that shell. One was to the dead body beneath it. The other was to Annel''s living heart. His essence began to drain from him. Faster and faster, he felt his life receding from him. Like a man who had fallen into a raging river, watching an island recede behind him. And beneath his great weariness, he felt... happy. It was done. He''d succeeded. The presences, suddenly disinterested, departed. Light returned to the chamber. Annel stood for a while, until finally his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor. A spent husk. Yet, he clung to a sliver of life -- and, thanks to the immense willpower of a trained mage, his consciousness. His eyes shifted, focused on the form taking shape in the air. It flowed like a black flag in the wind, rippling and coursing with unseen energies. Here and there, a patch of color showed. Two burning sparks appeared, and slowly grew into moody flames, of a particular blue color. A being of a type not seen in the world for a century finished taking form. It had no particular shape as it moved and flowed in a calming pattern, absorbing all light. Its flaming eyes turned, and turned. Slowly, it gained a comprehension of where it was, what it was. Hungering. It had missed Annel at first, for he had only the faintest spark remaining. To its sight, he was nearly the same as the corpse it had come from. Dull, lifeless. But with an inner glow. Seeing that glow, the spectre felt its hunger build into a raging compulsion. Its very existence was designed for the destruction of that glow, tearing it away and consuming it to become more powerful. It moved slowly at first, because it didn''t know how to move. Its ethereal form was nothing like a body. It shifted, it contorted, it dropped like a falling leaf. Closer, and closer. Finally, it hovered directly over Annel. Its eyes stared into his. Its body prepared to enwrap him, to snuff the smoldering coals of his life. He stared back, into the spectre''s eyes. He knew what it was, what it would do, and he was prepared. But in this world, nothing is truly inevitable. A thought had flared in the spectre''s new mind; a memory. And in its overwhelming hunger, it found something else. Emotion. Enough to stave off the hunger, long enough to accomplish something else. Finding the way to manipulate the air around it, to form sounds, took the spectre much longer than learning how to move. It sputtered and hissed, seeming to become frustrated and starting over multiple times. Finally, it succeeded in creating something similar to a voice. It spoke. "Is... that... my..." The spectre could only make individual sounds, each spaced out. Annel continued to stare, hypnotized by its eyes. He was void of expectation, of hope. "An-nel?" He blinked. And a tiny spark of that deadliest emotion, hope, flared. He opened his mouth. "...Mom?" Chapter 2 - Remembrance Nothing that Annel had ever read or been taught had suggested that a spectre might resist its hunger. He had known that it would have memories of its past life. Why else would he ever create a spectre? He had sought only to bring his mother back to the world of the living. He had also thought that doing so would result in his death. Yet, in honesty-- He had always hoped. For Annel was now a man of two halves. One, the dominant half while he was casting a ritual, was the trained mage. A man of immense willpower, singular focus, and cold rationality. A man who knew the risks, and interpreted those risks as certain death. But the other half -- was the insane half. The half that had howled at the heavens when he, a recent graduate to the rank of full mage, returned to find his family, his childhood friends, the entire village of his birth wiped from the map, extinguished in a single night of fire and blood. Annel''s insanity manifested as a wish, a promise to himself: that somehow, someway, it would all work out -- if only he could bring them back. Now, he was looking into his mother''s blue eyes, and he was still alive. The same blue he''d stared into as a little boy. Albeit without a sclera or pupil, and composed of glowing flames. But still, blue. "Mom, is that you?" He was too weak to lift his head, but he managed a hoarse whisper. "You... aren''t going to..." The spectre hissed, surging toward him then away. The sound came from all around, a mark of the spectre''s ability to influence its surroundings. Her surroundings. She struggled with herself, trying to put the memories in order. They were jumbled, disconnected, tattered from their journey across the veil. But so many of them featured this man. Her son. His brown hair had never changed since childhood, nor his dimpled cheeks, or the strong nose that he took from her. He was her second child, the one she had secretly loved the most. More than anyone, even her husband. Who needs to be told that the love between a mother and her child is a special thing? It should be, at least. In a perfect world, that bond is the purest, deepest love. Not everyone gets to experience perfection, of course. But Annel and his mother -- Devra was her name, she suddenly remembered -- had shared that sort of bond. It was from her that his magical abilities had sprung. She had taught him her simple magics, spending each of their days together until he was sixteen. Then, the Capitol Arcanum had come to take him away. Even then, he''d visited during every break, and they would while away hours in conversation and mutual affection. Exalted mage though he might be, Annel never forgot his roots. He remembered them now. What she''d said. The words he''d kept in his heart, even after it was broken. "Mom... you said you''d always love me..." He was crying now. The spectre''s eyes flared in response. "Al-ways, my child. Al-ways." She was still learning to use her voice. But already, he thought he heard a familiar, sing-song tone, the accent of her birth country. Sitting up was a struggle. He tried, then gave up. He rested for a while instead, focusing on passively drawing in energy as he''d been taught. The spectre hung in the air, still rippling from time to time, getting close to Annel and then pulling away again.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "My love, it is pain-ful. The hun-ger. Hunger..." Devra at last succeeded in speaking a two syllable word, letting it sigh out into the air. Marshalling his energies again, Annel shakily pushed himself upright, wrapping his arms around his legs. "It''s alright, mom. You can take my energy, if you need it. I''ll live on inside of you." Such devotion! His eyes shone with it. Or, perhaps, that was the light of insanity. "No... nev-er," the spectre whispered. Neither spoke for a while. Both remembered. They''d always been able to sit in comfortable silence. "Mom. You need to eat, to survive. You''re still weak." "Yesss... eat..." He nodded thoughtfully. Then, he raised a shaking hand, pointing across the chamber. "We''re in the temple basement. It''ll be easiest if you go out that way. Go to the forest. Find rabbits, or a deer." The spectre began to flow away, crossing the faded, dead lines of the pentagram. Half across the chamber, it paused. "And... then?" "Come back to me. I suppose my work will go on."
First, he had to rebury his mother''s body. Even if she was returned to life, one still had to show the proper respects. But he hadn''t prepared for survival. It took him a long time to get to his feet. He walked like an old man, pausing frequently, then climbed the steps one by one. The main floor of the temple had been mostly destroyed in the raid. But the structure was made of stone, one of the sturdiest in the village. Annel had made his camp in the lee of the collapsed ceiling, under the statue of Corum. He let himself fall to the floor, leaning his back against the god''s leg. With one hand, he pawed open his bag. No more mana potions, no more mana crystals. He''d used up everything in practicing his necromancy. Well, nearly everything. He still had a pouch of old vetal leaves. He flipped it open and pulled out a handful, stuffing them into his mouth. Then he began to chew, ignoring the taste of leather and mold. The trickle of mana he absorbed from the leaves went to his core. From there, he transformed the energies and circulated them through his body, a process that had taken years to learn. A bit of his strength returned. He spit out the mangled remnants of the leaves, took a drink of stale water from a gourd. Then he picked up his notebook and flipped it open. At the top of a long list, he drew a line through an item. It said, simply: "Mother" He frowned over the rest. Besides the other items on the list, the page was cluttered with notes, written at varying angles and sizes. As he read, he began to cry again, without noticing. He closed the notebook, gently setting it aside atop a thick tome. From the forest, far away, a rabbit''s shrill scream rose then abruptly stopped. Annel smiled, at that. "Now, now, now..." he muttered, digging in his bag again. He had a problem. He wasn''t prepared for the other items on his list. It was time to take stock, to consider steps, to estimate outcomes. Most of his current belongings were nothing special. The bag, for instance. It was a leather backpack that looked like it might be older than him. The first thing he pulled out from it was a rolled up blue robe, which he set aside; he was wearing more sensible pants and a jerkin at the moment. He added his underwear to the pile. Mom had always told him to pack plenty. He had half a roll of rations left. That was good for two days, although the consistency of the stuff meant almost certain constipation. He set them aside before reaching into the bag again. A wand. It wasn''t his own stave; that had broken when he detonated the warded door of the magic shop. He''d grabbed this one before making his escape. A simple thing, suitable for students of the first level, and not useful at all in a ritual. A pouch with many small pockets followed. Again, nothing special, just basic components that any mage might use, like bits of bone, gemstone dust, dried newts, herbs, fossilized shit. He remembered how the whole class had laughed when the instructor taught them why coproliths were useful. Another ghost of a smile crossed his face Using both hands, he pulled out a case and opened it on the floor, revealing a crystalline orb the size of two fists. It was of good quality. The trouble was, really useful scrying tools tended to be quite large, impossible for a single man to carry about. This was only a portable scrying orb, of the sort used for warfare or traveling. From the side of the bag, he retrieved a sheathed dagger. Like any blade, it was useful for many things. He''d used it to sacrifice the sheep, earlier. He''d have to use it soon to carve off some of the animal''s meat for cooking, since he''d survived to get hungry again. Whether it was used for ritual purposes, cooking or combat, the knife didn''t care. One by one, he pulled several rings off his fingers and added them to the assortment on the floor. Then he regarded the entire collection. "It wouldn''t even impress a hedge witch," he muttered, after a moment. That evaluation helped him decide on what to do next. He put back on the rings and packed away his other things. First things first. Moving almost at a normal pace, he went back downstairs to retrieve his mother''s now-soulless corpse. Chapter 3 - A New Awakening Annel awoke in a makeshift graveyard. He was beside a shovel, and a pile of dirt. It seemed he''d run out of energy while reburying his mother. He sat up, brushing dirt from his hair, and looked around. It was morning, now. A soft mist hung near the ground, but the rising sun would soon burn that away. Birds were chirping and calling in the distance. There was no sign of the spectre -- his mother. He found himself on his feet, sobbing and screaming her name. "Mom! Devra!" The mania passed slowly, until his sobs trailed off. He swayed, staring out at the forest. Gradually, rational thought returned. She had been out the night before, blunting the edge of her hunger. Who knew the depth of a spectre''s appetite? He certainly didn''t. He lowered his head, closing his eyes against the brightening sunlight, and thought. There was a link between an undead and its creator. He''d felt it before, during experiments, when he briefly returned small animals to life. The soul was a limited domain. He sat back down and began methodically searching his own for clues. After some time, he found something. A thread of energy, leading away from his soul into the ether. Its essence was distinctly different from his soul, allowing him to place a mental finger to keep track of it. He reopened his eyes, lifting his hand to shield them against the growing intensity of the light. The direction he sensed the thread leading was toward the forest. After a moment, he shook his head, deciding not to tweak the thread. He was light-headed, dizzy, prone to emotional outburst -- in part because he hadn''t eaten for over a day. After regaining his feet, he trudged back toward the village. The sheep lay where he''d left it outside the temple, the blood from its gashed throat hard and dried, flies crawling in and out of the open mouth. For some reason, larger scavengers had stayed away. Looking at it reminded Annel of the blood on himself. He began to scratch at his stubbled face, dark bits falling away as he contemplated what to do. Of all his varied experiences -- he''d seen animals slaughtered as a child, but he''d never been the butcher. But now, there was nobody to teach him. He''d have to learn through practice. Having retrieved his ceremonial knife from the temple, he began sawing through the spring wool and skin, cutting away the top layer. The carcass had begun to rot, but the smell wasn''t what he expected. It exuded a nearly sweet scent, almost absent of the sour smell of decay. He raggedly cut away a chunk of tough meat and carried it in his hand to his cookfire. Thankfully, there was still wood. He piled up all that was left and lit it with a mageflame in several spots, impatient to begin cooking. Then, while the flames grew, he found his small cast-iron pan and its wire stand, setting it up over the fire and placing the meat in it.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. As it begin to sizzle, he felt something. Turning to the forest, he watched carefully. A shadow flitted over the ground, picking up speed as it moved past the trees. In moments, it reached the shade of the temple''s wall, where it regained depth, rising up and flaring two blue dots. "Mother," Annel said respectfully. "Son. I have hun-ted. There are no more ani-mals nearby. Are you hungry?" The voice was still a bit uneven, the words clearly being sounded out syllable by syllable. But it was stronger now, speaking almost at human volume. "Yes, mom. I''m cooking some meat." "It looks... dead." He paused. "Isn''t meat usually dead?" "Yes. But things look different now." He nodded. That was to be expected. Then his mother spoke again. "I have eaten my fill. Let me try to give you-" The shadow floated closer. Annel felt a chill invade the air around him -- not exactly a chill. Something more profound than mere coldness. But he held still, trusting her. Sensations rippled across his skin. None were pleasant. Then he felt a trickle of something. She was feeding him. Not food; his stomach was still empty. But he felt more energized. He stayed motionless for a while, until he his head cleared somewhat. "Thanks, mom. I feel better now. I should still eat real food, though." "You might want to stop burning it, then." His mother drifted away, leaving him to see the pan clearly again. The hunk of mutton was making popping noises, and smoke was billowing up from it. Annel frowned, then edged closer, using the tip of his knife to try to flip it over. Hot grease hit him in the arm, prompting him to pull back and wipe it off before he was burned too severely. One of his teachers, Master Gimson, had been able to handle red-hot iron with bare fingers. Annel regretted not following the path of Fire for longer. Then again, if it were just for cooking... He managed to stab the meat onto the tip of the knife and flip it, revealing a burnt underside. Then he quickly pulled back, wondering how he''d get the pan off the fire. Mentally, he called up his list of people to resurrect. Perhaps his Auntie Ulla, one of the village''s best cooks, should be moved up in importance.
Later, after Annel had eaten as much of the charred, tough mutton as he could stomach, he relaxed back against a wall. He was sitting inside the temple, while his mother floated nearby. "Mom, I''m low on components. We''ll need to go and gather more." "What is your goal, son?" "I''m going to raise everyone. Not as Spectres, like you. I''ll start with lesser forms of undead." "Everyone?" She billowed gently. "Surely the bodies are rotting away." "I placed preservation runes on all the bodies that weren''t lost in fires. Even those that had been dismembered." "That will stop rot, but not keep away insects. Unless it''s a type of spell I don''t know." Annel snorted in amusement. The spectre''s raspy, directionless voice almost sounded like it had a speech impediment, making him hear "incest" instead of "insects". It had been weeks since he''d felt amused by anything, but his mother''s presence was helping him to finally relax. "You''re right, mom. So it''s important that I continue to move quickly." "Maybe I can help destroy whatever pests are in the earth, tonight." "Yes, please do. I buried our family near the middle of the field, but everyone else is in rows." For a moment, Annel''s mind returned to the day he''d reached the village -- arriving to find the remnants of the orcish raid, then the feverish hours after, as the Charunian army had arrived. He pushed the memory away. That, too, was something he hadn''t been able to do before. "About the components. I think we''ll need to go to another human settlement for them." His mother moved fitfully. "We?" "Yes. I don''t have money and... I''m also a wanted criminal now." "My son. I thought you were the successful one. A black sheep after all?" A strange noise sounded out. Annel looked up, warily. "That was me. I need to practice my laugh." "Oh." He chuckled. "So, tell me your plan. What will a rogue mage and a spectre do to collect components?" "Well, here''s what I have in mind..." Chapter 4 - A Thiefs Shadow As the sun''s bloody orb dipped below the treetops, Gentleham''s gates swung closed. They met with a loud thump of wood on wood, the recently reinforced frame having become a bit too heavy for the hinges. Torches flared on the wall. The previous shift of watchmen climbed off, replaced by a new set. By all appearances, the town was on high alert. Not on alert for Annel and his mother. Those were two dangers the townspeople knew nothing about. But orc raids across the border had the entire countryside in fear. As the only fully walled town within a fifty mile radius, with a population of well over ten thousand, Gentleham was both a refuge and a target. Annel had no interest in the town''s rich stores of grain or trade goods, though. Seated in a copse of trees, he''d been watching and waiting for the past two hours. Once the long shadows from the trees reached across the fields, he looked down at the pool of deeper shadow by his side. "Be careful, mom." "I will," the wind sighed. The shadow began to move, mixing with the deepening twilight until it was invisible. To Devra, the darkness was no hindrance. It was true that she had normal eyesight and hearing, even without proper eyes or ears. That was a boon from whatever dark god had created spectres. But she also had other senses. Shadow-sight. The eddying darkness held an inversion of the real world''s forms, which was now as natural for her to navigate as water was to a fish. Like being underwater, her shadow-sight didn''t extend far. With her normal eyes suppressed, she couldn''t see the distant hills, much less the moon. But the city walls were evident in front of her, across the long fields and cleared areas surrounding the town. She slid across the ground, as fast as a galloping horse could move, and didn''t pause when she reached the wall. Up its side, across it not twenty feet from the nearest sentinel, and down into the wall road. Gentleham was a rural town. Most of the people went to bed once it got dark out. Devra had felt a tingle of excitement when crossing the wall; it was the closest she''d come to any human besides her son, since being raised as a spectre. And on seeing the guard, she''d also felt a tingle of... interest. But in the empty street, she quickly realized there was no chance she''d be found out. Spectres were just a story to terrify naughty children. Any of the few nightgoers who noticed a shadow move would assume that it was just their imagination. On the other hand, she realized that she didn''t know where to go. Annel''s vague instructions, on how to reach a place he''d heard of but never been, wouldn''t be particularly useful. She began to aimlessly roam, flitting along in the deepest shadows, working her way into the town and away from the walls. But before long, she came to a halt, hovering above something. A dog. More specifically, a flea-ridden mutt, likely not owned by anyone, surviving on the fringes. But even if it wasn''t healthy, it could still spark her hunger. Anything living could. Sensing something, the dog got to its feet. It stared up at the wall, not quite looking directly at Devra. After a moment, it made a noise, half growl and half whine. She wavered. Why not just drain the dog''s life away? Even if it barked or howled, nobody would pay attention. And the longer she hovered near the dog, the more intense her hunger became. It threatened to overwhelm her. But Devra had, until recently, been alive. And as a living woman, she''d always had a soft spot for dogs. Even the scruffy, unloved ones. Especially those, in fact. Her attachment to her old life, her personality, fought with her basic instincts. Finally, instinct won the struggle. All Devra''s personality could do was... find a new target. She slid through a nearby open window. On a low bed, an aging, pot-bellied man in smallclothes was already slumbering. From beyond the open door to the room came clanking and clattering sounds, likely someone cleaning up after dinner. Devra didn''t hesitate. Driven half-mad by her hunger, she plunged onto the man''s chest. Instantly, she began tearing at the structure beneath. The strange tissue that connected the soul to the body. He awoke, gasping and shuddering, clawing at the bedding. He cried out, once, twice, but weakly. A soft voice called a query from outside the room. But at that point, he couldn''t make any more sounds. He was dying.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. The spectre continued consuming, ripping away at the man''s essence, at that moment nothing more than a ravening beast. Finally, there was nothing left. The man lay still, staring sightlessly upward, his fingers curled into claws. Devra came back to herself, floating to the side of the fresh corpse. She felt more sated than she ever had. Not just full, like an overstuffed stomach. She felt expanded. Like she was more than she had been a few minutes before. None of the animals she had killed in the forests had given her a feeling like that. She realized it was also the first time she''d ever killed a human. That was something that should provoke guilt. But instead she remembered the feeling of feasting on him, filling her hunger in a way that had felt right. She realized that she didn''t feel guilty. Perhaps, as a spectre, she couldn''t feel guilty about killing a human. Instead, she felt an intellectual worry. Was she truly still Devra, the woman who had always cared for people and animals? Or was she becoming something else? Suddenly, she just wanted to get away from the dead body. She floated out of the window, past the dog that was now barking, and into the night. For a while, she simply moved around, going up and down the streets and thinking. But after a while, she recalled that she had a responsibility to her son. Then she began to search in earnest. Gentleham wasn''t large. Before long, she found the location. Its size made it easy to spot. It was a tall three-story house, of a size uncommon in the town. It also had a feeling of magic about its front door. Although never much more than a hedge witch in life, Devra had at least known how to spot a mana signature. And, it seemed, she hadn''t lost that ability in death. She moved closer, examining the house. Up close, the enchantments were fairly obvious. The door was warded, and though she wasn''t sure exactly what would happen if someone tried to break in, she felt sure the ward would apply as much to her as to a flesh and blood person. The windows, too, were warded, even on the second floor and third floors. She wasn''t sure if she could pass through the walls, but it seemed unlikely; they were built of thick, dense stone. But there was one entrance left to her. She traveled onto the roof, then up a short column of brick and over its edge. Inside the house, Devra emerged from a fireplace in the kitchen, flitting to the side. The fire was banked; she hadn''t even felt its heat. And the room seemed to be empty. She moved out of the kitchen. The ground floor was a wide, open space with several display cabinets. She took careful note of everything before moving up the stairs. On the second floor, she found several rooms, all empty. The area near the stairs held several couches and chairs for entertaining guests. In a hallway behind it, there were two bedrooms, one that had signs of recent occupation and one that was closed and unused, as if for a guest or absent child. After examining them and finding nothing of note, Devra moved up to the third floor. There, she found Helda, the owner of the house. She was a woman in her forties, wearing a high-necked dress. Worryingly, she was already facing the stairs, her eyes searching the shadows. Devra huddled her form into a particularly dark spot, observing for a moment. Helda seemed to be aware that something else was in the room with her. Much like the dog, actually. While ordinary people didn''t notice her presence, some combination of higher senses -- perhaps just hearing and sound, or perhaps sensitivity to magic -- could hint that the spectre was nearby. Devra slowly slid herself to the side, following a line of deeper shadows along the wall. After a moment she was able to slip behind the frame of a large painting, which still afforded her the ability to "see" Helda with her shadow-sight. After a moment, Helda focused on the painting, her eyes narrowing. She stepped forward, leaning to examine it more closely. Devra chose that moment to act. She flowed out from behind the painting. Helda''s eyes flicked to the side, clearly seeing the spectre''s form. But Devra gave her no time to act, springing forward across empty space and onto Helda. This struggle was much more intense than the man in the house. While his soul connections had been like tissue, easily ripped away, Helda''s soul was like leather, tough and unwilling to yield. As the woman struggled, groaning and cursing, she also summoned a sparking purple fire to her fingers, tearing at the spectre. Devra felt herself weakening, but tenaciously hung on. In desperation, Helda went into a brief trance, chanting a stanza. A powerful purple light flared around her right hand. She immediately slammed her palm into her own chest. But Devra had seen it coming, and simply flowed around Helda''s figure, dodging the attack. There was a flare of power as the energy was absorbed back into Helda''s body. The woman let out a choked scream and collapsed. After that, Devra was able to finish consuming Helda''s soul energies. Although initially weakened by Helda''s attacks, Devra once again felt herself stronger than before, once she was finished feeding. Once she was done, she receded away, her shadowy form trembling in place for a while. The fight had been another first: her first time being injured as a spectre. Having been detected was worrying, as well. But those were problems to analyze later. Devra floated off, leaving Helda''s corpse where it lay. The night was still young, but there was much to do -- she needed to help her son sneak over the walls and reach the house, in order to loot its treasures.
Sometime during the night, the tall house caught fire. Luckily, its stone walls insulated the buildings on either side from the heat, giving the alarmed neighbors enough time to douse their thatch roofs with water. The blaze itself was too intense to calm and burned until morning, leaving nothing but an empty shell, which a few guards and volunteers cautiously examined with wetted scarfs tied around their mouths. But elsewhere in the town, the dead man''s body had been transported to a chapel. A priest of Corum was examining the cadaver''s chest, mouth and hands, pausing now and then to mutter to himself. And finally, he called for a messenger. Chapter 5 - Limited Minds "There are various well-known rituals to raise zombies, mom," said Annel. "Nothing like the ritual to raise you as a spectre. That was a risk. This is not. Well, not to me. However, to them..." He was leaning over a crude pedestal, which held an open tome filled with stiff, ancient leaves of parchment. A smell of must and dust pervaded the air around it, as if it had long been closed. The page Annel was studying was weighted in one corner with a small stone. "To them? What will happen?" Annel didn''t answer for a while, his lips moving as he moved his finger down the page. Then he straightened, looking to his mother and shrugging. Her shadow lay along the wall in the room beneath the temple; she was coming to prefer touching a surface rather than simply floating in the air. "I''m not sure. I experimented before on small animals. Sparrows, rats, a rabbit, only using small amounts of mana. When I followed the ritual precisely, and guided the mana correctly, they returned to life. Especially the rabbit. But it seemed... listless. However, it wasn''t able to tell me why." After a moment, the spectre made her chuckling noise. Her best attempt at laughing, so far, still sounded like a raspy whistle more than a true laugh. For some reason, mimicking speech was easier. "Hopefully, Tonnim will be able to explain." Annel nodded, looking to the corpse on the floor. Parts of the skin had rotted away, but overall, it was whole, including the overly thin legs and fleshy beer-belly. Tonnim was the town drunk. Previously. It remained to be seen whether zombies could fall victim to beer. Devra watched while Annel traced on the floor around the body. It was a simple circle to help concentrate mana, nothing like the complex construction he''d used to create a spectre. Or rather, to summon the beings that created a spectre. "What is the ritual? Perhaps it holds a clue to why the zombies seem listless." "A simple channeling of negative energy, suffusing the pneuma, along with establishing a link to the negative plane, which is mostly self-sustaining. Simultaneously, a time inversion." "That''s not so simple." "No, but it''s not so different from what I trained for. Now, I need to concentrate and move quickly." Devra lapsed into silence, watching Annel. He started with one of the newly acquired mana crystals, grinding it in an ordinary mortar while feeding in a trickle of mana. The resulting sand was carefully sprinkled over Tonnim''s body, with concentrations on his stomach, heart and forehead. He then began walking counterclockwise around the circle, chanting a stanza from the book. As Annel circled, holding his left hand out as if tracing the circle''s line, his intent began to affect the crystal on the body. The crystal fragments glowed, releasing their energy before evaporating away entirely. An afterglow clung the body. Slowly, the radiance darkened, until a black mist pooled over the body. The mist then sank into the skin.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Devra floated nearer, watching closely. The dark mana had a comforting feeling to her, like the smell of home. After some time, Annel came to a halt, facing the body. Both of them held still, observing. For a while, nothing happened. Finally, the fingers twitched, as if the man were waking up. His limbs jerked and twitched, and he let out several loud groans, until he seemed to run out of breath. Finally, his eyes opened. "Tonnim. Rise, and begin your unlife!" Annel intoned. Devra glanced at him, amused. That hadn''t sounded like part of a ritual. Tonnim''s head turned, and he blinked his bloodshot eyes. Then he sat up, still staring toward Annel. His gaze was utterly blank. Of course, he *was* the town drunk. His gaze was habitually blank. "Get up, Tonnim. On your feet. Stand up," Annel said, patiently. Tonnim obeyed, swaying as he got to his feet. He seemed to figure out how to breathe in as he did, issuing a loud grunt. "It''s difficult to tell if he''s just being himself, or..." said Devra. Annel smirked, giving her a sidelong glance before looking back to the zombie. "Tonnim, can you speak? Tell me the last thing you remember." The zombie didn''t respond, only staring at Annel, as if trying to figure out what he was. "Maybe his brain rotted?" "It shouldn''t matter. The ritual should restore the function." Annel rubbed his chin, studying his creation. "So what''s wrong with him?" "I don''t know. Maybe you can find a way to communicate with him?" Tonnim chose that moment to grunt again, taking a heavy step forward. A few dead maggots fell from a rotting patch of his stomach, splatting softly on the floor. "Hmm... it seems there''s something he wants to do." The zombie stepped forward twice more, coming face to face with Annel. "Tonnim?" With a loud groan, the zombie raised its arms, placing its hands on Annel''s arms. "I think... he recognizes me?" Then Tonnim''s hands tightened. He leaned forward, opening his mouth and decisively latching onto Annel''s shoulder. "Ouch! Shit!" Taken completely by surprise, Annel stumbled back, striking Tonnim''s hands away. That only made the problem worse, as Tonnim seemed unable to both chew and walk at once. The zombie''s feet stayed rooted to the ground, and his teeth stayed clenched in Annel''s shoulder. Annel found himself struggling to stay upright, between Tonnim''s weight hanging on his shoulder and the lancing pain of being bitten. Devra was already covering Tonnim''s back, using her own energy to batter at him. It seemed to have little effect compared to a living person, though. Tonnim seemed to remember his hands, beginning to paw at Annel again. "Mother, move back," Annel said, through gritted teeth. She did, hastily floating away. He reached up to touch Tonnim''s rotting neck, and uttered a word of power. Lightning flared as an arc leapt from Annel''s fingers into Tonnim''s neck. The zombie spasmed, and Annel managed to pry off its teeth before shoving it away to sprawl on the floor. Stepping away further, Annel glanced down at his shoulder. Blood was wetting his shirt, flowing freely from the twin crescents of the wound. The bite marks had gaps from Tonnim''s missing teeth. "Not a risk?" Devra asked, striving to inject a note of sarcasm into her voice. "I suppose he''s not a rabbit," muttered Annel. Tonnim groaned, scrabbling at the ground but seemingly unable to get his bearings. "Well, what shall we do with him?" "Stay down here and talk to him, mom. If he doesn''t have... fresh meat... in sight, maybe he''ll eventually be able to respond to you. In the meantime..." Annel looked at his shoulder again. "Filthy. I need to clean that wound. Then I need to study more about how to control my charges." The loss of her ability to make facial expressions began to weigh on Devra. "You mean you could have studied controlling them to begin with?" "There''s no need to grind it in, mom." "All I''m saying is..." "Mom!" "Mmmhmm. Clean that wound carefully, son." Muttering to himself, Annel walked over to his book, gingerly closing it before carrying it up the stairs in one hand. As her son passed from sight, Devra turned her attention back to Tonnim, floating down to condense herself in front of his face. "Now, what am I going to do with you?" The zombie only groaned. Chapter 6 - Monster The next zombie Annel raised was a Halric, an older man who had been a farmer before moving to the village and becoming a jack of all trades. Rather than drag Halric all the way into the temple basement, Annel had simply unearthed his corpse to examine under the fading daylight. The body was in sad shape, caked in dirt and exhibiting several patches eaten away by what lived in the soil. Annel frowned at it, then looked at his mother''s pooled shadow. "I thought you were killing the insects so that the bodies won''t decompose as much?" "Yes," came her whisper. "As much as I can. But there are too many bodies. I focus most of my time on our family and friends." "Mm. Nepotism even in death," observed Annel. "Isn''t that the way of the world?" He nodded, then sighed. "I may have to do additional strengthening rituals on them before the raising ritual, if they become more decomposed than this." "And what of the time they spend as undead? Will the flesh continue to rot and fall away?" "No, they may even heal. But I need to channel mana to them. You are the only one that can self-sustain." "Won''t that mean your own mana will be drained, then?" Annel shook his head. "Eventually, yes. But my strength at working with dark mana is rapidly increasing. Before long, I should even be able to raise zombies without mana crystals. At which point I can begin considering greater forms of undead." His mother hummed an acknowledgement, but said nothing more, so Annel began scraping the dirt around Halric to flatten it. In the distance, Tonnim could be seen clumsily sweeping ash out of the burned out shell of a brick home. Annel had shed his usual robe to work, and was clad only in loose linen trousers and a sleeveless shirt. His body, once somewhat plump, had become thin and sinewy in the weeks after the village was destroyed, with several healing scars and burn marks visible on his arms. He looked more like a poorly treated slave than a privileged mage. He showed no sign of his background in his attention to the manual work, either, working carefully on flattening the earth. He planned on using the same spot for future rituals, perhaps even creating a ritual circle made of stone to help define the space and focus the energies. For the present, hard packed dirt with a circle drawn in it would do. As he worked, the remaining sunlight turned the thin clouds along the horizon a pale orange, then began deepening toward red. Devra''s form detached from the ground and slowly drifted upward, her burning eyes watching the spectacle. "It''s still beautiful..." she whispered. Her son ignored her, his shovel scraping against pebbles as he finished leveling the ritual area. After some time, he tossed aside the shovel, satisfied with the work, and began preparing the ritual.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The ritual went much as it had with Tonnim, without any need for Annel to refer to his tome. Devra floated back down to the ground to watch as Halric began to twitch and shift, moving as if he were waking up from a deep sleep. As the new zombie got its bearings, Annel folded his hands in front of himself and closed his eyes, focusing inward. With the practice he''d gotten, it was now easy to locate the thread of energy connecting him to the created undead. He began to feed mana into the thread, building a subtle lattice of energy around it. At the end of the thread, he created multiple hooks of energy into the zombie''s pneuma. When Annel opened his eyes, he saw that Halric''s eyes were also open, and the man''s mouth was working as if he were trying to figure out how to speak or breathe. "Rise, Halric." As he spoke, Annel exerted his will along the control thread. The zombie''s teeth clacked together, and it immediately scrabbled at the ground, awkwardly getting to its feet. Dirt tumbled from its shoulders and hair, but it made no move to brush itself off. Annel could feel the zombie''s dull confusion. The mental slowness, he''d figured out, was caused by the disordered energy swirling in its body. The process of raising a zombie was imperfect, and as a result its mana was an impure mix akin to mud, which weakened the zombie both phsyically and mentally. Some of that would self-correct in time, but Annel was not patient enough to wait. Ignoring his rising exhaustion, he used his connection to the zombie to pulse dark mana into its head, clearing away some of the muddy energy. "Halric, do you remember who you are?" The zombie stared heavily at Annel. Finally, it opened its mouth. But it didn''t make any sound. "Try breathing in first," Devra whispered in its ear. The zombie straightened, its chest shifting. Then it coughed several times. A worm emerged, falling to the ground. Halric stared at it, then looked up at Annel. "Whaaas this?" Halric''s voice was a horrible, rasping thing, the words joining together as they emerged. "Do you remember me, Halric? I''m Annel. Devra''s son. I''ve been gone to the Arcanum, these last eight years." "Yesss." The zombie coughed again, clearing its throat of something. It chewed briefly. Annel nodded, then gestured toward the village. "The village was destroyed by orcs. You were killed." The zombie looked down at the ragged hole in its stomach. Annel had sewn it closed. Poorly. "I''ve raised you from death. You''re now a zombie." The zombie continued to look itself over, clumsily using its fingers to pinch and pull at its ashen skin, as if expecting a response. Annel could tell that it wasn''t able to feel much. Both physical sensation and emotions would be somewhat blunted in death, especially for a crude form like a zombie, according to his texts. After thoroughly exploring his body, Halric looked up again. "Monsterrr." He grunted the word. Annel shook his head. "You can remember your life, right? You still have a human shape, human thoughts. You''re simply undead. Not a monster. And now that you''re back, you can help rebuild the village." Halric stared at Annel, one eyelid drooping. Slowly, he turned his head, looking at the burned out, destroyed village. Then he looked back at Annel. Silence ensued. Finally, Annel broke the staring contest by waving an arm toward the village. "Go to the village and begin examining the buildings to see which could be restored most easily. I''ve already raised Tonnim, but he''s... not right. He''s working over there. Just avoid him." As he spoke, Annel sent a pulse of command along the control thread. Halric grunted, immediately turning and shambling off. "He doesn''t seem too happy to be back," observed Devra. "He''ll get used to it," said Annel. "People can get used to anything. I learned that at the Arcanum." "Yes. Well, I''m getting used to my new form. I''ll do what I can to help them. What will you do next?" "I''ll rest and renew my mana. In eight hours or so, I will raise another zombie. Two a day should be possible this week, and possibly more after." "And you will raise only zombies?" Annel shook his head. "No. As I said, soon I''ll be able to raise zombies without the use of mana crystals. Once I''ve accomplished that, I can use some of the remaining crystals to form a greater undead." "Such as?" "I still need to do more research to decide the type. Quite a few of them may be dangerous." "Ah. Well, for my sake, be careful. It seems I can''t do much to damage undead, as a spectre." Annel nodded. "Go hunt, mom. I''ll be safe while I''m resting." Without any more discussion, they went their separate ways. Chapter 7 - Conversations Five zombies stood together in a group, gossiping. Perhaps it wasn''t exactly gossiping. When they''d been normal villagers, gossip had consumed a significant part of their days. Like small town folk from anywhere else, they''d picked over the minutiae of each other''s lives: which couples were having an argument, who was drinking too much, who hadn''t been to temple or who''d chosen the wrong crops to plant. If they ran out of gossip about each other, they''d talk about people from neighboring villages, or the little they knew about politics. On a slow day, they could while away an hour or two just talking about the weather. Peasants in the kingdom of Charun also had a reputation for a certain dry humor, which was subtle enough to allow them to insult the King''s tax collector to his face without leaving the official any specific turn of phrase to complain about. A Charunian peasant could spend ten minutes complimenting your good lucks and intelligence, all the while somehow making it clear that you were lower than sewage slime. All of this goes to say that the zombies hadn''t quite regained their speaking abilities in full. "Seen... shoulder? Bandage. Bitten. Tonnim." Gerril, a former miller, was one of the better-spoken of the group. "Ughhh," grunted Darren, his former apprentice. "Bloo-- bloo--" He paused, his mouth working like he was chewing tough steak. "Bloooody." "Devra. Say. Tonnim bit him. What you think... taste like?" As a group, all five zombies turned to look toward Annel, who was laboring over a dead body in the distance. If the small muscles around their eyes had been functioning properly, they would have had the expressions of creeps who''d seen a little girl alone on a playground. As it was, they just stared blankly at the distant mage. Halric was the first to turn back to the group, groaning softly. "Can''t kill. Has con... control. Need other... humans." None of the other zombies could disagree with that assessment. It wasn''t that bad, anyway. The world was full of humans. But for the moment they''d been ordered to work. They had a village to rebuild, as little as that made sense to them. "Bors... what next?" Halric asked. The group focused on the former builder, who''d been responsible for raising both homes and barns around the area. Like Tonnim, Bors had been a drunk, but a functional one. He''d fared poorly in the grave, though. One of his cheeks had been nearly eaten away, making his speech particularly hard to understand. "Gatter rushes. Roofs." Bors pointed toward a pond that was hidden away in the trees. "Got tools?" Halric grunted, nodding. "I go. Darren. Gerril. We gather rushes. No tools. Orcs stole. Or burned." "Need new tools." There was a general nodding and grunting of assent. Then the zombie meeting split up, each moving off to their respective tasks.Stolen novel; please report. Halric''s shadow, though, acted strangely. Half of it split off, moving along with the shambling zombie. The other half drifted away in the other direction, continuing to move until it reached Annel. Once there, its flaming blue eyes flared to life, attracting his attention. "Mom. You need something?" Annel had been sewing up multiple ragged wounds on a body. He stopped to look at the spectre. "No. I was just eavesdropping on the others," she whispered. "Oh? That''s rude, isn''t it?" "What''s the use of being a living shadow if I don''t use my capability for stealth?" "Good point. But I think you''re just rationalizing acting like a gossipy old woman." The spectre emitted a dry chuckle. "Perhaps. I was well on my way to being a gossipy old woman when I died. But what if I told you that your new zombies want to kill you and eat you?" Annel looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "It''s the nature of undeath to consume the living. An undead that does not yearn to destroy life is as unnatural as a wolf with no hunting instinct." Devra hummed out a thoughtful sound. "Is that why the Archmages call undeath a plague? What happens if us undead are allowed to spread?" "It''s worse than a plague, from their perspective." Annel looked over at the village, gesturing at the distant zombies. "Each undead is an anchor point for the negative plane. Over time, they -- you -- release negative energy into the world. A group of undead can create conditions in which more undead rise spontaneously. An even larger mass of undead begins to permanently warp reality." "And yet, you bring us into the world?" His mother spoke softly. Annel nodded, then shrugged again. "Both life and undeath are superior to death alone. You were alive, now you are undead, yet in either condition you are still my mother. The zombies are... flawed, yet they are similar to who they were in life. Before, I believed what the Archmages teach. But now, I see it all as a game between the gods and outsiders. The gods allowed your death. The outsiders allow you to exist again, so I''ll do their bidding." "So what is your plan, son? To create so many undead that it gives these outsiders a toehold in the world?" "My plan is simpler. To bring our village back. But let me show you something." Annel had been kneeling by the dead body during the whole conversation. He jabbed the needle he was holding into its grey flesh and rose, brushing off his knees before turning to walk toward the temple. The interior of the temple was dark, its tilting ceiling giving it a shield against the light of the cloudy day. Annel walked over to the statue of Corum, which looked over the ruined interior. He gestured up at it, then turned to look at his mother as she floated over. "So? What am I supposed to look at?" she whispered. "Corum''s statue. Do you notice anything about it?" The spectre floated closer, until she was nearly touching the statue. She looked it over, using all the means at her disposal. Her ordinary sight showed her nothing in particular. The statue was made of local granite, in a dark grey color. As was customary, only parts of it had been painted: the wings jutting out of the back were a stark white, while the eyes were painted blue with a yellow center. There were some dark stains below the eyes that she didn''t remember, one on either side of the nose, but she supposed that was just a sign that it needed cleaning. Shadow-sight and her magic sense, on the other hand, told a slightly different story. Devra had to examine it closely before noticing anything, but there was a dark aura clinging to the statue. The aura hinted at greater spaces beyond, as if the statue were in two places at once. "I see something. I''m not sure what it is," she said. "The Arcanum doesn''t like to admit it, but consecrated places like this temple have a connection to their god," said Annel. "Since I called you back from death, some other force has entered this temple. I''m not sure what, or who, it is. But it seems to be..." He trailed off, searching for a word. "Corrupting?" suggested Devra. "No. Fighting a battle, perhaps. And Corum is likely to resist." "But how? ''The gods stand apart'', as they always say." Annel looked up at the statue. "The gods don''t interfere directly. But they meddle. And I think we''ll find out how, soon enough." Chapter 8 - Third Party It had been several days since the messenger had seen Rhodes, the capital of Charun. When he''d left, the army had been using forced labor to build camps outside the western walls. Multiple farms had been cleared for long rows of tents and training areas. Now there were three times as many tents as when he''d departed, and a haze of dust hung in the air from the supply wagons. The training fields were filled with press-ganged soldiers, with more streaming in. Beyond the wall, the city was no less bustling. Charun had a strong monarchy, and as the peasants liked to rhyme it, all roads led to Rhodes. With war looming, the grey cobblestone streets were filled with merchants, officers and messengers like himself. The messenger pushed through the masses to reach the more sedate Basilica plaza, where most of the passerby were monks in their faded blue robes. Before long, he was handing off his letter to Notary Janswith, a long-faced man with an impassive demeanor. The Notary waved the messenger away, broke the seal, and read. Before long, he was calling for more messengers. And by the next day, he was scheduling a meeting with his superior.
"Just the facts, Notary Janswith. My time is limited." The Patriarch, a man in his sixties who was built more like a retired gladiator than a priest, looked up from the papers on his desk and pinned Janswith with a gaze that said the interruption had better be worth his time. "Yes, Patriarch. Simply put, we believe we may have a rogue mage dabbling in death magic." "A mage? Then it''s a matter for the Magi." Janswith nodded before replying. "Normally so, Patriarch. But the Magi and Arcanum are both fully invested in the war effort, as well as the aberrations on the northern border." The Patriarch shifted, resting a heavy hand on his desk and drumming his fingers briefly. He stared at Janswith unblinkingly, but the Notary didn''t look away. "And yet, a rogue mage is still Magi''s responsibility. A responsibility they guard jealously. Are you suggesting that we intrude on their authority?" "I am suggesting that, given the in the current chaos, we have the opportunity to accrue more responsibilites to the Church." The Patriarch stared for a moment longer. Then he chuckled, shifting his hand to stroke at his thick beard. "Well, go on. Let''s hear the details." "Two nights ago, we believe this rogue mage struck Gentleham. The home of a local witch renowned for astromancy burned down, which could likely only happen if she was already dead. But since the destruction was rather complete, there was no evidence left to find. Instead, the evidence came through a local Ovate of the Church, who examined an unrelated cadaver. The signs of death magic were found on the cadaver." "Unrelated? How unrelated?" "A shopkeeper who lived on the outskirts of the city died alone in bed. His wife believed his heart gave out, so the Ovate was only performing a routine examination. However, the evidence of death magic was rather strong, according to his report." "And there''s no chance that these two events, the witch''s home burning and the shopkeeper dying, are truly unrelated?"This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "I can''t say with certainty, Patriarch. However, Gentleham is a quiet town. The Ovate reports that nothing similar to either event has occurred for several years. For both to happen in one night would be--" "Yes, yes. I get the idea." The Patriarch waved a hand irritably. "What of the supposed death mage? Someone living in the town?" "They could be hiding in Gentleham, but it''s unlikely. It''s a small town, so strangers get noticed. Also, I believe there may be a connection to another incident related to the Arcanum." "Oh? Go on." Janswith finally pulled out the rolled paper he''d held tucked under his right arm. He held up the sheet, reading from it. "Four weeks ago, an unknown mage assaulted a known criminal organization in the capitol. The bodyguards were found to have been blasted with lightning. But the body of their boss, one Donalim Grut, was never found." "A mage who gets his hands dirty? This must be an interesting fellow," grunted the Patriarch. Janswith nodded, then continued to read. "Three weeks ago, a mage assaulted a well known shop in the capitol, Hrazim''s Curiosities. The shop was extremely well warded, according to my sources. Rather than circumvent the wards, the mage simply blasted through the door. Again, lightning magic was used. That shop was also burnt, but there were additional wards, so most of its inventory survived." "I heard about that, actually. Strange that the mage wasn''t caught, isn''t it?" "Witnesses looking out of their windows saw a figure flee the shop less than two minutes after the lightning, Patriarch. The sound was loud enough to wake up half the neighborhood. However, nobody further than a street away saw anything. And given the clear evidence of magic use, the city guard chose to forward the matter to the Magi rather than aggressively pursue the mage." "Ahh. Of course. The guard tends to be selectively brave. So what was stolen, if this mage was in and out so quickly?" "A black mana stone, measuring 70 carats and worth over four thousand gold pieces. It had been held in a secure display case for several years, apparently. Nobody wanted to buy it, but it helped the shop to attract viewers." The Patriarch''s bushy eyebrows had risen at the first part of the statement. He narrowed his eyes skeptically as he replied. "A black mana stone? And the Arcanum hadn''t confiscated it?" "They have their legitimate uses, I''m told. Several shops in the capitol were allowed to sell black stones, although none of were nearly as large as that one. After that incident, though, the Arcanum did confiscate the others." "By which time the damage was done. Typical sloppy work from the Magi," grumbled the Patriarch. "Well, go on. Tell me how you''ve connected incidents from weeks ago in the capitol to some town in the hinterlands." Janswith''s thin lips creased into a small smile. "Simple, Patriarch. The Magi know who is responsible for the capitol incidents. A mage from a village near Gentleham, named Annel Oriyan." The Patriarch''s eyebrows were once again trying to ascend to his hairline. "And you know this how? Nevermind, keep it to yourself. But they know the who and where, and they haven''t sent anyone to go take care of it yet? I find that hard to believe." "This mage is considered quite dangerous. He''s a full graduate of the Arcanum, and given what he accomplished in the capitol, the Magi would need to send a significant group to confront him. But again, given the war and the northern aberrations..." The Patriarch grunted. "They can''t spare the resources. So instead, they sweep it under the rug, and hope this Annel Oriyan won''t make too much noise, until they eventually get to him." "Or perhaps they hope the orcs will take care of the problem. They already razed his village, Heartrest." "Hah, I see. Which is perhaps why this mage went rogue. Still, you''re operating on tenuous assumptions. These events may in fact be unrelated. Oriyan could be anywhere, and this instance of death magic in Gentleham could have been someone else." Janswith nodded. "It''s possible. Oriyan is only assumed to be dabbling in death magic due to the theft of the black stone. For the Magi, the uncertainty serves as an excuse not to investigate." "Ahh. Ahah. So if we investigate and find out that it is Oriyan, we not only claim the credit, the Magi also look lax. Still, we are not excluded from the current chaos, as you put it. Listening to all this has already taken too long from my day. And who do we have to spare?" Holding his sheet of parchment up to look at again, Janswith hesitated. "May I suggest... Inquisitor Hargrim?" The Patriarch blinked, opening his mouth to speak. Then he closed it. A moment later, he barked out a short laugh. The rings on his finger cracked against wood as he slapped a hand on the desk. "Clever! Very clever. I approve, Notary. Have it done." With a smile, Janswith tucked away the parchment again before bowing and seeing himself out.