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A. Setliffe / Text 1 of 13 / Nameless (until a title should present itself), Prologue
"Nameless (until a title should present itself), Prologue" by A. Setliffe
SF&F Picture 1 out of 13 by A. Setliffe
| This is a strange tale, but I hope it will be a good one. Criticism (of the constructive variety) is welcome. The setting is based more on my home(south-easternish united states, near the mountains) in its folklore and ecology than on the distant medieval European world, though there are still elements of European mythology transplanted into a new land. It is pre-firearms, so weapons of choice do not include pistols or rifles. (For those who are disappointed, I will consider writing a paladinic gunslinger at some point since that idea fascinates me too ^_~). The resulting Chimera is its own world, for which even I am still trying to get a feel, but the characters fit naturally into it, and the land has become almost a character in its own right. Read and enjoy, if that is your will, and comment. I very much appreciate constructive criticism. |
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Cold. He was wet, cold, bedraggled and now cut off. The necromancer crouched in the underbrush glaring balefully from his leafy refuge at the space remaining between him and the river. Ahead, in the field, stood a warlock of his Brotherhood, Gregan by name, if he remembered right. The man was kneeling down as he encircled himself with a thick ring of powdered salt which half-melted on the wet ground. The fool was going to fight when he should have been running. Doesn’t he realize that the war is over? It ended this morning as soon as they breached the gate, thought the necromancer bitterly to himself. He remained perfectly still for he had no intention of dying beside the warlock, and if his presence became known the man would force him into service.
Sounds of bloody skirmishes rose and fell about the two men as the rebels clashed with the remnants of the shattered fraternity. Nowhere was safe, as was aptly proven the next moment. A rebel woman charged into the open space and, spotting the warlock, she turned to face him. She was not young, but sturdy, not pretty, but then few would have appeared so dressed in makeshift leather armor, smattered with mud and blood and hell knew what else. Her eyes were terrible, filled with anger that had no doubt been brewing her whole life.
Gregan stood up straight, a mirroring rage on his own face. The necromancer’s eyes narrowed in scorn. Damned fool. Anger is meaningless. All that matters now is survival. Arrogant idiot! This, this is why everything has come crashing down!
Words that the necromancer had heard before, but seldom, broke from Gregan’s lips, grating, but clear in the warlock’s fury. The air was suddenly charged, seeming almost to shiver. The necromancer’s body shuddered in answer as the summoned fiend bent the world around it like a cloak. This was an opportunity he had to exploit, and he turned and ran. A feeling of sickness almost overwhelmed him, as if a sea of oily, rotten water had come rushing into his world from some place beyond, but he forced his legs to keep running. The woman behind him gave a cry, but it was not a cry of pain or fear. Another power surged from the clearing, its feel like a rush of cold, clear spring water, though it was less powerful now as the necromancer was putting some distance between himself and the conflict. Even so, the sudden clash nearly caused him to fall. It was if his soul had been dealt a blow.
The necromancer felt his mind racing again and tried to bring it back under control. The fortress. He had to make it to the fortress. He veered towards the river again, hoping to make it far enough around the battle he had left to go unnoticed even by the alien powers that were being pitted against each other. Gregan’s voice calling out caused the necromancer to think, for a moment, that he had come too close to the conflict again, but then it became clear that the man was screaming at the top of his lungs.
“You are mine! Your name is Eiriathel! You serve me! Give me your strength!”
There was a pause, and then an answer in an overpowering voice, rich like soft charcoal crushed between two fingers. “No.”
The necromancer felt both powers, the vile and the painfully clear, vanish without a trace. He did not allow himself the chance to wonder why or what had happened, he merely ran on.
A scream from the woman rebel seemed to follow him. “You murdered all of my children!”
The necromancer ran on, refusing to trouble himself over what might have happened. So much had already happened. All that mattered was that he was almost to the river. Wiping at rain that was dripping down the tips of his hair, he cleared his eyes. A few paces brought him to the steep banks and after a shuffling slide he found himself on the rocks of the nearly-empty riverbed.
He paused just long enough to take stock of his surroundings. There were dead in the river, but he saw none there living. Ghosts misted around him, like wisps of red vapor, but he ignored them. With a careful pace, he made his way down the rocks of the riverbed.
The necromancer walked until he could see the three spires rising into the darkening sky just beside him. He scrambled up the bank, gripping at tree-roots until he could pull himself to the battle-ravaged field. There was the fortress, surrounded by its high granite wall. The red fire that had long lit the three pinnacles was extinguished, though still from inside the walls came the glow of the giant crimson spiral. He glimpsed Death as she moved about beneath the trees to his left, her regal skirts trailing in the blood and rain as she gathered souls that followed her like a misty train. She turned her face towards him and he could see her eyes sparkling beneath her crown of tiny animal bones and jewel drops, delicate and intricate as a skeletal leaf. He felt no fear, though, for she was there for the fallen, for many of his enemies, and his comrades. Fools. You were decadent, lax… you laughed at me for my concern. Now you all know. Now you understand.
A short laugh broke from his mouth, startling him. Crouching down he stopped and listened. Had the noise given him away when he was so close? He heard hoofbeats and the echoes of fighting and what sounded like humming, but they were behind him now and not close. Fiends did not make sounds, though, and sometimes their presence was too subtle to be felt. The demons might have heard. But I can face them, as long as they never learn my name. It’s the angel-callers that are dangerous. Curse the angels, as bad as fiends.
He moved, half-crouching, towards the fortress. The old gates had been thrown down and the ram that had shattered them lay cast aside at the entrance. Most of the bodies he climbed over there were of rebels with nothing but makeshift armor and weapons, most of which had been crafted from farm implements. A few horses who had once led peaceful lives at the head of a plough were mangled beneath their masters. He spat on the bodies as he climbed over them.
“Peasants. Ungrateful dirt-dolls,” he whispered.
Once over the initial mound of the first charge the corpses were mixed, with Brothers of the Order and the pale ghostborn that were chosen as their servants sprawled along the halls beside their rebel attackers. Their stronghold had become a deathtrap once the enemies were within its wall, for it had never been built for war. Arrogance, or so he considered it, had been their downfall. They had tolerated the foreign threat for too long, thinking that their hold on the surrounding lands would never be shaken and that their cold-magics and fiend-lore would never prove fallible.
A hand reached out and grasped his passing foot. The white, bloodied face of a ghostborn servant looked up at him with a horrified expression, pleading for something he could not voice. Panic flared through the necromancer. He had been seen.
Cold, white flames laced down his arms as he called the souls, every one he could find and had the strength to control, and he sent them through the fortress in a wave, smothering all that were left alive.
“No witnesses. No one to give me up,” he said to himself, voice shaking with mingled fear and excitement. Creeping farther in, he eventually came upon what he sought. The glowing spiral, cut into the very stones of the inner courtyard lay before him. At its very center, equidistant from each of the three towers, lay the pool. On its surface the innermost rings of the spiral glistened impossibly.
Stopping at the edge of the pool he ran his hand nervously through his hair and looked down. There was no raised edge. The floor stopped and the water began so smoothly that an unwary man could step off of one and into the other without realizing the mistake until too late. It never overflowed, not even in the heaviest of rains, and never froze over. Already on the surface floated two bodies, both of the Brotherhood, doubtless backed into the water by the onslaught. One of them had an arrow sticking out of his skull.
Deep water, so deep, but not cold and he was cold.
No one had been in the water before. They had been too afraid of it, of what was at its bottom, if it even had a bottom. They drank from it at ceremonies, yes, but to dive in? Of course not, because they were all afraid of what they did not know. Not him; he was afraid only of what he did know.
He had his suspicions of what the pool was, where it came from and why it was there. Now was the time to test it all. There was no other way, he told himself. They will find me and they will kill me. No. I will not be killed by peasants. He took a series of long, deep breaths, reluctant to stop in case they proved to be his last. The smells of blood and death were stifling, but it was air and he could breathe.
Then he stopped, closed his eyes, and let his body plunge into the warm, red-lit water.
Sounds of bloody skirmishes rose and fell about the two men as the rebels clashed with the remnants of the shattered fraternity. Nowhere was safe, as was aptly proven the next moment. A rebel woman charged into the open space and, spotting the warlock, she turned to face him. She was not young, but sturdy, not pretty, but then few would have appeared so dressed in makeshift leather armor, smattered with mud and blood and hell knew what else. Her eyes were terrible, filled with anger that had no doubt been brewing her whole life.
Gregan stood up straight, a mirroring rage on his own face. The necromancer’s eyes narrowed in scorn. Damned fool. Anger is meaningless. All that matters now is survival. Arrogant idiot! This, this is why everything has come crashing down!
Words that the necromancer had heard before, but seldom, broke from Gregan’s lips, grating, but clear in the warlock’s fury. The air was suddenly charged, seeming almost to shiver. The necromancer’s body shuddered in answer as the summoned fiend bent the world around it like a cloak. This was an opportunity he had to exploit, and he turned and ran. A feeling of sickness almost overwhelmed him, as if a sea of oily, rotten water had come rushing into his world from some place beyond, but he forced his legs to keep running. The woman behind him gave a cry, but it was not a cry of pain or fear. Another power surged from the clearing, its feel like a rush of cold, clear spring water, though it was less powerful now as the necromancer was putting some distance between himself and the conflict. Even so, the sudden clash nearly caused him to fall. It was if his soul had been dealt a blow.
The necromancer felt his mind racing again and tried to bring it back under control. The fortress. He had to make it to the fortress. He veered towards the river again, hoping to make it far enough around the battle he had left to go unnoticed even by the alien powers that were being pitted against each other. Gregan’s voice calling out caused the necromancer to think, for a moment, that he had come too close to the conflict again, but then it became clear that the man was screaming at the top of his lungs.
“You are mine! Your name is Eiriathel! You serve me! Give me your strength!”
There was a pause, and then an answer in an overpowering voice, rich like soft charcoal crushed between two fingers. “No.”
The necromancer felt both powers, the vile and the painfully clear, vanish without a trace. He did not allow himself the chance to wonder why or what had happened, he merely ran on.
A scream from the woman rebel seemed to follow him. “You murdered all of my children!”
The necromancer ran on, refusing to trouble himself over what might have happened. So much had already happened. All that mattered was that he was almost to the river. Wiping at rain that was dripping down the tips of his hair, he cleared his eyes. A few paces brought him to the steep banks and after a shuffling slide he found himself on the rocks of the nearly-empty riverbed.
He paused just long enough to take stock of his surroundings. There were dead in the river, but he saw none there living. Ghosts misted around him, like wisps of red vapor, but he ignored them. With a careful pace, he made his way down the rocks of the riverbed.
The necromancer walked until he could see the three spires rising into the darkening sky just beside him. He scrambled up the bank, gripping at tree-roots until he could pull himself to the battle-ravaged field. There was the fortress, surrounded by its high granite wall. The red fire that had long lit the three pinnacles was extinguished, though still from inside the walls came the glow of the giant crimson spiral. He glimpsed Death as she moved about beneath the trees to his left, her regal skirts trailing in the blood and rain as she gathered souls that followed her like a misty train. She turned her face towards him and he could see her eyes sparkling beneath her crown of tiny animal bones and jewel drops, delicate and intricate as a skeletal leaf. He felt no fear, though, for she was there for the fallen, for many of his enemies, and his comrades. Fools. You were decadent, lax… you laughed at me for my concern. Now you all know. Now you understand.
A short laugh broke from his mouth, startling him. Crouching down he stopped and listened. Had the noise given him away when he was so close? He heard hoofbeats and the echoes of fighting and what sounded like humming, but they were behind him now and not close. Fiends did not make sounds, though, and sometimes their presence was too subtle to be felt. The demons might have heard. But I can face them, as long as they never learn my name. It’s the angel-callers that are dangerous. Curse the angels, as bad as fiends.
He moved, half-crouching, towards the fortress. The old gates had been thrown down and the ram that had shattered them lay cast aside at the entrance. Most of the bodies he climbed over there were of rebels with nothing but makeshift armor and weapons, most of which had been crafted from farm implements. A few horses who had once led peaceful lives at the head of a plough were mangled beneath their masters. He spat on the bodies as he climbed over them.
“Peasants. Ungrateful dirt-dolls,” he whispered.
Once over the initial mound of the first charge the corpses were mixed, with Brothers of the Order and the pale ghostborn that were chosen as their servants sprawled along the halls beside their rebel attackers. Their stronghold had become a deathtrap once the enemies were within its wall, for it had never been built for war. Arrogance, or so he considered it, had been their downfall. They had tolerated the foreign threat for too long, thinking that their hold on the surrounding lands would never be shaken and that their cold-magics and fiend-lore would never prove fallible.
A hand reached out and grasped his passing foot. The white, bloodied face of a ghostborn servant looked up at him with a horrified expression, pleading for something he could not voice. Panic flared through the necromancer. He had been seen.
Cold, white flames laced down his arms as he called the souls, every one he could find and had the strength to control, and he sent them through the fortress in a wave, smothering all that were left alive.
“No witnesses. No one to give me up,” he said to himself, voice shaking with mingled fear and excitement. Creeping farther in, he eventually came upon what he sought. The glowing spiral, cut into the very stones of the inner courtyard lay before him. At its very center, equidistant from each of the three towers, lay the pool. On its surface the innermost rings of the spiral glistened impossibly.
Stopping at the edge of the pool he ran his hand nervously through his hair and looked down. There was no raised edge. The floor stopped and the water began so smoothly that an unwary man could step off of one and into the other without realizing the mistake until too late. It never overflowed, not even in the heaviest of rains, and never froze over. Already on the surface floated two bodies, both of the Brotherhood, doubtless backed into the water by the onslaught. One of them had an arrow sticking out of his skull.
Deep water, so deep, but not cold and he was cold.
No one had been in the water before. They had been too afraid of it, of what was at its bottom, if it even had a bottom. They drank from it at ceremonies, yes, but to dive in? Of course not, because they were all afraid of what they did not know. Not him; he was afraid only of what he did know.
He had his suspicions of what the pool was, where it came from and why it was there. Now was the time to test it all. There was no other way, he told himself. They will find me and they will kill me. No. I will not be killed by peasants. He took a series of long, deep breaths, reluctant to stop in case they proved to be his last. The smells of blood and death were stifling, but it was air and he could breathe.
Then he stopped, closed his eyes, and let his body plunge into the warm, red-lit water.
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About 'Nameless (until a title should present itself), Prologue':
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• Keywords: Necromancer, Necromancy, Paladin, Angel, Demon, Fallen, Holy, Knight, Albino, Jade, Magic, Death, Ghost, Spirit, Wraith, Ghosts
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