ALL NOVEL 85 - New Residents
Marché pulled at the curls of his rust-red hair. He was a patient man, but there was a difference between patience and inaction. When 15 minutes had passed, he rapped his knuckles against the door one more time.
“We really do need to get moving, Drayya.” He placed his ear to the wood and listened for a response.
“Oh, alright.” A muffled reply came, “Give me a moment.”
He stood back, and seconds later, the door swung open. A foetid, eye-watering stench coaxed his breakfast of stale bread and water out of his stomach and up to his throat, but he was able to swallow the meal back down before he made a mess. The building was a shed in the back garden of a private estate in the eastern district. It was nice and secluded. A perfect place for Drayya’s new favourite pastime.
“Everyone’s gathered up, then?” She waved her hands, sending flecks of blood through the air, “Remember - none of you are officially members of the Order, and that places you below thralls in the hierarchy. Do not speak unless you are demanded to speak.”
“I’ve already heard enough of this from Lieze. You don’t have to- uh… are those teeth?”
The pearly shards clacked together like bone dice in Drayya’s palm, slick with saliva and blood.
“Oh no - don’t even try to steer this conversation elsewhere.” She shook her head, “I need your word that you will not disrespect any of the Order’s members, inadvertently or otherwise.”
A single, soulless groan escaped from the confines of the shed right before Drayya kicked the door closed. She tossed the teeth into a flower bed and beckoned for Marché to follow her out of the garden.
“Please… my followers would kill for the opportunity to join a sect of like-minded individuals. As a matter of fact, they already have.” He replied, “I’m nervous, if I must be honest. Sokalar is more of a legend than anything else among us independent necromancers. A few of my disciples didn’t even believe he existed before today.”
“Oh, he’s very real.” Drayya assured, “If you thought Lieze was a demanding leader, you’re in for a rotten treat. You’ll be spending the rest of your life sacrificing everything and more to gain favour with Master Sokalar. Sometimes you will wonder if it’s worth it. Sometimes, even I’m not certain it really is.”
“It’s as simple as that? He’s just going to take over Lieze’s position without any fuss?” Marché asked, “She may be unreasonable sometimes, but I’ve grown willing to tolerate that for the sake of her dependability.”
“What- what are you asking, exactly?” Drayya blinked, “Of course Master Sokalar will be taking over. Lieze will most likely be drafted into the Deathguards along with myself.”
“Is that what she wants?”
“It’s what’s going to happen - whether Lieze wants it or not isn’t something her father will consider.” She said, “This is just the way it is. The way it was always going to be.”
There was something like apprehension in her tone. She didn’t want to believe it. She wasn’t certain, no matter how heavily the odds were stacked against Lieze, that the girl would simply hand over her life’s mission and become yet another faceless necromancer of the Order.
“...Let’s get moving. Master Sokalar doesn’t appreciate tardiness.” Drayya said.
The legions of undead patrolling Bascoroch, Dolore and Saptra were impressive in size, but lacking in any form of cohesion. The Order’s main army, however, conducted itself with all the discipline expected of its reputation, leading hundreds of thralls through the gatehouse in a calm and orderly manner.
“Unbelievable… I wasn’t present on the day, so I never had the chance of witnessing the Order assaulting the city.” Marché muttered, “Alistair won’t stand a chance now… barring some kind of miracle.”
He grunted as Drayya shoved her elbow into his stomach.
“Don’t even joke about that. Tonberg would have been ours were it not for that interruption.” She scolded, “This city has clung to hope for the longest time, but its fate can no longer be denied. Once Alistair is dethroned, we can turn our attention to greater conquests in the north.”
The Dwarves, the Elves… Marché had no idea what to expect of either, but he had the sinking suspicion that Tonberg would not fall so easily.
One of the Order’s necromancers levitated down to greet the two of them, landing with a tired sigh.
“You’re still alive, Drayya.” The hunched man remarked, “-But that isn’t much of a surprise. You’ve always proven resilient when it comes to meeting Master Sokalar’s rigorous expectations.”
“Who’s this fool?” Marché asked.
“Fool!?” He screamed, “You had better watch your tongue, boy - unless you’re keen to lose it. Prospective members of our prestigious Order must learn to keep their opinions to themselves if they wish to survive.”
“This is Hede Graeme.” Drayya spoke over the man’s ranting, “He may look harmless, but he’s Master Sokalar’s most trusted lieutenant.”
“Is that so?” Marché replied, “I would have guessed that Lieze occupied that position.”
“Lieze!?” Graeme scoffed, “What lies has that girl been feeding you, boy? I’ve never known a necromancer so utterly devoid of natural talent. Lieze is a fine example of just how far the Order has fallen from grace in recent decades.”
“We must not be talking about the same Lieze.” Marché shook his head, “If it wasn’t for her and Drayya, we would have never accomplished as much as we have. You say she’s devoid of talent, but from my perspective, her potential seems limitless.”
“I applaud your efforts in attempting to recruit new members, Drayya.” Graeme frowned, “-But please refrain from extending invitations to any more victims of traumatic brain injuries like this young fellow. The average intelligence of our ranks is already dropping as is - why, I can feel my own mind shrinking just listening to this fool.”
“Excuse me?” Marché blinked.
“He makes up for it in reliability.” Drayya replied.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, well… I suppose you deserve a commendation for accomplishing this much in our absence.” Graeme attempted to fold his hands behind his back, but had some trouble doing so, “I’m sure that Lie- er, the young lady is responsible for holding you back somewhat. But you needn’t fear her incompetence any longer now that Master Sokalar is here.”
Drayya resisted the urge to lash out at him. Graeme was a sad, pathetic man with a talent for dancing between the Order’s many allegiances. There were times when she held a reserved respect for him, and others when he seemed like the most despicable man in the world. There could be no parsing of the personality beneath his slimy veneer of manipulation.
“The Master will want to see you, Drayya.” He finished, shifting his sunken eyes to Marché, “...And you as well, I suppose. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Drayya felt a weight on her shoulder being lifted as Graeme wandered out of earshot.
“What a piece of work.” Marché remarked.
“Yes… you’ll find that it’s a trait shared by most members of the Order.” She sighed.
“Isn’t that counterintuitive?” He replied, “I would have thought that Sokalar would-”
“Master Sokalar.”
“Right - I would have thought that he wouldn’t allow pettiness in his ranks.”
“In the Order, strength and influence decides everything.” Drayya explained, “From meals to beds to thralls to freedom - every last privilege is earned at the expense of others. Higher-ups like Graeme, Lüngen, and myself have to deal with assassination attempts on the regular. That kind of environment breeds bitterness.”
“Who is Lüngen?”
“Our archivist, and Master Sokalar’s former tutor.” She replied, “You’ll know him when you see him. He’s a very indulgent man, if you catch my cold. Unlike Graeme, however, he’s rather pleasant. I have a feeling you would get along with him.”
“I see…” Marché paused, “...Are we going to see the Lich, then?”
“We are.” She said, “If you have any reservations, then this is your last chance to back out and flee to the north - though I can’t say for certain if that will keep you safe for very long.”
“That’s bait.” Marché replied, “If I told you I wasn’t ready, you would kill me on the spot.”
“Very true. At least you’re aware of that.” Drayya smirked, “Let’s go.”
The throne room was beginning to show its age. Without maids and servants to clean the surfaces, one stray movement could kick up a storm of dust. It was once impossible to think with the rattling of armour echoing through every hall, but the number of guards had plummeted, and those still available spent their days motionless at the king’s side.
Alistair tapped his foot against the crimson carpet, watching the entranceway for a visitor who would never come.
“She has not returned…” He paused, “Morgan has not yet returned.”
There came no answer, for the silent watch of guards knew better than to address their king without permission. It was only as Alistair’s gaze came to rest upon one such soldier that he was primed for a response.
“How many men were sent to repel the attack in the northern district?” He asked.
“322 soldiers, my liege.” The knight answered.
“And how many have returned?”
“13.” Something caught in the knight’s throat. He swallowed, “...13, my liege.”
“What about our reserves?”
“Sire - 355 soldiers stand ready to defend the castle.” He reported, “149 foot soldiers, 72 crossbowmen and arbalests, 119 assorted spellcasters and acolytes of the Church, and 15 Dragon Cardinals.”
“Hm…” Alistair ran a wrinkled hand through his beard, “Give the order - every man and woman beyond the age of 13 years must report for mandatory conscription.”
“That is…” The knight paused, “...Yes, my liege.”
“Those who have lost hope in Tonberg’s future have already departed from the city.” He continued, “The pious few who remain are those who will lead us out from the darkness. By the grace of the Lord, this is the ultimate trial of their faith.”
Every guard straightened their posture as Alistair stood from his throne.
“It is time to reveal the fruits of Morgan’s labour.” He declared, “Gather the alchemists.”
“Huh…” Lieze looked around, “I’m surprised Drayya isn’t here.”
“I imagine she’s departed to seek Ignas.” Lüngen remarked, “Is there something you wanted to ask her?”
“No. What I’m looking for is still here.” She replied, “I think this is the shed she was using…”
Behind the blown-out husk of a home in the eastern district, a single tool shed was tucked away behind overgrown grass. A scent like rotting flesh wafted out from the gap in the door alongside the eye-watering sting of chemicals. With more apprehension than a necromancer ought to have shown, Lieze stepped forward and peeled the wooden door back, allowing light to flood into the cobweb-infested space.
The interior may once have been unblemished, but the amount of blood coating the walls and floor couldn’t be washed away no matter how vigorously one scrubbed. Upon a single chair in the centre, arms and legs bound with rope, was a corpse. That’s what Lieze thought at first, but as the cadaver’s chest rose, she realised that the thing on the chair was still breathing.
“...Wait down the road for me, Lüngen.” She threw her voice towards the door.
“As you wish.” He replied, more than eager to distance himself from the smell.
Lieze examined the severity of the victim’s wounds - or, more precisely, if there was a single inch of her body that had gone untouched. Bare muscle twinged and flexed in the stagnant air, occasionally shredded or torn by some wicked implement. Organs pulsated with surprising health, somehow resisting infection despite the lack of skin protecting them. Only the head had been preserved, albeit shaved and marked with shallow incisions. The upper and lower lips had been torn off, exposing gummy flesh bolted with bloodstained teeth.
“Dear oh dear…” Lieze sighed, “Where to even begin?”
She leaned down to examine the face. Both eyes and ears had been excised, explaining why the victim hadn’t reacted to her appearance.
“You can’t hear me, can you? Well - perhaps that’s for the best.” She said, “Morgan.”