Rise of the Dead Prince (23 page)

31
Behind Black Eyes

T
he necromancer peered into the pool from behind her face wrappings. She watched with a dry amusement as the pitiful survivors of Karavunia made their death march. The further they went, the more her amusement grew. They would make excellent minions. It was only a matter of time, after all. She already had most of their countrymen. The fallen of the death march had been dutifully kept from raising by their comrades. It did not matter, of course. Soon she would close the noose on Valahia and Karavunia both. One sweep was all she would need. Nothing could stop it from happening. She only had to open her hand and say the single word that would doom every living thing in either kingdom. It was not time yet. She wanted to be thor
ough.

“Let them think it is all over,” she rasped behind her mask. Suvira closed her black eyes and savored the thought like a fine wine. Her amusement was suddenly shattered. She felt a familiar sting. It simply couldn’t be. She turned her eye to the northwest. It took some time, for the pool did not understand what she meant. Something was dimming her gaze. She drew on the source, and the wall was br
oken.

Suvira gazed into the pool in disbelief. What she saw made no sense whatsoever. The Valahians could not possibly have known about the dark call. They knew nothing, and the Karavunians knew even less. Yet there he was. The cry had been his, for the pool did not lie. There had to be an explanation. She gazed at him with scrutiny. Yes, it must be. Another master of the dead had come to Arnovo. But how could it be? He was not a Beol, and the path had long been lost to all others. Or so she had believed. There he was, clothed in black, pale as the dead, yet something did not feel right. No, he was not like any man she had seen before. He was an enigma, and Suvira loved puzzles. She poured the power of the source into the pool again. She looked closer and was suddenly so stricken with shock that the image f
aded.

His heart was bea
ting.

Suvira, dazed, looked again. Another dagger pierced her cold chest. Her head was swimming. It couldn’t be. Something else was at play. She silently called on the spirit of her father, Lovo. From the floor rose the phantom of Lovo, robed and rotten. He moved to the pool to face his daug
hter.

“Explain,”
she rasped. Lovo gazed and saw all that she had. He let out a long hiss, and this slowly turned to a bout of dark, echoing laughter. Suvira looked at him impatiently. She gave his spirit a squeeze with the source, and the laughing stopped at once. Even a ghost could be destroyed. She had just reminded
him.

“Crocus,”
he said with a hateful hiss. His hate was divided evenly between the act of his daughter and the wizard from his
past.

“Explain!” Suvira said with force, her voice promptly changing from rasps to clear tones. A small buffet of dark energy emitted from her. She had not felt such anger in many years. She loved puzzles, yes, but only when they could be so
lved.

“Crocus is a wizard and a fool, but he has forgotten more than you will ever know, my daughter,” Lovo said bitterly. Suvira made her impatience known with a withering black gaze. Lovo let her wait for another second in retaliation for the grip she had placed on his spirit. “The man you see in the pool is Prince Meier of Valahia,” he said at last. “He was the one I told you to take notice of,” Lovo continued, “if you remember.” Suvira growled. She had no time for ramblings. She wanted the answer to the impossible thing she had witne
ssed.

“You know I don’t. Your ‘predictions’ grew erratic before the end,” she said, “if
you
remember.” Lovo laughed again wickedly. He began to pace around the edge of the platform, looking down into the inky dark
ness.

“I told you
…
to take notice
…
because Meier was born with
violet
eyes. There was an old omen I heard of as a young man
…
but that doesn’t matter now.” Suvira raised her hand as if to grasp his spirit again, but Lovo held his hand up to stop her. “Destroy me if you dare, but if you use the source on me again, I will tell you nothing. If what you want is an easy answer, then you want the impossible. So keep your hands to yourself, wretched child!” Suvira growled again but lowered her
hand.

“Continue,”
she hi
ssed.

“That’s better,” he said contemptuously. After a few seconds, he continued. “Meier was essentially born to be a user of the dark. Crocus saw this and undoubtedly watched him closely. It was surely the plague that acted as a catalyst. Meier must have been infected by it.” Suvira used the silence that followed to r
eply.

“If he was infected, then why is he not in my thrall? You said no one was immune!” Lovo continued to pace then raised his bony finger as if giving a lec
ture.

“Indeed! No one is immune once infected. Crocus must have found a way to prevent his mind from being wiped clean. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the old fool murdered him to keep the curse from fully running its course,” Lovo said ruminatively. Suvira could scarcely believe what she was hearing. One thing came to mind, and she voice
d it.

“If this ‘Crocus’ has such power and knowledge, why do you brand him as a fool?” she asked. In the Beol Clan, power was the only measure of worth, even among enemies. Lovo was quick to res
pond.

“He is a fool because he allowed himself to be cursed and stripped of great power. He did it
willingly
. If that does not make one a fool, then nothing does.” Suvira nodded. She was satisfied with the answer. Lovo continued, “It was certainly Crocus that tried to find us in the dark, and you stopped him, but he obviously had a gambit up his sleeve.” Suvira was very perceptive, and the puzzle was starting to make more s
ense.

“He shielded Meier from view,” she said, trailing
off.

“Correct,” answered Lovo, “but it was a failure. The game was up as soon as the dark call went out. The advance of Meier is no longer a surp
rise.”

Suvira tapped her clawed finger on the side of the bowl. The image of Meier came up again. “He means to attack us? How pathetic.” Lovo sighed at his daughter and shook his
head.

“It is likely that he seeks your destruction, yes. However, we do not
know
what he intends,” said the old wraith. Suvira’s brow furrowed. Surely he had not just insinuated what she thought he
had.

“You mean he may wish to
join
with us? Inconceivable,” retorted Suvira. Lovo just lau
ghed.

“Trust me, daughter. That which is no threat is sometimes still a weapon. His coming is a great and powerful omen,” said the phantom. Suvira sco
ffed.

“Ridiculous. Spare me your superstition. None can see the future,” she hissed. As one who craved all power, it was a sore subject to be reminded of an unattainable one. Still, the myth of prophecy was present in all cultures. It was confounding and idiotic at the same time. The fact that her own father believed in such things as omens had been something of a family embarrassment when he was still corporeal. A necromancer took the future for themselves. They did not play at predicting minutiae. Suvira digested all of what had been
said.

“This is coming together at last, but there is more I must know, Father. First, how has he learned the dark call?” Lovo stopped in place and crossed the platform to stand before his daughter. His gaze was s
tern.

“You must certainly remember something that I taught you about the Beol history. Tell me, daughter, who was the first of the Beol Clan?” he asked. His countenance, while ghastly, was still clearly one of disappointment. Suvira shied from his close pres
ence.

“Get back,”
she said firmly. Lovo spread his arms in apology and complied. He looked at her expectantly. Finally, she decided to play his game and answer. “Beol himself was the first of our clan, some thousand years ago,” she said bored. “Does this satisfy you?” Lovo let out a hissing
sigh.

“Actually
…
no,” he replied. Suvira waited for what she thought was an ample amount of time. Lovo finally continued. “He was known as Beol only after his descent to darkness. Before that, he was known as Nego. He was named for the sea, and as you may be now interested to know, he had
violet eyes.
He had magic, of course, but it did not manifest until much later than was usual. There was no one to teach him, and though the full story of his journey to greatness is incomplete, this much is recorded. He did not
learn
the dark call in the way we know. He simply pulled it from within. Like a fish needs no instruction to swim, Nego needed no instruction in dark magic.” Suvira si
ghed.

“You waste my time. It is known that he invented the technique.” Lovo sighed in return, shaking his moldering
head.

“You waste your own time. You ask a question and do not believe the answer when it is before you. A child could grasp it,” he retorted. Suvira let out a frustrated growl. The platform shook from the pulse she let out. Still, the puzzle must be solved. She would know no satisfaction until it
was.

“Do explain,”
she hissed. Lovo resumed his pa
cing.

“No one ever
invents
anything, nor do they truly discover it. They are drawn to the knowledge, and then
…
they
remember
it. Be it through blood, omens, or something else, there is nothing new beneath the sun. You can surely not be so bold as to believe that dark magic is a mere thousand years old? It is older than mankind itself. It is made manifest as a kind of natural genius in certain chosen vessels, from scratch, as it were, and these teach others. Now for the point
…
This boy is such a vessel.” Suvira listened intently. Lovo had her complete attention. The working dead below began to wander, suddenly devoid of instruction. All she could do at the moment was stare at the image of Meier. His face showed grief. But why? Another mys
tery.

“You mean to say he could become the most powerful magic user in the whole world?” she asked, seeing Meier in a new light. Surely such power must not be wa
sted.

“I did not say that, nor do I think that is true. I mean to say only that he is a
…
natural
. Beol was only the strongest of his day because there were no others to challenge him. Without instruction, it will take Meier a century to master what you know now. Remembering is a slow process, full of experimentation. Besides, he does not
seem
like a necromancer t
o me.”

Suvira was intrigued. She needed the final piece. “One question remains. It is the most baffling by far.
How is his heart beating?”
Lovo paced around to the platform but then stopped at the opposite end of the bowl from Su
vira.

“Oh, my daughter. I might never have said to you in my life, nor after, nor as I am now
…
but I have no
idea.”

Meanwhile, at the source of the image they intently gazed at, Raven was sitting perfectly still. He dared not move. The image of Meier still shone in the pool. Around and around, it slowly turned. Someone was looking at the source of the dark call, and so they had found Meier. Matters were now worse. If he and Meier were lucky, they would not see the black shape on the branch of the cypress as they gazed. He felt the eyes pass over him. He had not been seen quite yet. The gaze finally passed. They had looked at Meier for a
long
time. But as for Raven, he had not been seen at all. He was certain. Ravens always knew when they were being wat
ched.

32
The End of the Line

T
he clanging of metal on metal rang out in the distance. Raven turned his eyes southeast. It was a faint noise at best, but it was unmistakable. He looked with his keen eyes. The maze of trees obstructed his sight to the source of the sound. Then it dawned on him. He had heard it a minute prior as well, but his attention had been fixed on Meier’s fight and transformation. He needed a better look. Raven left Meier where he lay and flew toward the sound. Meier had not heard a thing, for he was too deep in his anguish. For the time being at least, he needed to be left alone. The necromancer knew he was there, but they still had
time.

Raven sped toward the sound. When the line of trees had cleared, he saw them. He landed on a nearby branch and continued to look. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was
them
…
and they were fighting
armored
dead! He remembered them clearly now, and he chided himself for not realizing sooner. It had been just before he found Meier that he had seen these two, if only as a moment’s distraction as he passed. The pieces fell together at last. They were the ones who had made the
path!

Raven took in the scene. Something was odd. The dead were behaving strangely, and the men were taking full advantage. They bashed and hacked, crippled and pinned. They were like a storm, and they blew through the dead like a bolt of twin lightning. Despite their new armaments, the dead were no match in their weakened state. The men ran a jagged line, leaving only destruction in their wake. Raven suddenly understood. The dark call had reached further than he expected. Still, its power over them would not last long. Something had to be
done.

He flew back to Meier as quickly as his wings could carry him. Raven had not flown so fast in years. He weaved through the trees and branches, threading every needle opening with extraordinary precision and grace. Could he make it in time? It didn’t matter. Men such as these were worth the effort. After all, they could never have come so far or so fast without the beaten path they had created. Besides this, there was a place deep in his old heart, underneath the worldly wisdom and cynicism, that had a soft spot for he
roes.

He closed the distance in just over a minute. There was a mile between them and the ragged heroes. Raven cried out as loud as he could despite his fat
igue.

“Meier! You must get up at once! We must go immediately!” he yelled. Meier stirred only slowly, sitting up and looking up with a great sadness in his eyes. If there were to be any chance at all, they must go without delay. The two men faced dozens upon dozens. “Meier!
Please!
Lives are at stake! Brave human lives!” he cawed, clearly out of breath. Initially, it was the “please” that caught his attention. Slowly, Meier heard the words in spite of himself. The impact of the moment hit him, and with great effort, he laid his feelings aside. Meier took a sharp breath and was on his feet in a heart
beat.

“Lead the way,” he said with renewed res
olve.

“One mile southeast, but you’ll need the gray state to make it in time!” cawed Raven. Meier felt a stab in his heart. The gray state was what had brought him into the insidious snare of the dark. Meier had to make a decision. It was nearly instantaneous. Lives were at stake. If his curse could mean anything, if there was some order to be found, if destiny mattered or even existed, then it meant he still had a
ch
oice.

Meier, the Dead Prince, made his choice. He was in the gray state and running before Raven could say another word. Meier sprinted through mud and muck with steps so swift and light that even the water could not slow him. He pressed himself like he had never done before. He followed Raven at first, but soon the sounds of battle were audible to him as well. He put his head down and sprinted toward the noise. Meier closed the mile-long distance in three minutes. It was not a second too soon. The two men were completely surrounded. This was their last stand. They fought back to back. It was then that something Meier saw struck a chord within. They were
smiling.
They faced their end with poise and grace. He was their witness. Meier continued to run straight for them, but what to do? He could not risk them by using the bar
rier.

An insane idea came to mind. He acted. The dead were so close to the men that they would soon be piled over and pressed into the swamp, pierced by many weapons. Meier drew his pitiful saber and began to focus his energy on the blade. It became like an extension of his arm. With the saber in his right hand, he ran his bone hand across the blade from hilt to tip. This left a shimmer that danced on the edge like a mirage. As much as it pained his spirit to do so, Meier delved a layer deeper into him
self.

He charged. The dead had taken no notice of him in the gray state, for their attentions were fixed. Meier took advantage. It was time to test his plan. There were three armored bonewalkers within reach. With a hiss, Meier slashed in a wide horizontal arc. The three fell and clattered to the ground in halves! Bone and armor both had been bisected like a razor through paper. Meier hacked diagonally through the next three as well, leaving them to slide apart a second l
ater.

He was getting closer to the men in the middle, but he remembered something important as he got close. Well, two things: the first was that he was truly terrible with a sword, and the second was that these men would very probably attack him if no time for explanation was managed. As for the first, he did not want to risk hitting one of the men he had come to save. As for the second, he didn’t want to get in their range either. These men were extremely dangerous. That much was amply evi
dent.

Meier decided to skirt the circle around the men, attacking the dead from behind to great effect. As long as his concentration remained on the sharpness of his blade, his cuts would continue to cleave plate armor like butter. As the circle started to get tighter, Dor and Trent saw him. He looked a lot like a walker. However, they did not lose their concentration on blocking, hacking, kicking, and disarming (quite literally) the dead that surrounded them. They were starting to tire. The end was coming. Neither man could spare the breath to speak. That didn’t matter though. They had said it all, and as far as they knew, it was all they would ever say. They were just going to get as many as they could. The more the number of dead decreased, the men risked a couple of looks at the odd sleepwalker on the edge of the f
ight.

It was when there were suddenly less than twelve skeletons left that they saw what was happening. This strange creature was clearing the boneys like a scythe reaping a field. It was unbelievable. Still, the hunter and the farmer fought on. Their methods had crippled, but not finished, a whole pile of enemies. As Meier approached the small wall of metal and bones, he was grabbed at by the legless ones and kicked at by the armless ones. As an answer to this minor inconvenience, he carved a path with several sweeping strikes along the ground. It looked to Dor and Trent like a man clearing the weeds from the path to his
home.

Meier approached carefully. He could not speak to hail them. It was a delicate business. Dor could barely swing his mace anymore. This he had taken from a fallen bonewalker only minutes prior. His muscles were near to dead and frozen. Trent was doing better, but not by much. Dor scored a glancing blow on the bonewalker in between him and Meier, but could not lift his weapon fast enough for another swing. Trent saw the coming death blow and managed to bash the thing with the hilt of his s
word.

With a kick to the chest, Dor sent the thing backward on its heels directly into Meier. With an uncommonly graceful gesture, Meier sidestepped the incoming body. As it passed, he performed a diagonal upward slash, and spinning with the raised blade held high, Meier made a full turn to center and brought the blade down in another diagonal slash in a single fluid maneuver. The result was that the skeleton was quartered with two slashes that formed a near perfect X. One more bone-crushing hack from Trent rang out like a gong, which left four skeletons total. Dor was facing three of them, and Trent was busy dealing with his final opponent. How they had fought so perfectly while surrounded was still a source of pure amazement to Meier. He had never seen such skill, not even from his brothers, and that was truly saying something. Somehow they dodged blows from all sides, even from behind, as though they could see in all directions. Their bodies moved like water, and their arms lashed out with the speed of a cracking whip. It was the stuff of warrior poetry, but such stories had a common en
ding.

Dor’s arm was failing at last. It simply could not obey anymore, despite the iron will of its owner. He was gasping, and his weapon hand was bleeding profusely from the hundreds of hits against armor that he had scored. His eyes began to flutter from pure exhaustion. His smile returned. Dor fell to his knees, just as Trent was delivering a finishing stab through the cracked armor of his last remaining enemy. Meier could not get there in time. The three weapons descended in a simultaneous downward blow to Dor’s lowered head. Inside, Meier cried out, and his perception of time slowed. To have come so close and not save them was more than he could
bear.

Meier saw the weapons hitting home with his mind’s strategic eye. There was nothing he could do to stop it. The death would be swift. The hunter was already unconscious. Meier had underestimated one thing, however. Trent was too far away to land a blow or block the coming swings. Despite this, the giant sword passed in a lightning-fast horizontal arc, mere inches above Dor’s bowed head. The heavy blade clanged against the nearest weapon with more than enough force to knock the others aside as well. Trent had thrown his weapon. The cruel blades of the dead were knocked aside, but not enough for the last one to miss entirely. A long-bladed axe hit Dor’s unarmored shoulder. The blade stuck for only a second before bouncing out, but the damage was done. The blade had cut to the bone, leaving a lurid, gaping wound near to the neck. He would be dead in min
utes.

He was not the only one, however. The bonewalkers turned their attention to the thoroughly depleted form of Trent. Meier looked at him with his dark magus eyes, and what he saw caused his heart to sink even deeper into the gray. The farmer’s life spark was a dim flicker. It grew dimmer, and the flickers grew less frequent. Soon they would be extinguished. Trent had pushed his body to the breaking point and beyond. He fell backward against the tree he had been fighting against and slumped to the ground like a stone. As he exhaled his last breath, the weapons of the three skeletons flew at Dor again, this time from three different an
gles.

Meier was one stride away, but it was too far. He could not bear it. It was all too much. Meier felt himself dipping deeper. He just needed one push. He got much more. With a deep grunt that caused the ground to shake, Meier raised his skeletal hand and pushed with all his might. He pictured the armored attackers flying backward and forced all his will into the gesture. He had no idea what kind of effect it would cause, if any, but one thing was certain. If he did not do it, the hunter would die a bloody death in less than a se
cond.

Meier’s eyes flashed blindingly bright, and in a hideous instant, the space in front of his outstretched hand exploded violently. The blast cracked the air itself as it hit the three skeletons, who were lined in a neat row before him, their weapons raised. The massive pulse erupted in a straight line, and the skeletons, their weapons, and their armor, simply disappe
ared.

Anyone who could not see changes that took place in a tiny fraction of a single second would not have seen anything more. It was Raven that saw what had truly happened. It was without a doubt the most violent thing Raven had ever seen. The blast left a rounded trench that stretched for over a mile. It was lethal to living things at a half mile. It was just that powerful of a spell. At point-blank range, however, the force was so monstrous that the skeletons and their armaments had been rendered into such tiny pieces that they could not even be called dust. They were less than motes. Their remains were not even large enough to be detectable as a s
cent.

Destructive energy of that magnitude was enough to fell trees at a quarter mile, and indeed it did. Raven fought his disbelief and tried without success to think clearly. Power of this caliber was simply not possible. Something else had to be at play. It was imperative that they uncover what it
was.

The wake of the blast knocked the hunter onto his back. Though clear of the oval of space that had been eradicated, he fell backward with sufficient force to open his wound even more. His blood flowed free in a wide pool on the soft leaf-covered earth. The color drained from his lips and face. Meier saw his life spark. The heart was slowing, and the spark was dimming quickly. Meier’s eyes wandered frantically. He saw Raven, and lurching back into the living state, he called
out.

“Raven! Help me!” Meier was on his knees and over the hunter at once. He was no surgeon, and as such, he had no idea of the right thing to do; but what seemed right was to lift him up and try to bind the gushing wound by holding it closed and pressing down. This he did, but to little effect. The wound was deeper than he thought. The blood continued to spill. Raven landed beside
him.

“Meier,” he said softly, “I’m sorry.” Meier felt a wave of desperation and powerlessness. All he could do was watch as the man’s breath slowed and grew more shallow. With a final raspy exhalation, he was gone. The hunter, Dor, was dead. Meier looked over at the big man, whose life spark he had seen go out. He had died of pure exhaustion, pressing his body well beyond human limitations. His final act had been a selfless one, pouring his remaining life into throwing his sword to save a friend. There he was, slumped again the cypress, his blue eyes staring and empty. The farmer, Trent, was dead as well. They had died within a minute of each other. They had gone with a shared smile on their faces. It had been a good d
eath.