Prologue

Dark Ritual

Somewhere in a dank, dark wood two crows sat on a rotting branch and watched as a group of humans crept by beneath them. Regret followed the party like a cloud as they pushed through the tangle of vines and bushes. Cursing under their breaths, every one of them wished they were back at the warmth of the inn they had left barely a few hours before.

The leader’s name was Tristan and his thoughts were particularly dark. Sweat trickled down his back despite the chill. There was something wrong with the forest and small details which had seemed unimportant at the village now weighed heavily on his mind. Why was the price so high? Why had the town councillor’s mug of ale trembled in his hands and why had he seemed so nervous? What had the man said? An easy job, just a typical rogue spell caster causing trouble in an isolated village.

He hadn’t mentioned the malady that lay on the land. The last time Tristan had come through Downing it had been a dense grove of wildflowers and oak. Now the trees loomed like ossified giants, their hollowed-out branches twisting against the sky. Mist pooled on the ground, swirling around the hollows whenever the wind gusted. What still lived had an unhealthy pallor. Lichen grew everywhere. It was more than autumnal rot, he was sure of it.

The oppressive silence was disturbed only by the parties’ breath and the crunch of their steps over dry leaf-skeletons. Tristan had half a mind to turn back. The sun was setting behind them and already it felt darker than midnight.

“They should be roosting,” the young ranger beside him whispered, pointing under a bush.

Tristan followed the man’s shaking finger.

A flock of scrawny chickens huddled under the sparse cover.

“Keep it together, Erik,” Tristan said, reaching out to lower Erik’s hand. “C’mon, the lot of you.”

He stepped forward, pushing aside a moss-laden branch. His hand came away slick with slime. The ground underfoot changed to soft mud and soon his boots squelched with every step. He swore as his foot sank ankle deep into thick sludge. The sooner they were done and back in front of the fire the better.

Up ahead he spotted something shining and he signalled the others to stop. A rabbit lay in a pool of its own blood. Its heart had burst. The sight triggered something in his brain.

“I’ve seen this before,” he said, keeping his voice low. His eyes darted round the grove but they were alone, apart from the crows. “Or something like it. The rabbit, the illness of the forest. Once. In a village far to the north, after a necromancer desecrated it.”

Shocked silence greeted this pronouncement. Tristan kissed the bronze sunburst hanging from the chain around his neck and mumbled a prayer.

“Do we go on?” asked Alis. Her face was pale inside the deep hood of her mage’s robes.

“We go on. Carefully. Quietly.”

Nobody moved.

Tristan looked around at the party, solemn faced men and women, all. “We’ve faced worse,” he said. “The Wildrose lindworm? The mad sorceress of Pendergast? How about that giant salamander that went on the rampage in Berwick?”

“We lost Morris in Pendergast,” mumbled Rubin. The young man was shrunk down inside his fighting leathers, gripping the shield buckled to his arm tightly. Erik nodded vehemently, sweat standing out on his brow, while Alis shuffled her feet.

“Aye,” said Tristan, bowing his head. “But Paul wasn’t with us in Pendergast.” The grim-faced paladin dipped his chin in acknowledgement, and Tristan squeezed his shoulder. “We are on our guard. It will be more difficult than we originally thought that’s all. Take your potions. I know you are all ready. You know it too. Good. Now let’s get this over with, I have a horrible feeling that people are dying while we stand about nattering.”

They resumed their tramp through the ailing forest, the two rangers taking up their positions at the rear, bows at the ready. Tristan peered ahead, trying to make shapes out of the fog. By his personal reckoning they should have stumbled across the village of Little Downing some time ago.

“Where are we, Rubin?” Tristan whispered after another ten minutes had passed.

Rubin blinked, trying to find the stars in the gloom. Of course, there weren’t any, everything was smothered in a thick layer of mist. Instead the ranger drew out his compass, tapping it for good measure. He shrugged.

“We should be on top of the village. Right now.”

The group exchanged glances, then looked around at the ghostly trees. Had the people been transformed into hollow trunks and left to rot in the cursed soil? Tristan shook the thought out of his head.

“Over there,” muttered Herold.

A musky breeze picked up the mist, swirling it so shapes began to form. A rotting fence post half sunk in the mud and a bit of fence appeared - it must be the village they sought. The party crept forward, arms at the ready. Just beyond the fence some hovels could be seen, peaking through the darkness, their thatch rotten and wafting a stench that turned Tristan’s gut. Crops wilted in their raised beds and insects crawled in the decaying walls. Fungus spores drifted into the air. It was not natural, but they would put an end to it.

They walked on, hands over their noses.

“There,” Rubin whispered.

He didn’t need to point. The faint glow emanating from the trees was unmistakable. A low throbbing noise pulsed from the centre of the buildings.

“Are we too late?”

“Shush!” Tristan hissed. “Get ready.”

They crept forward, passing into the village.

It stood hollow. Abandoned? At least empty, for now. Tristan focused ahead on the light, thrumming green and unsavoury. He stepped forward, hefting his war axe, shaking his head, his armour creaking into the silence. Sweat thickened on his brow as he forced one foot in front of the other. The others followed, shuffling as quietly as they could, their training kicking in. Now they were close, everyone was focused, ready to act.

Rounding a hovel, Tristan paused, and his mouth fell open.

They had found the necromancer.

They had found the villagers.

A ritual was underway. A stone altar was mounted in the centre of the village square. The necromancer loomed over it, robed in dark velvet, silver dagger flashing crimson in the light. Beneath him lay a pile of corpses. It was too late for most of the villagers, their bodies strung upside down, blood collecting in buckets, dripping from deep gashes in their throats. A few bound peasants lay trussed and docile next to the altar. Tristan couldn’t see if they were alive or dead. A single villager lay on the slab, entranced and docile.

The necromancer’s back was turned to them as he continued his grisly work.

Tristan didn’t speak, but gave signals. With hand motions he instructed the party. The rangers and Alis moved to the side, arrows notched and mage’s staff gleaming with readiness. The fighters fanned out. All was done silently, and Tristan took pride in his team’s efficiency. He breathed in, watching closely, ready to move. The necromancer remained unaware. Good.

The key was speed. The faster they moved the less chance the spell-caster would have to work his unholy magics. Most likely he would try to raise something. Or someone. They wouldn’t let that happen. Tristan’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his war axe in anticipation.

On the altar the peasant gasped and died.

Thrum.

The throbbing noise vibrated across the square, shaking Tristan’s boots.

Something appeared above the altar - an inhuman form shrouded in darkness. Tristan couldn’t see its face, if it had a face. A spirit? Some kind of conjuring? Steeling himself, he gestured.

The first arrow flew as Tristan charged forward. It struck the necromancer’s arm and the man whirled with a cry. Tristan got a glimpse of an aquiline nose, a dark beard and piercing eyes before a pulse of energy blasted out, blowing them all backwards.

Tristan’s body smashed through the rotting timbers of a nearby hovel with the force of a dozen men. He lay on his back wheezing, dust and debris raining down on him. He gasped, trying to suck in air, but it refused to come. At last he scrambled up, using his war axe to right himself and crawled back through the hole he’d made, tugging on the rotting timbers to pull himself through with a curse. Across the altar he could see Alis, lying crumpled against a building. Unconscious? Richard and Paul were fighting their way up.

Over the altar the floating dark figure moved.

Tristan stumbled, the earth moving in waves beneath his feet. His stomach lurched as the figure turned with insidious slowness. Reality rippled in ink-stained waves.

The spirit saw him.

It saw them all.

The spirit drew back its cowl and Tristan could not look away. Vaguely human in feature, its eyes were a void - fathomless pits of madness, drawing him in and he was sinking. His limbs grew limp and heavy. His thoughts grew sluggish. Why was he there? The necromancer. People were dying. He needed to help them. He needed to get back to the inn. His brother would be waiting. Vaguely, he was aware of the others struggling. Something was wrong. The necromancer. He strained, urging his body, struggling to free his thoughts. His armour was a cage, crushing him. He could not move.

Thrum.

The world pulsed, the vibration rattling Tristan’s bones. He was held in suspended animation. He turned his head to look at the necromancer. The man stood, a single arrow protruded from above his bicep, but he paid it no heed. Tristan watched as the necromancer reached down and grabbed an elderly man, pulling him up by the hair. He yanked back the old man’s head and cut his throat with a practiced hand. Blood bubbled from the neck wound to dribble over the stone altar.

Thrum.

Tristan watched helplessly. He could move his head, his eyes, but nothing else. Some of the peasants were still conscious. A woman’s terrified brown eyes met his and she let out a sob, waiting her turn on the blade edge. Tristan grit his teeth and pushed at his invisible bonds, praying. Across the square he could see Harold with his eyes closed, muttering and Paul straining ineffectually.

A movement caught his eye. Erik was crouched in the shadow of a cottage, his eyes wide with fright. Tristan breathed out. The ranger hadn’t attacked with the rest of them! The coward might yet save them all. His heart lifted and he met the ranger’s eyes. Do something, he mouthed. Erik’s eyes were full of terror as he looked back at Tristan, helplessly. Do something, filthy coward! Erik didn’t move.

Thrum.

The vibrations rattled through him.

The necromancer cut another villager’s throat and lifted the body to dangle with the rest, his grisly trophies swaying in the breeze. With this last ornament in place the necromancer seemed to reach some sort of apotheosis. A deep smile spread across his face and withdrew a glittering white gem from his robe. The necromancer held the crystal high and proud, as if showing it off to the twisting spirit that rotated gently above the altar. Tristan did not look, he did not want to stare into that face again.

Instead he looked at the crystal. It was the size of a child’s skull, sparkling in the spell-light and casting spinning, skittering lights of sickly emerald green as the necromancer turned it in his hand. It would have been beautiful in any other place, on any other night. The necromancer set the gem on the plinth at the centre of the altar and stepped away.

Thrum.

The gem shivered. Light pulsed outwards in a shockwave. All around the village square the dead shuddered. Faint glimmering lights appeared, hovering over the deceased villagers. Souls, Tristan realised in horror, souls being stolen from the discarded dead. Wailing, they ripped free and flew into the crystal. The gem’s light grew with every soul until it was shining like a small sun.

The woman at the base of the altar scrabbled on the ground, searching for something. Tristan watched her pointless attempts to free herself from her bonds before returning his attention back to the necromancer who turned from his gem with a smile. The woman stilled, feigning unconsciousness and the necromancer’s gaze landed instead on the restrained adventurers.

Tristan’s breath quickened in fear. The necromancer strode towards Richard. The necromancer held his terrified face in one hand. Without changing expression, he plunged his knife into the man’s heart. The body dropped, released from the spell, and Richard’s soul hissed as it was sucked into the gem.

The necromancer turned and held out a hand to Paul. He raised it, claw-like, making a twisting motion with his wrist. Paul was pulled forwards as if by invisible strings, his feet dragging, tugged forward as the necromancer reeled him in like a fly. He muttered a spell and the paladin’s soul streaked into the gem.

Thrum.

Paul’s body flopped forward, released from whatever magic had held him. Tristan closed his eyes, tears leaking from the corners.

Thrum!

Alis’ soul joined the others.

Thrum!

The necromancer turned towards Tristan. He prayed to his god, to the Bright One. Surely a boon, after a lifetime of devotion? Was this how it would end? But perhaps his power could not pierce the darkness of this place and he was forsaken. Tristan shut his eyes, praying, forcing himself to take deep, steadying breaths. Opening them again, he saw Erik huddled in the shadows and paralysed with fear.

Move! he mouthed in despair.

It wasn’t Erik who moved but the chickens, squawking as they crossed the square. Perhaps the gods had nudged them forwards? A small act in the dark but Erik found his courage as the necromancer looked away. He leapt forward, arrow notched and aimed not for the necromancer but for the enormous, radiant crystal on the plinth. The arrow hit, knocking it askew, hurtling the gem into the face of the spirit.

Reality rippled. Black ribbons oozed outward like a pebble dropped in a pond of darkness. Tristan felt the heaviness falter. He tensed, fighting his invisible bonds, straining his muscles...nearly there. The necromancer spun, lifting his clawed hand and pulling Erik towards him. Tristan pressed forward, one step, two, and broke free, leaping onto the altar and smashing his war axe down onto the glowing gem.

It cracked.

Then shattered.

The light of a thousand stars exploded into the glade. Souls poured out, cascading and frantic like moths in a cage. The necromancer shrieked and leapt on Tristan. The man was surprisingly strong and Tristan fell back as they wrestled, teetering on the brink. He fought frantically, trying to heave the man away, trying to raise his axe for a killing blow but the necromancer pushed the weapon aside, clawing and shrieking with inhuman strength.

Somewhere in the gloom Erik shot again, and the necromancer howled. Tristan gave up his axe and pushed a thumb into the necromancer’s eye. Roaring in fresh pain the necromancer batted his hand away, then bit at Tristan’s throat, tearing his flesh with sharp teeth. Shock shivered Tristan’s body and he stopped fighting. He writhed for a moment and kicked out, feeling the weakness of his limbs. He was going to die choking on his own blood. He was going to die.

The necromancer laughed, spitting blood and flesh, and turned to the shattered remains of his crystal.

Tristan turned his head and his eyes met those of the woman hidden under the altar. Her face was pale, as she watched him die, her eyes feverish. Her hands were busy; she was sawing at her bonds with the fallen iron arrowhead.

“It will be alright,” Tristan tried to whisper, but all that came out was sputters of blood.

Thrum.

The vibration started up again. Insistent. Demanding. Rattling the earth. The necromancer stood at the centre of the village, the shattered splinters of the crystal at his feet. The vortex of souls swarmed around him as he pleaded with the spirit. He didn’t notice the woman crawling towards him, determination in her eyes. Tristan watched with the last of his strength. She had the necromancer’s dagger in her hand. Good. His body gave a final spasm and he joined the dead.

The woman lunged, rearing up like a cat and cutting through the necromancer’s sodden robes. She screamed and slashed, again and again, stabbing till his chest was a mess of scarlet ribbons of flesh. He toppled from the altar, his body squelching as it fell, his eyes wide in surprise. She stood breathing deeply as the necromancer’s soul ripped free from his body.

The souls converged on her, swirling in a tortured vortex, in a widening gyre of light and madness.

Thrum!

The spirit turned its slow eyes to the woman. She rose up in the air, hovering, held still while the foul wind whipped at her curly blood-soaked tresses.

THRUM!

The light imploded, condensing into a pulsating ball of energy no bigger than a fist, powered by a hundred souls. It shuddered, black bright and crackling. Sparks popped and sizzled. Then it exploded outwards. Blinding light tore through the village, flattening houses, felling trees, devastating everything in the vicinity.

Silence.

In the remains of the village there was only quiet.

A lone black rooster flapped its wings and raced away into the trees.

The dead lay still.

All, except for one.

Amidst the pile of desecrated corpses, a body rose.