Chapter 13 - Now... Where are my things?

Malfus followed a few steps behind Private Morten, escorted for the second time tonight by the same soldier. This time without the manacles around his wrists. It’s amazing how quickly one’s luck can change in less than a day’s time. As they walked past the front gates, Malfus errantly rubbed at his sore wrists for the dozenth time since the chains had been taken off. No more chains... not now, not ever.

Not much had changed since he was last outside. Some men still toiled with the corpses of the fallen. Some struggled with the giant pieces of stone from the destroyed wall, using pieces of wood as levers to move them into a makeshift barricade. The cries of the wounded were more distant now, but still carried through the air. Plumes of smoke curled protectively around the remaining embers, clinging to a few piles of charred wood, but the fires from the battle had all been extinguished now.

Malfus watched the men that worked on, quite oblivious to the invisible strings of fate playing out before them, oblivious that their fates were now in his hands. No one even seemed to notice that the Inquisitor was missing, or that he was walking around without his chains. No one even bothered to look up from their assigned tasks, too busy with what they were doing to look at him. Even though their fates were in his hands now. If he decided to help, that is. Now was looking like an even better chance to escape with every passing second. As long as he could find all of his possessions, as long as he could find Kaylee’s finger.

“So... the reason the Inquisitor arrested you was just because you’re a wizard?”

Malfus rolled his eyes. “Not just because I’m a wizard, but because of the kind of wizard I am.” Gods, the questions never end with this one. Perhaps he should have joined the Inquisition instead of the army, would have made a great interrogator.

“We had a traveling entertainer who would come to our village of Luneburg sometimes. He’d tell stories with illusion magic, but I think he was only a bard. Not a real wizard.” Morten shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any real magic before.”

“Well then, you’re in for a real treat tonight.” Malfus said, looking over at the neat rows of corpses lined up by the gates as they walked past.

Morten swallowed, then grew silent, turning a few shades paler before he continued. “I’ve never actually seen the dead... the u-undead, I mean.” Morten said the words in a hushed whisper as if the corpses they had just walked past might be able to hear them. “I-I’ve heard tell of such things, but I didn’t know the undead were actually real.” Morten said, still looking over his shoulder at the dead bodies as they walked past them. “I thought they were just scary stories made up by the Inquisition.”

“If that were true, then there’d be no reason to keep me shackled, would there?”

Morten paused and thought about that for a second before opening the door to a long stone building, one of the few left undamaged by the fire. The door opened to a torch-lined stone corridor. Malfus followed Morten inside.

“How do you know the undead won’t hurt any of us?”

“Oh, not to worry.” Malfus turned and winked at him. “I wouldn’t be a very good necromancer if I was eaten by the undead I just created. Don’t worry, I can control them.” Malfus said with as much confidence as he could muster. Although I’ve never controlled more than a dozen at once before.

“Are they really going to be able to save us from the gnolls?”

Malfus paused. “That, I can’t answer. We shall find out together, I’m afraid.” That is, if I’m not already twelve leagues away from this dreadful place by the time the sun comes up.

“Here it is.” Morten said, standing before a wooden door at the end of the long corridor. “This is the room where I took the Inquisitor earlier, after you both arrived.” He opened the door for Malfus and then stepped to the side.

“Thank you, Morten. I can take it from here. Can you just do your best to see that I’m not disturbed? I’ll need time to... prepare.” Time to find my things and pack my bags so I can get the nine hells out of here.

“Y-yes, I’ll do my best.” Morten said, then went to go stand by the door.

“Maybe, a little bit further down the hall there.” Malfus said. “I can’t promise you’ll like all the things you hear.”

Morten swallowed, then just nodded and started walking down the hallway.

The wooden door creaked as Malfus slowly shut it behind him. Then he slumped against it, breathing a long sigh of relief. Finally free from the Inquisitor, with the chains off, and at last... finally alone.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. This was the first real solitude he’d had since he’d been on the road. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed it. After keeping the company of just yourself and the silent dead for so long, you become well accustomed to it.

He hadn’t been alone with his thoughts, hadn’t really had a chance to organize them or sort since he’d been captured. He knew now was still probably not the best time. Even with the Inquisitor locked up, he was sure he only had a limited amount of time to find his things and make his escape. And there was only one thought at the forefront of his mind right now anyway.

“Alright, you bastard... where are they? Where have you put my things?” Malfus said to the small room, but room wasn’t immediately forthcoming with any answers. There was a spare set of the Inquisitor’s clothes neatly and meticulously arranged on the still-made bed. His belt, gloves, and other effects were lain out as if they were awaiting a military inspection with an almost obsessive amount of attention to detail. Malfus continued passing over the room, looking for a clue, a sign, any hint at where all his possessions might be.

What’s going on here?

Something strange caught his eye. Something that stood out from the fastidious order imposed everywhere else in the room. Dried blood stained the gray stone brick-red in splotches in the shape of an ‘X’ behind a small wooden desk. There was a bloody handprint on the edge of the desk and then more blood smeared all over its surface.

Between what was spread around on the desk and splattered on the floor, it looked like a significant amount of blood. There were few things Malfus could claim expertise in, and the amount of blood that could be stored inside a body was one of them, and this appeared to be a quite a lot of it.

Guess this explains why he was bleeding in my cell earlier. But just... why? How could someone do this to themselves?

If the Inquisitor was willing to inflict this kind of pain against himself, the thought of what lie in store for him in the Inquisition’s dungeon in Castillea gave him chills down his spine. Death by torture if the Inquisition takes me, death by gnolls if I stay here. I just need to find my damn things so I can get out of here, before he wakes up and before the gnolls come back. Alright... Kaylee’s finger, my spellbook, and the rod... where are they, you bastard?

Malfus started searching frantically through the room. He tore away the sheets from the bed, scattering the Inquisitor’s neatly arranged clothes in a crumpled pile on the ground. He rifled through the drawers in the blood-covered desk, ripping them out of their tracks and turning the contents out on the floor. Pieces of paper, small baubles, and trinkets, probably belonging to the soldier whose room it had been, but not what he was looking for.

Where is he keeping everything? He couldn’t have thrown them away. Surely, he’d need them for evidence, or... or something. They must still be here, they must... He’d be dead without them. Dead on the road if he tried to escape and as useless as a corpse if he stayed here.

As he tore through the room, he desperately hoped the Inquisitor didn’t have a magic bag of holding where he was keeping his equipment. If he did, he could hide it anywhere. It could be as small as a belt pouch and still hold all of his items. It could be small enough he could even still be wearing it. Malfus swallowed at that thought. He knew that no one would want to have to go in there with the Inquisitor again, whether he had his weapons taken away or not.

He doubted it, though. Although only necromancy was illegal and the other eight schools of magic were permitted throughout the Ossory Empire, arcane magic was seldom practiced at all in Castillea and any who did there were looked upon with distrust and scorn. Although, they didn’t shy away from the divine magic and blessings cast by their Vesenian priests. At least from what Malfus had read in the academy library. He’d never actually been to Castillea and had no intention of actually making it there, regardless of what the Inquisitor may have thought.

Sweat started to bead on his forehead as he kept looking, but he was quickly running out of room to search. Malfus’s hands shook as he tore through a footlocker on the end of the bed, throwing the contents on the floor. Folded uniforms, a few pairs of boots, all belonging to whatever soldier had the room before the Inquisitor, but no book, no rod, and no finger.

Malfus growled in frustration and grabbed the wooden desk, toppling it over. The mirror shattered, sending shards of glass across the stone floor. Well, I guess here’s to thirteen more years of bad luck. But after a lifetime of it already, what’s a few more?

Then he saw them, the Inquisitor’s saddlebags, sitting in the corner so obviously, his eyes had passed right over them the first time. They must be in there. Malfus grabbed them and started rifling through them.

Two sets of spare clothing, road worn, but still neatly folded, all black. Of course, good to have some variety. A few glass vials filled with a clear liquid, most likely holy water. Waste of a perfectly good glass vial. A few healing potions would have been a lot more useful for the road. Neatly organized papers and legal documents written in several languages, each with swooping signatures and wax seals at the bottom, that identified him as an Inquisitor and afforded him the unilateral power of one throughout the Ossory Empire. I wonder how much trouble he’d get in if I tore these up. Malfus set them aside for now and kept looking. One prayer and devotional book of the blind-goddess Vesenia, bound in leather and brass. Always one to appreciate a well-made book, Malfus paused his search and rubbed his fingers over the cured leather cover and the brass adornments protecting the book corners. Admittedly, I’m a bit jealous. The brass corners worked into the cover is a nice touch. But where’s MY book?

And then, what’s this? Malfus pulled out a folded piece of black leather, as long as his forearm. He could hear the muted chime of pieces of metal shifting inside. He untied the string and the leather unrolled, then metal chimed as a dozen tools fell and bounced, scattering across the floor.

Malfus swallowed back bile as his stomach began to churn. At first glance, they could easily have been mistaken for the tools of a woodworker, but on closer inspection, it became obvious that their intention was for an altogether more nefarious purpose. The metal tools had a variety of hooked edges, pincers, saw-teeth, or other insidious designs to flay skin from the body, or for other purposes Malfus could only begin to imagine. Looks like this is what is planned for me if we make it back to Castillea. And I’m sure whatever they have there is much more elaborate than this mobile torturer’s kit.

Malfus grabbed a straight-bladed scalpel and set it aside to take with him later. A sharp knife has countless uses when working with corpses.

Malfus reached back into the bag, only to find it empty. Not here. Let’s hope they’re in the second bag. Malfus swallowed. What if the Inquisitor hadn’t kept his possessions? What if he had just cast Kaylee’s finger aside and left it there? It was just a finger, after all. He could have sworn he saw the Inquisitor take his things with him, but everything happened so fast that night the Inquisitor captured him. It was all still a blur in his memory. Malfus hadn’t really thought about the prospect of not getting his possessions back. These weren’t just things. These were irreplaceable. The culmination of his life’s work. They were his purpose.

Malfus licked his chapped lips as he reached for the second bag. His palms were sweating and his hands were shaking, and he was starting to feel desperation tightening around him like a noose around his neck. Malfus opened the bag. There was another set of folded black clothes, a tied-up coil of rope, a pouch that had what remained of their collective food supplies, which had just dwindled down to a few strips of greasy dried meat, and some crumbly hardtack bread. The Inquisitor can keep these. Although he made a mental note, he’d need to get some food from the stores at the fort before he left. He knew he had no hunting skills of his own out in the wild.

Malfus was right about to upend the bag in his desperation, but then something at the bottom caught his eye and made his heart skip a beat. A black leather bag, securely tied with a length of cord. He took out the black bundle and could immediately feel a sense of familiarity with the strangely shaped objects inside.

His heart started beating faster, fluttering in his chest with anticipation as his shaking fingers fumbled uselessly with the knots of the leather cord. “Come on! Come on, dammit!” Malfus cursed, before giving up on trying to untie the knot, then grabbed the scalpel sitting next to him and sliced through it. He flung the severed cord across the room, holding his breath as he opened the bag.

There, this was it. This was where the Inquisitor was hiding his things, but were they all here?

Malfus reached into the bag and pulled out a thick black book. He held his breath as he ran his fingers reverently over the familiar worn, black leather of his spellbook. His fingers had almost memorized the smooth, dimpled surface.

He opened the cover, still having to prove to himself that it was, in fact, actually his book. Then he let out a contented sigh as relief flooded over him.

Every wizard treasures their spellbook. It is a representation and collection of their life’s work and research. A physical embodiment to their life’s devotion to the arcane arts, to the peeling back of the very secrets of the universe and the planes of existence. Priest’s and Inquisitor’s have their holy prayer books and wizards have their spellbooks. Each holds the same weight and value to their souls.

Every scroll was hard-earned and transcribed painstakingly into the book. Then came the hard work spent memorizing the proper movements, words, and mental imagery and visualizations necessary to cast each spell. Hours of devotion to learn a single spell for the first time, and many more hours spent refreshing and fine-tuning aspects of it. For a necromancer, each spell was even more sacred. Most of the books on necromancy had been burned once the Vesenian church rose to power.

They had outlawed any study of life after death in any form, or study of the planes, or planar travel. Which meant every surviving necromancy spell was either 200 years old or copied from one, and were much harder to come by than scrolls of any other school of magic.

He thumbed through the pages quickly, making sure they were all still there. The pages inside were scrawled with arcane runes and symbols. Nothing was torn out. Nothing was water damaged. The pages were coated in a special thin waxy substance that protected them from most anything except complete submersion.

He swallowed as worry and fear began to trickle in the back of his mind. As he thumbed through the pages he worried that even if he did decide to help the Commander by raising an army, he wouldn’t have enough time to prepare the needed rituals and incantations before the gnolls could attack. Even if he started right now and worked through what remained of the night, he could raise maybe a dozen corpses, perhaps a score if he really focused. All the more reason to just get out of here.

He set his book aside for now and kept looking through the bag. Malfus picked up the rod of Rammani-Thuul next.

The rod was roughly the size of his forearm. Made from a strange dark gray metal with flecks of black in it, like bits of charred flesh sticking to smooth bone. The top of the rod was a bony hand clutching a star ruby. Although the gem was a ruby, it was more of a dull gray than red and looked almost greasy, having completely lost its luster.

Supposedly, Rammani-Thuul had been an emperor of the great sand kingdoms long ago, far south of Monrovia. The legends had it that he reigned for nine hundred and ninety-nine years, extending his life through profane rituals. They called him the blood emperor because of the living sacrifices he used to extend his life. First with people his army captured through war, and then eventually his own people after he ran out of lands to conquer.

Malfus had only finally just gotten his hands on it before being captured by Inquisitor Deza. He hadn’t been able to activate it or figure out how it worked before he’d had it taken away from him and been put in chains. Months of his preparations, and the small lab he had managed to cobble together as far away from the heart of the Ossory Empire as he could, all destroyed, razed to the ground by that zealot who had somehow tracked him all the way out in Monrovia. He wondered how long he’d been on his trail, how he found him in the first place. All pieces of a puzzle waiting to be solved. Malfus always enjoyed a good puzzle, but now he wished the answers would be more forthcoming. Whatever aid this artifact might be able to render would certainly make his escape easier. He worried his tired mind could barely focus enough to memorize a single spell, much less solve the riddle behind activating the rod. And time was of the essence.

As beautiful as it was, it was still just as inert and lifeless in his hands now as it was the day he had found it. Just a dead piece of metal, even though he could detect the strong aura of magic from it without even having to cast a detection spell. Fine, keep your secrets. He sighed and rolled it on the ground next to him. It made a hollow sound as it clattered to a stop.

Then he kept looking through the bag. There was one more thing he needed before he could even consider escaping.

Kaylee’s finger! There it was, still wrapped in its black silk cloth just as he’d left it. By now, as long as the Inquisitor has had it, it had to be almost withered to the bone. It’s been at least a month since he had the chance to cast the right spells, a month since he had the chance to hold her finger. His fingers trembled as he went to unwrap the finger, afraid of what he might find.

No, no, no! There were some bluish signs of necrosis around the fingertip and the severed end. Truthfully, though, not as bad as he had imagined. There must have been a lot of residual necromantic energy left in the finger from his past spells. Although, they could only prevent necrosis, not reverse it, that is, unless he pulled from his own life force. The finger felt like a lump of cold wax, but he still imagined the life that had once flowed through it. So long ago now. I will still find a way to save you. Find a way to bring you back. Find a way to redemption. That’s what all of this was for, after all.

Malfus closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, trying to find the mental focus necessary to cast the spell. This should be easy. This first spell I ever learned. Malfus cradled Kaylee’s finger in one hand, then held his other hand over it. Such a simple spell didn’t even have any verbal components, just the necessary amount of concentration to channel necromantic energy to stop the decay of flesh.

He cleared his mind, he made the proper visualization of energy traveling through the pathways in his body, he focused the energy into the palm of his hands, and then... nothing. He snapped his fingers and shook his wrists out and tried again. More nothing. Malfus grunted as he strained, there was a pop and a fizzle and tiny green spark flickered out from his palm. He groaned before he could smile as it dissipated almost instantly.

Not now. Not now.... Come on, there’s no time for this. Get your shit together. Malfus slapped himself in the face. Then sighed. Dammit, been awhile. Just a little performance anxiety. Gotta get the ol’ juices flowing again.

Malfus stood up and stretched with the grace and flexibility of a cat. He cracked his neck, then jumped a few times in place, clapping his hands together.

This was child’s play, the very first necromancy spell he learned back in the mage tower of Akkadia. He remembered finding that tome in the restricted section of the library. Remembered staying up after hours, studying the forbidden tome. Remembered how naturally the school of necromancy came to him compared to all the other schools of magic that he struggled with, the ones taught in the light of day. And this spell was the first he had learned, and the easiest spell in the entire school of necromancy of all necromantic spells ever written. Freezing the further decay of dead flesh.

Such a simple spell was really more of a mental exercise than anything else. No verbal components, no elaborate somatic gestures, or components needed. Just the right frame of mind and not having those damn anti-magic manacles on.

He concentrated, shutting out the external world as he focused on the energy pathways in his body. Concentrated on nothingness, on the void. Many of the other schools of magic taught their students to focus on a specific thought, or mantra, or feeling. Necromancy demands nothing and only nothing. Nothingness. The void. The rumination of thought playing in his mind were broken apart into words, which became whispers, and then the whispers became fragments of nothing. His fighting, bickering thoughts persisted at first, then moved further and further away until they became tiny bubbles and burst apart into nothingness. Then there was no more. Only the void remained.

He felt it. Slowly at first. A scratching at the surface, like bony fingers scratching at the lid of a coffin, trying to get out. Like a cool mist roiling in his veins, flowing up his forearms and then pushing through the blockage in his wrists and flowing out of his palms like a billowing fog.

Ah... Hello again, old friend.

Malfus held the finger in his hand, then concentrated on the void. He felt the subtle shift inside him, he felt his heart rate slow down a few beats, he felt the slight pulling at his being and the flow of his own life force trickle into the finger.

He exhaled slowly and felt drops of cold perspiration beading on his forehead. Then he slowly opened his palm, unsure of what he might see. A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth for perhaps the first time in months. The finger was restored, the signs of necrosis had faded and returned the finger to its rosy pink hue. Relief flooded into Malfus, his perhaps biggest fear alleviated now that Kaylee’s finger was restored and rot was averted.

Malfus heard a faint buzzing sound, like there was a fat bumblebee sitting on the ground next to him. He looked down and saw the gem on top of the rod glowing a faint red. Pulsing weakly, like an irregularly beating heart. It was lying on the ground next to the dried stains of blood. Malfus held it closer to the dried blood on the ground and watched it shine brighter.

Blood? Was it really that simple this whole time?

Malfus picked up the scalpel he had taken from the Inquisitor and squeamishly held out his hand before making a small incision on the tip of his finger. He let the bead of blood well up on his finger until it dripped onto the gem’s surface. The gem grew a bright, hungry red, and Malfus felt the energy of the void flow through the rod like a conduit. A blood battery.

“You like that, do you?” The rod seemed to pulse with energy in response. “Alright, come on then. I’m sure we can find some more lying around here somewhere.”