Birth of a Necromancer 040

Ash was sitting on his bed in the captain’s quarters. On the floor, next to him stood a bucket which he had prepared in case he got seasick. It was his first time on a ship, so he had, in accordance with his own predictions, thrown up a lot during the night. But, he hadn’t been planning to sleep anyway. With the hectic day to think of, resting his eyes was hardly a realistic prospect.

Shedding his sheets, the young elf decided to get out of bed.

The cabin was lit only by a single candle on a desk that stood a few feet from the room’s back wall, which made the whole process of getting shoes on very hard. Thinking it was better—or well, less complicated—to just not put on his shoes, Ash decided to head to the deck.

He was no longer in Roughensburg. Him and his now very large horde of the dead had been ‘lent’ five ships by the state of Kanburrough, and now found themselves in a port town called Hafenburg, located only fifteen minutes’ brisk match from the capital.

The town wasn’t particularly pretty, nor did it smell very good. A heavy odor of fish and excrement hung over the harbor, which, mixed with the gray, cloud-filled sky brought a pained tear to his eye.

‘God, I can’t wait to get outta here.’

But he was going to have to wait for a certain visitor, before he could possibly bring himself to leave. A person, paramount to Ash, was going to come see him. It was for that person the young elf was standing on his cold ship without any shoes.

Two of his undead automatons passed him by, while he looked over the railing. He’d put them all to work with tending to his newly-acquired ships—all of which were in the poorest condition when he had received them.

“Hey!” he shouted, “You forgot the sails.”

The two dead men kept walking away, despite Ash’s reprimand. They were, after all, dead men; they had no way of knowing what ‘you forgot the sails’ could possibly mean. Thankfully, for Ash, a cold voice behind him gave the two undead workers the right instructions.

“Patch up… The holes in the sails,” Zennereth said, prompting the two armored laborers to do exactly that.

“Thanks.”

“You seem… Distraught, master… Is it because of her?”

The last word was practically spat out of the lich’s mouth which was unusual, given the way he usually never showed much emotion.

“No—well, yes. It is,” Ash said, still without turning to look at his servant.

“Here, take my boots… They’re a bit too big… But here they are,” Zennereth said, and placed something on the ground behind Ash.

The young elf finally turned to look his cold friend in the eyes. He had been averting his gaze because he didn’t want Zennereth to see the tears in his eyes.

“Why am I so alone?”

A tear fell to the ground, “Why is it that I always have to be the smaller man to get what I want?”

“Ash…” Zennereth began, for once using his master’s first name, “I think you… Need to realize that being the bigger man… Isn’t always possible… If your goal is to be the better man.”

“I—you”—Ash noticed something out the corner of his eye—“hold on a second, servant,” the young elf said, wiped away the tears, and jumped off the railing on the harbor’s side, perfectly landing on the concrete pier.

Two carriages were speedily approaching the elf’s ships, which were lined up in the most conspicuous way imaginable. The dead were roaming around on and off the massive, old ships, carrying plywood to fix the ships’ hulls and sails.

“Here we fucking go,” Ash said to himself, placing himself in front of the gangway to his own ship. He wasn’t going to allow anyone, except for his guest, to enter his newfound sanctum.

Eventually, the two carriages, which upon closer inspection appeared to be courtesy of the Church, pulled up on the paved street that ran along the pier. And out of it trot that despicable priest, Will, carrying Robinia in his arms.

“You two,” he said, pointing at two of his partially-decayed workers, “Get down here.”

And so, they did. They walked down the gangway—one of them almost fell in the water a couple of times—and eventually stood on each side of Ash, flanking him like bodyguards.

Both of them were holding the Provincial Troop’s halberds between their pale hands, holding them exactly like the honor guards they had served as during the banquet at the citadel.

Will had, in the meantime, been standing back to help Robinia get on her feet, while Ash had been busy polishing his welcoming committee. The two of them were now coming toward the young elf, who put on a sly smile on his mask-like face.

“Welcome, welcome. I gotta say, high priest, good work with these ships. However, what’s with all the damage? I might have to hold off on helping your… your friend there,” he said, looking at his former comrade who was only standing thanks to Will.

Ash’s eyes were filled with such clear contempt it was downright chilling to look at.

“You promised, Tsuga—and you better deliver on your promise,” Will said, grabbing a hold of his scepter’s handle.

“Relieve the priest of his weapon,” the young elf said, quickly disarming the priest with the help of his puppets. “Why do you even go to such lengths for her?”

A complicated expression surfaced on the young priest’s face. He averted his eyes for a bit.

“I suppose you could say I want her to atone for her sins.”

“She never really offed me, though. I mean, I’m standing right here. What’s there to punish, if you have to be honest with yourself?” Ash asked. “Are you sure you’re not serving your own self-righteous agenda, like she is?”

Ash expected those words to be enough for Will to back off, but he had to commend the priest for what he did next.

“I am,” he began, “I’m definitely serving my own agenda, following my own sense of justice. But, just because her actions weren’t exactly criminal—you were a wanted fugitive for a reason—they certainly weren’t those of a saint either, and I can’t have people—my own fellow brothers and sisters of Icarus—follow anyone who is any less than a saint.”

Completely taken aback by Will’s words, a genuine smile shone through Ash’s mask, even though he’d planned on remaining an antagonizing presence. It just wasn’t worth it when conversation, such as that which the priest offered, presented itself.

“That makes her equal to me in your book, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t. I can’t stand vigilante justice, but I’ll take it over genocide.”

Those words completely froze the young elf’s smile, returning it to the stiff grimace it was before.

“I—I’m nothing like her… Because unlike her, I’m not going to die in a few hours,” Ash said, turned around, and started walking back up the gangway.

A rattling sound and a clank resounded behind him, and suddenly, seething pain shot through the young elf’s shoulder as some manner of spell went through him.

The necromancer didn’t have to check in order to know that one of his minions—the one who took the scepter—had been downed, and that the scepter now rested comfortably in its owner’s hands.

“Frost Bolt!” Zennereth shouted, and sent a long, vicious-looking icicle flying toward Will, who gracefully dodged it by taking a single step to the side. “You… You would dare?!” the lich roared with more force than either the elf or the priest had ever heard him use.

Ash’s shoulder was emitting a repugnant sizzling sound, but he didn’t see any reason for the lich to go on a murderous rampage like that.

“Zennereth, please calm down. It’s but a flesh wou—”

“—No! None shall mistreat he, who has… given me life.”

“Servant, I will punish disobedience!”

Ignoring his master’s words, the lich jumped into the air, and landed on the pier, next to the minion Will had spared.

“I, Zennereth De Sarr, former First-Knight of Kanburrough’s King’s Guard and Acting Admiral under Ash Tsuga, hereby challenge you to a duel. What is your name, priest?”

“Are you going to heal Robinia if I defeat your servant?” Will asked, and looked at Ash who was comfortably watching from his position by the ship’s railing.

“No—”

“—You dare?”

“—Shut up. Just for one second, please. If you win, I’ll heal her; if you lose, I’ll heal her. But, in the likely scenario that you do lose, you will not be killed. Instead, I will do to you what I did to her—infuse your blood with the magic that gives me strength and powers my army”—Ash pointed his finger at Will—“what do you say, High Priest?”

“I accept,” the high priest quietly, but firmly, said, seemingly well-knowing that he was going to lose.

“Oh, and as a special little bonus on my end, I’ll be having a chat with your friend over there for the duration of your fight,” Ash said. “Bring her to me.”

The remaining dead provincial troop picked Robinia, who was too weak to fight back or even speak, up, and brought her to its master.

“Well then, enjoy your struggle,” he said, and escorted his guest into his cabin.

Dim, as the room was, Ash had to be extremely careful when he lifted his former companion off the ground and carried her into the room, as the floor was littered with trash of various kinds—empty bottles of rum, Ash’s new poison of choice. Actually, Ash had found himself completely incapable of getting intoxicated, ever since having been revived, which contributed to his ability to successfully lay Robinia down on his bed.

The young elf then proceeded to lay his hand on her forehead, whisper a few words that lifted the curse from the girl.

A few seconds passed, before Robinia returned to her usual self. Her eyes turned to Ash, and dilated with horror as she looked the comrade, she had once betrayed, in the eyes.

“Ash…”

“Robina,” the young elf said, and turned his back to her.

He was going to pour himself some rum—he wouldn’t be able to handle the conversation otherwise—so he grabbed a crystal decanter from a drawer underneath his desk.

The satisfying sound of the thick, syrup-like alcohol leaving the decanter and pouring into a cup, which Ash had procured from yet another drawer, resounded throughout the cabin. Robinia followed her kinsman with her eyes, as he rummaged around a third drawer from which he took another cup.

“Want some?”

“No.”

“Hah, thought so. The Church poisoned every last bottle in here,” Ash said, and kicked the drawer softly. “Fortunately, dying”—the young elf threw a glance over his shoulder—“has allowed me to care very little about poison. You see”—Ash took a deep swig from his now full cup—“these things simply have no effect on me anymore.”

Robinia’s eyes could be felt burning themselves into Ash’s back, “I regret nothing I ever did to you, and I will never do anything of the sort, no matter how much you hurt me.”

Ash washed his mouth in some more rum, and spat it on the ground with an extremely displeased look on face, which suddenly looked even paler than usual, “Ugh, they really want me dead, don’t they?”

“Is that one poisoned, too?”

“No, it’s just really, really bad. Actually, wait, it might be also be poisoned,” the young elf said, signalling for Robinia to wait. “Nah, it’s just shit quality, to be honest,” he said, now sure, and poured the adventurer a glass. So, how was the journey, miss?”

“I was unconscious. Thanks to you.”

“Ah, I do admit that wasn’t my finest hour, but, as my servant out there’s telling me, it was my most productive hour,” he said, and handed her the glass—still without looking at her.

Almost completely on cue, a pained scream from Will cut through the otherwise relatively calm atmosphere Ash had managed to create. In fact, the raven-haired elf had tried to come off as challenging, while avoiding to be downright antagonizing.

Zennereth’s battle outside was ruining that vibe very effectively, as testified by Robinia, who had started shaking.

“Please, hear me out,” Ash said with a hint of desperation in his voice, “I really don’t want you to remember me as the guy who wronged you—because I did, I admit that.”

“That, you did,” the elven girl replied. “But I wronged you, too, and you didn’t deserve what we did to you.”

Heart skipping a beat, Ash took a step back, and backed into the table, knocking over the candle on it—prompting Ash to hurriedly raise it again. Unfortunately, the flame had died, leaving the young elf alone in the darkness. Not alone. He could hear Robinia breathing calmly.

‘Wait, calmly?’

The necromancer had to take a second to process that observation. Distraught, he reached into the fourth drawer under his desk, and grabbed a match which he drew over the desk’s rough surface to ignite it.

Realizing he couldn’t immediately pin-point where the candle was, in the darkness, Ash held up the match, hoping it could shed a bit of its weak light over the room.

He got to his feet and suddenly stood face to face with Robinia.

“Umm… Hello. Could you wait a bit? I’m not quite don—”

“—Ash, I want you to know that… I want to tell you that I was tricked. It wasn’t my idea to kill you, so, even if it’s too late, I want you to know that killing you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

The young elf lit the candle, and its light revealed a pained look on his face.

“I’d appreciate it if you could keep your regrets to yourself. To be completely honest, I had regrets when you killed me—I had lots of regrets. My life had amounted to nothing before I met you, so the first excitement I ever felt was with you adventurers. I’m not gonna lie; you gave me everything. And then you took it away,” Ash said and turned his back to Robinia. “I can’t forgive that. Not now, and probably not ever.”

“Ash, please”—Robinia grabbed the young elf by the shoulder—“look at me!”

“What more is there to say? You’ve said yours—you regret what you did. I get that, and I can respect the fact that you can look back on that and say ‘that was a mistake’. But, even though we grow as individuals, we, you and me, could never grow together. In fact, a friend recently told me that I’ve never actually done anything because I wanted to do it,” the necromancer turned to look at the elven girl, “But now I have that opportunity. I have ships, I have workers—laborers—and I have a plan for myself.”

“What plan?” Robinia asked, voice full of skepticism.

Ash removed his former companion’s hand from his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “But you need to leave.”

The young elf paced toward the cabin’s exit and opened it for Robinia.

“Are you serious. Like this? You’re actually going to leave us to be each other’s enemies forever?”

“I don’t wish for us to end up like enemies,” the young elf said, almost sounding offended, “Do you?”

And with those words being the last shared between them, the young elf guided his malcontent guest out of the cabin, and onto the deck, where a horrifying sight met them.

“Oh, do forgive me, Miss De la Pole,” Ash said, “It would appear as if your escort”—the young elf gestured toward Will who was lying on the ground—“is short of a limb or two.”

The high priest was lying in a pool of his own blood, clutching what remained of his arm. On the ground beside him laid his hand, which was little more than a frozen lump of meat, torn off by the immense brute strength of Zennereth and his monstrous sword.

“I have done as you commanded… Master.”

“So I see,” the young elf said and walked down the gangway, and grabbed the priest, raised him by his beautiful, blonde locks; stared into his eyes. “Tell me, priest—what makes for a good leader?”

Will spat out blood from his bruised mouth.

“I’m not playing your word-games, you—”

“—A good leader is willing to do anything for his people. A good king should be willing to kill his people, in order to overcome famine, a good father is willing to marry away his daughter to elevate the family, and a good commander must always be ready to sacrifice those around him to survive the battle. A good leader—a good role model—must be able to do what it takes to lead, even if that means being hated by every person around him.”

“I said, I’m not playi—”

“And that, Will Siantia, high priest of Kanburrough, Hero of Elcrada, is why you fail; not only as a leader, but as a person, too.”

The young elf put his hand on Will’s forehead.

“Negative Infusion,” he clearly said, leaving the young priest kicking, squirming, and last, but not least, screaming in agonizing pain, as he walked back up to his ship.

Robinia rushed to her escort’s side, well-knowing of the pain Will was feeling. She’d felt it herself—in herself—and she clearly wouldn’t wish the agony anyone. Not even the priest.

“Seriously,” Ash whispered to himself, “You amaze me, Miss De la Pole. How you do not hate me for doing that to you is beyond me.”

The necromancer reentered his cabin, closely followed by his servant, shutting the door behind them.

“Order the troops to light the habor on fire. Make sure those two”—he nodded towards the door, and the pair behind it—“get away. I want my message to be properly received.”

“It shall be done… May I ask… What message do you wish to convey?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple, actually. I wish to inform the Kingdom of Kanburrough that its long-lasting era of peace has come to an end. They find themselves at war”—Ash sipped from a bottle he suspected of being poisoned—“with me.”

Satisfied with those words, the lich left the cabin on the day which would later be known as The Day Fish Saw Fire, while its master reminisced over the ending of a conversation he’d once had with a friend.

“You see, Ash, my desire is purpose. For too long, I have roamed the cold, dark wasteland you call the Void. I seek nothing but what comes before desire itself—the root, if you will; the reason for desire. What you, Ash, have shown me—what you have taught me—is how to let yourself be inspired by those around you. I seek that which will lead me to my purpose. The seed that becomes the root. The seed that lets the scribe scribble, and the poet speak his words of poetry. Now, Ash, put on a show for me,” Evitagen said.

“Inspire, and let the world find purpose.”

 

 

Chapter end