Ascendancy: The Book of Heylel

Chapter II

Chapter II



         Dante crept through the thick mist that blanketed a cold, moist earth. Dew drops glistened beneath a pale moon like gems in candlelight. About him, crickets and frogs croaked and sang chirping melodies of the calm midnight. The four Apothecaries behind him marched in unison with soft padded steps, their boots stamping in cadence, allowing for a symphony of percussion and singsong from the wildlife. His long shadow quivered in front of him, dancing left and right as torchlight sputtered and puffed bright then dim, illuminating the shroud of fog to dull golden plumes.

         He took care not to disturb rich piles of soil, each marked with encircling white stones, with a great polished cairn at the head. The grounds of the Necropolis stretched about for miles, large white pillars dotting the landscape in the distance and rising from the ground like needles. Names were carved upon the face of each rock; an everlasting memory and tribute to those that were buried beneath them. Some graves had been there since before his house had come to Everfall across the Great Black Sea. Their carvings had been smoothed over time, with little more than gentle wrinkles delving a shallow path through the stone face like unkempt linens. Others were younger tombs, many of which he had dug. He remembered each of their faces from the moment he’d placed them in the soil. Some were young, others old. Soldiers, peasants, murderers condemned to death, even some of the lesser houses were buried in the outer grounds of the Necropolis.

         The place was home to their dead, as it had been for over a thousand years, and for all that time, the Prime Apothecary oversaw each burial. That task was now his, as it had been for years. He’d buried hundreds here. Most of whom, had died of their own natural cycle. Others, he’d buried early; killed by misfortune or wickedness. But the man they carried tonight… he had no idea of the cause of his death. He’d seen it, but it made little sense. He was alive, then dead, as fast as quenching a candle’s flame between thumb and forefinger, and just as abrupt.

         His hands trembled at the thought. The twisted flesh of the Praetorian’s neck hung in the back of his mind, tightening itself around his thoughts like a noose. Each pop of bone, echoed in his ears as though it were still happening. The hissing of his voice still cut into his flesh like a rusty knife. Whatever had killed him, was not at all natural - not at all, proper. The twisting of his neck alone should have killed him, but he was very much alive when it happened, speaking in the old tongue, even thrashing about as though he were burning.

         He was now dead, though his eyes were as alive as ever. The back of his neck burned as the dead man’s gaze stared a penetrating malice through him. Looking back, cold blue eyes peered back into his, as a tremor of ice surged down his limbs. He’d gone stiff as a tree trunk, his tongue hanging out of his wide open mouth. He looked as though he were screaming out the last breath of life he had. Pale flesh glowed in the dull moonlight as dew gathered on his hair in silvery rivulets.

         “Shut his eyes,” he said, turning back to the darkness before him.

         The burning didn’t stop. Turning back, he was met with a proper corpse. Stiff and dead like a fallen oak, eyes now shut. A heavy sigh of relief escaped him as he refocused on his course. The Mausoleum was still a fair distance off so he quickened his pace, eager to be rid of this dead man.

         Never before had he feared the dead as he did with him, but then, none of the dead were like this one. He’d not personally witnessed every death of those he had buried here, but those he had died peacefully, often in their sleep. His however, was not at all peaceful, nor was it violent, but forceful – forceful as a hammer blow and swift and terrible as lightning.

         You will all die, he had said, with that wicked cruel old language. It was a language that he and all others of the Order were quite familiar with, for it was the language of science and magics alike. It was a tongue riddled with foul and terrible words, the kind of language for the wicked, which was every reason it was a dead one. Those who preceded the new Kingdoms had sought nothing other than conquest, not of just this world, but all others as well. Valdinorse it was called; the old kingdom.

         The Necropolis was at one time, the heart of that kingdom, its Mausoleum a shattered ruin of a great castle. There, that wicked king of old ruled over Everfall, and several other worlds. No one could remember his name, and his face had long since been chiseled away from the great stone statues, leaving nothing behind but memory of a broken empire. The dark, sprawling halls within were now the resting place of a new kingdom, home to the honorable dead, and the forgotten unknowns. Soon it would hold another.

         Cold blue eyes met his, as he looked back again, stopping him as though he’d walked into a wall. A sharp, chilling breath ripped into his lungs like jagged steel as waves of gooseflesh shivered down his body neck to foot. He was still stiff and lifeless, but his eyes still alive, and open yet again. Life still sparked beyond the voids of his pupils, as though his soul fought to return to its body.

         His host clamored to a stop, nearly dropping the dead man as they avoided colliding with one another. Each of them struggled to right the shifted weight of the corpse on their shoulders, tightening their grip on his arms and legs like a vice and displacing cold, pale skin like a boat on water.

         “Set him down,” he spat out, “now!”

         The four Apothecaries shot confused glances at one another but none argued as they eased him to the cold, wet ground. The mist wrapped around him like a blanket as he rest on the earth, eyes staring all the while still carrying waves of heat in their gaze. He knelt down at his head, averting his own eyes about from gravestone to sky and back again as he fumbled through his pouch of poultices and potions. A rough burlap enshrouded vial greeted his touch as his hands curled around the bottle. Holding it to the moonlight he nodded to himself as he inspected his blind choice. He pulled its wrappings and confirmed the contents. A dark, thin liquid shone a pale pink in the light of the moon, thin slivers of white flower petals hovered about at the bottom of the vial. He removed the stopper and the flowery scent of Valerian Tea whisked its way to his nose. His muscles relaxed as he breathed in the sweet smell and the shaking of his hands slowed as he lowered the vial to the mouth of the dead man.

         He allowed a few drops to escape, dripping into the back of the Praetorian’s throat. His arms, and legs, straight as arrow shafts from rigor mortis eased their way downward before coming to rest in the soft dirt.

         It had gone quiet since they stopped. The chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs, gone, leaving behind an oppressive silence. It was cold, frigid even. He hadn’t noticed before, but it wrapped around him like a constrictor, squeezing his warmth away fast and fierce.

         The dead man jolted hard against the ground, his back arched, pressing his head hard into the earth. The four apothercaries recoiled, each falling hard on their backs panicked and confused. Dante however, was planted there as though he were tied to the ground by unseen tendrils, still as stone, lungs burning for breath.

         The Praetorian sucked in the cold air as though he’d been underwater for some time. His eyes, now clouding as though he’d been dead for days as his body collapsed, gently exhaling a final, soft breath. A small puff of black mist escaped his lips swirling about as it rose straight as a spear.

         Without thinking, Dante splashed out the remainder of the Valerian Tea, desperate to capture whatever substance was escaping this man. He whisked his arm upward, trailing behind the dark plume, gathering it in his vial as best he could before it was gone. He replaced the stopper, and finally allowed himself a breath.

         His eyes were now shut, likely for good. As he stood, the man’s flesh shriveled and dried as though he were in the early stages of decomposition. Putrid scents filled the air about them, spiriting away the remaining scents of the tea that hung in his nostrils, as the man’s cheeks and eyes sunk inwards, outlining the silhouette of a skull.

         He was dead… quite dead. The four others rushed to regain their feet as they looked on, bewildered by such a sudden onset of rapid decomposing. None braved any words as they glanced up and down the corpse’s length.

         The chirping singsong came once more, forcing back the oppression of silence and fear, as though it were any other night in the Necropolis; calm and peaceful.

         “Pick him up quickly,” he said, his voice rattled like stones in a tumbler.

         They were careful this time, cradling his limbs rather than hooking them as they hauled him back up on their shoulders with wide eyes. Their breathing was short and sharp as they staggered about for a moment, finding their balance.

         “Calm down,” Dante said, “He’s at peace.”

         The two in front nodded and relaxed themselves before pressing on through the thick, moonlit mist and into the swallowing dark halls of the Mausoleum. He followed at their heels, peering into the shifting dark smoke that swirled about in his vial. Niklaus would be most interested in this substance, but before he could bring it to him, he had a dead man to bury. Though he knew whatever wicked lingered behind was long gone, there was only one place in the Mausoleum that housed those of unexplained, or unnatural deaths, and it was deep within the long, twisting corridors, well beyond the reach of the general populace. It was for good reason. No one could ever know about them.

         Moonlight lingered behind him like a dog waiting for its master’s return. He turned back, looking out to the midnight yard where so many dead lay at rest. He took a deep, resolute breath and turned to brave the hungering dark. It the heart of the old kingdom, where a restless wicked still lingered, haunting its corridors like a cursed memory, and echoes of evil words. Wherein, many souls rested, some at peace, others lingered on silently contemplating revenge or reprieve. It was a great tomb, housing the dead of the greater houses of Everfall, as well as those of the old kingdom, buried deep beneath crumbling stone and shifting earth, wherein no one dared to go, even him.

         Now he knew…. the deceased were never truly gone, for the dead desired only one thing – to be alive. The Praetorian that hung lifeless behind him, had fought hard to keep hold of his body. Death however, took him, as it took so many other fighters.

         They snaked their way through darkened corridors, turning this way and that in a vast emptiness, about them tombs had been carved from the stones. Some were still empty, others cradled bones of the deceased, buried long before he became the Prime Apothecary. As they pressed on, the dead increased in number sometimes stacking from floor to ceiling in their dark holes. They passed through the first great Ossuary, with bones and skulls lining the walls to a sharp peak in the ceiling. Strings of femurs drooped from the ceiling arranged like spokes in a wheel. Some skulls bore carvings in the foreheads, marking names of great houses. Other, less significant souls had been carved only with numbers. It was an odd assignment of peasants and nobles alike, in fact, it was the only Ossuary within the vast crypt the shared its darkness with both rich and poor of their age. These folk had been buried shortly after the dawn of the new kingdom, when they faced not only bitter warfare, but wracking disease and famine. Death was never particular in who it claimed, just as the Apothecaries of that time were not particular as to who was buried with who.

         The times had changed now, and as they progressed through, each corridor, wall, and ossuary were designated as tombs either for those of a known house, or those without names. Though they had names in life, the poor were rarely remembered for long. They passed into death as nothing more than bones and ashes, numbers carved into decaying flesh and skulls as though they were little more than livestock. The peasants of Everfall honored the dead with their own traditions, but to an Apothecary, a corpse was a corpse, nothing more. The dead cared little for earthly possession, or so he assumed, and over time, the finest clothes decayed into tattered rags, the same as the simple clothes of commoners. Still, the wealthy were quite particular on who their relatives rest beside for eternity, and as such, the Apothecaries obeyed their demands for harsh segregation in death as equal as it was in life. This man however, would be placed in a special tomb, separate from the rest of the masses. Noble and common alike were buried there, but they shared one very distinct trait. None of them had died for any explainable reason. So much so, that many were buried with glyphs and wards written and crafted by the Astronomages and Mathemagicians in an effort to withhold whatever wicked device had saw to their demise. Some had been discovered in pools of blood, and free of skin, others were within the centers of arcane drawings scribed in chalk. This one had passed as though his life had been pulled away, not by an incorrect incantation or by unknown claws, but by some wickedness. The Conjurer was quite capable of delivering death, but when he saw her eyes, he knew, she was as surprised as Niklaus and he. She had not meant for him to die. As he recalled, she had tried to save him.

         The air thickened into a heavy chill as the progressed, biting at him like a viper, which was quite odd. It was always cold in the depths of the Mausoleum, but this was frigid. Perhaps the turn of seasons had not yet reached the vast expanse of winding dark, but something tugged at him in the back of his mind. He knew, that was not the case.

         He’d always been aware that there was some sort of presence deep within the Necropolis, for so many dead left traces of themselves behind, whether it be a memory, an echo, or sometimes something else. He couldn’t quite place it, but it felt like a desire at times, or a seething need.

         Feint whispers whisked through the oppressing darkness, not speaking in any recognizable language but rather an occasional hiss or chirp of unintelligible speech. Perhaps it was nothing more than the darkness playing at him as it always did, but he felt the dancing of occasional drafts shoot past, quick but soft. About him, he’d not noticed the dead, some resting with unsettled or disheveled bones, as though they thrashed about in their eternal slumber, or something else had disturbed them.

         The stepped through the arched doorway into the next ossuary, where single femurs dangled from the ceiling like wind chimes, clicking and clacking upon one another in a breezed he couldn’t feel. It was wrong; all wrong. They did not arrange the dead like this. Other bones lay strewn about on the floor, as though a bull had rushed through, pushing piles and pillars aside and scattering them as it ran. Long, twisting shadows danced about on the dark walls that were scaled with calcified stone. Each shadow rocking back and forth or twisting as light was interrupted by femurs dangling from the arched roof.

         Blood boiled within him, for such a violation of the honorable dead was a crime beyond imagination. Whatever had disturbed the resting place of the dead, had committed a great transgression, for though they rested here eternally, the dead were to be respected in their slumber.

         The flame of the torch sputtered and spat as a howling breezed ripped past them. Flame light flickered in the dark, flashing dark shades upon the floor and walls as the whispers thickened into a forlorn singsong of solemn harmony. The sound echoed off the walls of the corridor beyond the vast ossuary, reverberating behind them slightly out of beat with the source, wherever it was.
He knew this depth of the Mausoleum well. Beyond the narrow hallway, the vast hold loomed in a swallowing darkness. It was a great, round room of old, polished marbled that had since been dulled by decay and dust. Within, a dilapidated pair of wood thrones stood, perched atop an ascent of stairs. It was the old King’s throne room; a terrible room. Though he was sure it looked rather magnificent had there been light enough to view it, the room had since been surrounded by wing after wing of buried dead. This was the center of the castle, the eye of a spiritual vortex of souls. Here, he’d always felt a presence, sometimes good sometimes malicious. This time, it was clearly not good.

         All about, from every darkened corridor, echoes of a heavy hearted rhapsody tuned along slow and sad. Dim light flickered on the walls closest, revealing old, dirty paintings of a bearded man with sunken cheeks. His eyes cast downward in lament, with a simple iron ring emblazoned with red gemstones resting atop a wiry tangle of gray hair.

         In another painting opposite the one he noticed, another adorned the wall. It was the same man, eyes still hung low, but he stood side by side with a woman in a flowing white gown. A string of pearls wrapped around her neck and hung almost to the floor in front of the two thrones. Her hand clasped his in a lovers embrace. Locks of straight blond hair draped over a gem studded bosom, with a faceless void where her head might have been, beneath a lustrous silver crown – the King and Queen. He’d never noticed the paintings before, though it was rare that he and his host ever carried more than a dim lantern through the derelict monolith of an ancient kingdom.

         His eyes spanned along the walls as far as the torch light could reach. Behind him, the four others stood silent, breathing heavy from having carried dead weight upon their shoulders. Long shadows jutted about on the floor, twitching left and right as the flame flickered. There were too many shadows.

         There had been five of them making the trek through the great Mausoleum. There were well over ten here, the five others were cast by beings that weren’t there, but he could feel them staring with anger and hatred. It was not long before his host noticed the same. The corpse of the Praetorian crashed to the floor with a deep thud, as they scattered back into the twisting abyss. He was now alone, torch light fading away as his escort vanished in the darkness.

         There he stood in total black, frozen in place like a pillar of ice. Burning eyes of those not there cast down upon him, burying him beneath a burden of malevolence. Surges of ice jolted through his arms and legs as braziers lit upon the rising stairs. The firelight was broken by a dark, smoky figure standing between the old thrones.

         A gentle breeze stirred about him, blanketing him in shards of frigid needles as distant sconces lit on the far wall. The wind carried with it, a soft, hissing voice.

         “You have gone far beyond the boundaries of life, Apothecary.”

         The shadow hovered closer, descending down the stairs without making footfall.

         “This is the kingdom of the dead, and you have no business here.”

         Dante inched back, his foot grinding against small pebbles and dust on the floor. “Who are you?” His voice was rattled and thin.

         “I am a caretaker, a keeper of those who passed,” Its hissing voice was calm and gentle, “Spirits of a bygone age linger in this place, filled with anger. They will harm you if give that chance. There are too many here for me to control now, none of them have passed on to the next world.”

         It hovered closer and he could almost make out a figure to the silhouette.

         “Eventually, this place will overflow with souls of the dead,” its voice trailed off to silence as it vanished.

         Dante squinted his eyes in the dark, his hands and legs jittering like wings of a fly. He scanned the room, now dimly lit by torch and candle, but it was gone, along with the other shadows, but soon his vision was black as pitch. Cold erupted from within as he stared into a hollow blackness of a man’s shadow. It was there in front of him!

         His feet caught the corpse’s leg as he recoiled backward, and he landed hard on cold marble floor. His hands were thrown backward in effort to break his fall, and as they slid forward, smooth bone welcomed the grip of his hand as he wrapped his fingers around it.

         He jumped to his feet and swung with all the strength he had, but the bone sliced through the dark figure like he was slashing at air.

         “I’m not here to harm you, Apothecary,” it said, staring at him, offering no emotion.
The shadow looked downward at the decayed corpse of the Praetorian, that only mere hours ago, was as alive as he. “Leave him here. I will see to it that he’s buried properly.”

         There was only one place that a ‘proper’ burial could be, which lay beyond the thrones through a dark corridor beyond, wherein housed the remains of those who’d died unexplainable deaths.

         Somehow, he knew the Praetorian would not be going there.

         “He’ll be where he belongs,” it said, as though it had read his thoughts.

         “And where is that, spirit?”

         The shadow drifted away, back toward the burning braziers. “Apothecaries are an arrogant bunch of people,” it said. “You’re ever intent on prolonging life through the delaying of death.”

         It wasn’t an entirely untrue statement.

         “It’s a senseless fight, Apothecary, for when death finds you, it takes you regardless of whatever concoction you’ve mixed to fight it. Life is but a short moment in time; a single breath. Death however, is eternity, and eternity is very patient.”