Allow me to spin you a yarn.
Since times of antiquity, sorcery has forever remained the discipline of scholars and aristocrats. From the old sages of yore, secluded in their ivory towers, to the wise advisors of kings long past, the art of spellweaving has endured as an emblem of status and wealth. But so long as the sons of man populate the earth, there will always be those who seek to conquer and dominate. Those who will embrace the darkest of temptations in order to see their ambitions fulfilled.
This is the story of one such individual. A necromancer.
The Sovereign Cities of Fanrae had long warred with the despicable cults infesting its countryside. Indeed, the decorated King Ricta, who sat upon the golden throne of Tonberg at the ripe age of 21 years, seemed content with nothing else but the avenging of his late father, who had fallen alongside his knights in a battle against the necromancer Kazor Nict only 4 years prior. While the lion-hearted monarch perished, his sacrifice was not in vain, as Kazor and his despicable Order were forced to retreat to their southern exile. Another dark crusade yet followed--that of Bran Drayya’s, who succeeded Kazor in his old age and yet failed in his attempt to conquer the Sovereign City of Bascoroch.
When the Order was thought defeated, darker machinations yet swirled within the cracked, uninhabitable marshes of the Deadlands, where Bran’s longtime peer and rival, Ignas Sokalar, finally unravelled the secrets of Lichdom. Necromancers from across the forbidden south emerged from their decades-long solitude to aid the newborn immortal in his crusade to bring the Free Kingdoms to their knees before his undead legions.
In truth, the school of necromancy was no more complicated than its sister disciplines, and was more than respectable under certain conditions. The all-powerful spell of Resurrection, for instance, fell under the umbrella of necromancy. But one’s mind did not naturally associate life-bringing with the forbidden art. The citizens of Fanrae knew its true purpose well. The allure of undead servants had tempted many a hero into darkness, and the Free Kingdoms had made doubly sure to exaggerate the evils of those who practised it.
Not to say that necromancers were a particularly lawful sort. The subject of this tale certainly wasn’t. Ignas Sokalar had achieved Lichdom years ago, having cast aside the limitations of his mortal body and accomplished what no other sorcerer could ever hope to replicate--containing his soul outside of his own body. Separated from the mortal coil, his studies only became more feverish, and his knowledge of the arcane arts ballooned to a level unheard of by the world. It came as no surprise to the Sovereign royalists when his undead gaze was directed towards the Free Kingdoms.
His malefic army was uncontested in sheer tenacity. Alongside the husks of those slain during his crusade, Sokalar made certain to visit the tombs of legendary heroes, raising them from their valorous slumber as invincible thralls bent to his whims. Ancient battlefields, suffused with the bones of warriors from another age, found their well-earned slumbers disturbed by the forbidden school.
Skeletons quickly became the workhorses of his army. Short of being ground to dust, there was little that could deter them. The swords and spears of Fanrae were quickly replaced by maces and hammers, and those specialising in the holy disciplines found themselves drafted into scores of fervent, faith-drowned legions on a mission to end Sokalar’s rampage.
This terrible war has plagued our world for no less than 20 years, and as each day passes, more of our fallen soldiers rise again to serve Sokalar’s ambitions. The undead legions have scoured the cities of Saptra, Bascoroch and Dolore--their citizens transformed into ghouls to shock and demoralise those who were fortunate enough to escape. Soon, the final confrontation beyond the walls of Tonberg will be fought, and the fate of our nation’s future will be decided.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I can only pray that the Gods grant us a miracle on that fateful day.
11th of Tonitra, Year of the Three Wheels
This morning, a knight wearing the green came by our tent. He told us of a scout who had crossed into the Deadlands and witnessed Sokalar’s army marching to the north. They will be here in a matter of days, so it seems this ‘death march’ of ours won’t be happening after all. At the very least, we’ll be able to die on our own soil, with Tonberg at our backs.
Franz wants us to desert, but where would we go? Neither the Elves nor the Dwarves will welcome us, and travelling south is simply a death sentence. I believe he is afraid. His hands were shaking when last we confronted a parade of Ghouls wandering west from Bascoroch. Perhaps he saw someone he recognised. Or perhaps, like most of us, he couldn’t bear to see the dwindling humanity in their eyes.
I do not have anyone left, and so I am more prepared to die than most. But I know that my death will only shunt this war further in Sokalar’s favour. Some have tried to end their lives in manners that they believe will spare them from thraldom, but the more experienced among us know it is impossible. Sokalar will not leave a tooth unused--that is why he is invincible.
12th of Tonitra, Year of the Three Wheels
Our numbers dwindle by the day. When the hour strikes for rations to be handed out, those who are given nothing desert without another word. The Knights cannot arrest them--there is no space in the dungeons of Tonberg, and their efforts are better put to use elsewhere. The priests cannot hide their luxury. The scent of smoked meat and spilled wine attracts many a hungry soldier to their lofty tents, but all of them return with empty hands.
There is another stench on the horizon--a smell of rot which has been blowing downwind from the south. The men try to ignore it, but I can tell that it digs at their skulls. In any other situation, we would retreat, but without the aid of Tonberg’s catapults, we would stand even less of a chance against the legion.
His Majesty the King is supposedly taking charge of the battle. He is confident in our ability to slay the Lich, but as far as I know, the boy has never seen a stroke of real combat. His soldiers, on the other hand, have spent the last two weeks coming to terms with their inevitable fates.
It’s seeming more and more likely that I will be assigned to the front lines. Once the news reaches my comrades, I’m certain that they will try to escape. There is no telling how many others like me--those who have accepted their deaths, will join our first bump with the undead army. The priests will no doubt be attacking from a distance with their holy magic, but it will only be a matter of time before they are overrun.
13th of Tonitra, Year of the Three Wheels
Today is the day. His Majesty was attended by an escort of Knights from the Order of Green Dragons. Their crimson stallions, twice the size of any Fanrae steed, made the Knights seem almost comical with their legs splayed out to the sides. The King’s words were courageous, but it was clear that he had expected to see more soldiers under his command. Nobody--not even the Knights, had the heart to tell him that more than half of the army had deserted.
Now I sit here, awaiting the horns calling me to battle. Our store of rations was pilfered by another company during the night. Some of the soldiers wanted to catch a bird or two to eat, but I haven’t seen a single one for weeks. Perhaps they, too, are taking a chance with the Elves or the Dwarves.
I do wonder what will become of Fanrae when Tonberg falls. Tales abound of holdouts in the mountains and hidden villages deep within the southern forests, but the fact cannot be ignored that our nation is on its last legs. If there is any chance of reclaiming our homeland, then I dearly hope it arrives shortly. May the Wyrm have mercy on us, and on those who will surely follow in our woes.