Captain Darva’s plan was for Moira, accompanied by Ashan, to investigate the site where the driver and workers had disappeared, utilizing her unique talents. If needed, the captain would provide additional guard support, but at this initial stage, she preferred to keep Moira’s specialization discreet, primarily for Moira’s own comfort. “People fear the unknown,” the captain explained, “and I’m more than certain that none of my guards have ever encountered a mage, let alone a necromancer.”
Moira had no objections; no number of guards would aid her investigation, and Ashan alone would be more than enough to navigate the area. She agreed to the plan, and Ashan had no qualms about it either. They arranged that he would handle the horses and have them ready at dawn, meeting her at the inn so they could set off together. Most of their horses were from a sturdy, hard-working breed, capable of enduring long journeys without the need for changing them along the way.
This morning, Moira packed her belongings, returned the room key, and picked up the three-day provisions she had ordered the night before. When she stepped outside the inn, Ashan was already there waiting with the horses. They greeted each other, and Ashan began securing her bags to the mounts. She was given a healthy, young mare who, as she soon discovered, had a gentle temperament. Moira was also quite fond of her mouse-gray coat.
"Beautiful mare," she complimented, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “Thanks for the help,” she nodded toward the saddlebags, now filled with her equipment.
“Just a trifle, Moira,” Ashan replied, fastening the last buckle on the saddlebag. He then offered to help her mount, but she only smiled and gracefully swung herself up into the saddle without any assistance.
“I used to ride a lot when I was young,” she explained briefly, turning the mare to face him with a smooth but steady hand.
Ashan nodded in understanding and approval before mounting his own bay gelding. They set off, first making their way slowly through the town due to the morning crowds, and then riding out onto the trail at a lively trot. For a while, they traveled in silence, until they were alone on the road. Then the former northern army captain spoke up. “When you found me back then, following the path of the curse you reversed, you had a spell ready. Honestly, it was quite terrifying. Would you have used it on me?”
Moira considered this briefly before replying, “Only if you forced my hand.” After a moment, she added, “And yes, it is terrifying—that’s its nature—but the effect would be the same as using any other deadly weapon. Magic is just a tool,” she stated resolutely.
“I appreciate that you didn’t,” he responded, trying to sound lighthearted.
“Me too, or I’d be missing out on this delightful ride,” she quipped sarcastically.
“As I wrote in my letter, I just thought it might be something you’d want to help with, and—” he explained hurriedly, a bit defensively.
She cut him off with a reassuring tone, “Hey, Ashan, I’m just teasing you. I was glad to get your letter, and you were right; this is a matter I’m happy to help with. I don’t often get to practice in my field of expertise.”
“I understand, fair enough,” he replied, not entirely convinced. “Your reply didn’t make it all that clear,” he noted, and she couldn’t really blame him. Her response had been brief, to the point, and far more reserved than his letter. She had also made it sound like she was willing to help the town, the guard—not him personally.
“Well,” she replied, drawing out the word, “I didn’t want you to think I’d drop everything and rush to help a man I just met. Didn’t want you getting the wrong impression,” she explained with a playful tone.
Ashan turned to look at her, responding more seriously, “But in the end, you did come. Even if it wasn’t for me, I’m glad, and I appreciate your continued help. I care about this town and its people.”
“Alright, alright, just keep your eyes on where you’re going!” she threw in, gesturing for him to turn back around.
“Only the horse needs to see where it’s going,” he replied with a chuckle, but he turned around as she asked. There was something in his serious gaze and low tone when he thanked her that made her blush slightly. It’s embarrassing when he appreciates what I do so openly, she thought to herself, trying to justify her reaction.
The rest of the journey and a midday break passed with light conversation. Moira praised his improved speech, now more contemporary, while he eagerly asked her about life as a herbalist and the new tools and equipment he might not have encountered yet in recent weeks after his prolonged slumber.
It was evening when they turned off the main trail toward the ruins of a small fort. The structure was clearly visible and impressively well-preserved, all things considered. Before they reached the empty gate, Ashan returned to the matter that had brought them here, reminding her of all the facts: where the cart had stood, how many people likely went missing, that there were no signs of a struggle, and that, as far as they knew, nothing had been taken from the goods.
“I suggest we investigate while we still have daylight, then head back closer to the trail before it gets too dark to make camp. What do you think?” the gray nomad proposed.
“That won’t be necessary. Please stay with the horses outside the gate so they don’t bolt if anything here frightens them. I’ll take care of whatever’s going on here,” she replied, gesturing broadly to encompass the area. “Once we’re done, we’ll spend the night here and head back to town.”
“Understood; I trust your judgment,” he responded seriously and took the horses a bit farther from the gate.
Moira got to work, and Ashan observed from a distance, using his seer’s abilities to “see” magic and spells before they manifested. She began by casting a spell to establish her dominion over the area. This spell would force the undead to obey the necromancer controlling the dominion or, if their will was strong enough, resist. It was rather weak against beings directly summoned by another magic user but perfectly adequate for naturally occurring undead. Weaving the spell took her a solid minute before she touched her hand to the ground. A quick, nearly invisible wave of purple energy spread out from her fingertip across the area, like ripples in water. It was a bit stronger than intended and reached the horses, which startled slightly, though Ashan quickly calmed them.
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Within moments, two dozen specters materialized in various places—on the square, descending from the walls, and emerging from the cellar. In the slowly setting sunlight, they were barely visible to the untrained eye, but the two standing here could see them well. They all appeared as northern warriors, like images from ancient engravings.
“Attention, soldiers!” Moira called out to them. “Form two lines!” she ordered, casting a brief command spell. All but one specter obeyed, lining up neatly to her left. The defiant spirit struggled forward to face her, shouting in an echo of a voice that once lived, “How dare you command my unit, witch from the south!” The defiance might have seemed more intimidating if not for his bowed head. The specter resisted her dominion but only slightly.
Moira found no pleasure in tormenting spirits, even those manifesting as angry wraiths. Whoever this man had been in life, whatever he had done or failed to do, it was not her place to judge. To relieve the tension, she used a hastily woven spell of peaceful rest. The translucent face of smoke and shadows softened instantly, and the defiant spirit moved to the front of the line. “What are your orders, Ma’am?” he asked with calm respect.
“What happened to the driver and the other people traveling with the caravan?” she asked plainly.
“We drove the southerners from our land. They were not warriors, so we merely frightened them; they fled south to the edge of the forest. I haven’t seen them since. We also secured the cargo to aid our cause,” he replied, his voice like an echo or memory of words.
“On whose orders?” Moira pressed further.
“The call to arms came from a voice in the stone. We fought for the north in life; we fight still in death. The order is: Sons and daughters of the north, drive out the southerners from our lands,” he replied in that same tone.
“Where is the stone?” she demanded. All the specters pointed in the same direction. Ashan ran up from the gate, his eyes wide, swallowing loudly before he spoke.
“I tied them up well; they won’t bolt with our belongings,” he began, explaining himself. “I saw what’s happening and couldn’t just stand there. They—the spirits—look exactly like soldiers from my time.” He gestured at them broadly, his face troubled. “Let me participate.”
Moira studied him for a moment, considering whether to scold him, but understanding won out. “Alright. To sum up, they didn’t kill anyone. The people from the cart ran into the forest to the south, probably terrified out of their wits, which is why you didn’t find them in the target town. And right now, everyone is pointing to a stone from which a voice calls them to battle against the south.” She explained briefly. “Follow me, and don’t touch anything.”
They both headed to the spot where the stone was supposed to be; the specters remained still. It took some searching, but Ashan spotted a nondescript crystal in the tall grass, saying he noticed it through his seer’s ability, which tuned him to magical anomalies. When Moira got closer, she could feel it faintly bending the flow of magic. They stood silently for a few minutes while she studied the object. “I know this spell,” she finally said. “It’s simply enchanted into the crystal.” She shook her head, irritated. “It’s against the rules—grossly irresponsible.”
“Would you care to elaborate?” Ashan asked gently, not wanting to irritate her.
“Yes, sure. Normally, a practitioner of magic casts a spell, regardless of the method, but there are exceptions. One of them is curses embedded in objects. You’re familiar with those yourself.” She gave him a significant look.
“You know, we tried all kinds of methods back then; I’m not proud of it,” he began to explain.
“Yes, yes, hold on,” she interrupted him. “In the case of such an object, the spell is still cast—on the object, and it already affects reality because the object is cursed and will harm someone or something when certain criteria are met. But the curse already exists, it’s embedded in the object. So, it’s an exception, but a minor one.” She paused to take a deep breath and exhale slowly before continuing.
“This, on the other hand, is the second case of an enchanted object. That means the spell is within the object itself. Look, there are runes etched along the side of the crystal,” she pointed to the left side of the stone. “It’s a simple spell commanding the undead. The problem is that no one cast it. The object itself is casting the spell, continuously drawing tiny amounts of power from the waves of magic, and once it gathers enough, the spell materializes. That call the apparitions hear? That’s the spell from the object.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m no expert in this method. Different reagents have different capacities for absorbing and then manifesting magic. This one is weak—it’s probably just quartz, and it works because it’s found fertile ground; the spirits of the dead were already restless here. It only needed a little nudge for them to manifest.” She was visibly annoyed.
“And how is that against the rules?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.
“You see, in necromancy, the overriding rule is responsibility for what you bring from the other side. From the first moment to the last. If any spell like this one is within an object, you have no control over what will happen,” she emphasized the final words with gestures. “Such a lack of control never ends well; it’s unprofessional and unethical.”
She shifted her weight and continued, “Magical lamps, talismans that guard against curses, cornerstones under houses with an enchanted protective barrier—those are all allowed, and if you can afford them, they’re desirable and harmless objects. Because of how slowly the magic flows in such an object, it’s a very safe solution.” She paused, drank some water from her canteen, and continued, “But imagine, instead of a lamp that glows softly all the time, you have one that bursts into a wall of fire once every three years. Even the best pyromancers couldn’t predict exactly when and with what exact force the spell would materialize. Creating such an object would be extremely irresponsible.”
“In other words, this crystal is like the lamp of a mad pyromancer; it shouldn’t exist at all.” Moira concluded her explanation, then picked up the crystal and carefully sketched it in her book.
Ashan didn’t disturb her while she was drawing; he stared at the squad of apparitions. It was growing darker, making them more visible, and anger rose within him toward the person who had interrupted their deserved—supposedly eternal—rest. When she closed the book, he asked her what was next.
“Now to hell with the crystal,” she cast a spell with her left hand so quickly that he barely caught its trace with his seeing gaze before the crystal shattered in half with a loud crack. “And let’s go bid farewell to your compatriots.”
She picked up the broken, now useless crystal in two pieces and put it in her bag. Together with Ashan, she approached the squad, who were obediently waiting for her.
“It is time for you to get on your way, your toil here is over,” she said firmly to the apparitions. They seemed willing to comply but looked around at each other, as if unsure. The oldest in rank spoke up timidly with that unnatural voice, “What awaits us next, Lady?” She spread her arms in a nearly maternal gesture, as if embracing them all. “I don’t know, but no one has ever returned to complain, so it can’t be that bad, can it?” She smiled at them gently.
The apparitions, one by one, began to calm down and simply dematerialize where they stood. Moira moved among them, whispering words of encouragement; she cast no spells. The rebel was the last to begin fading, and when only his head and part of his torso remained, he looked at ther and spoke in a warm, gentle, almost human voice, “Vashar tehan kar,” then disappeared as well.
Ashan stood at attention, pressing his clenched right fist to the left side of his chest and sniffled. Moira looked at him questioningly, he cleared his throat and explained, “In the common tongue, it means: reporting end of duty, Commander. It’s a formal command in our native language, used at the end of the watch.” He blinked quickly, and though his eyes glistened, no tear fell. “Thank you, Moira, for everything.”
She simply patted him on the shoulder, turned, and took a few steps toward the gate, then tossed over her shoulder, “I’ll go check on the horses; you don’t need to hurry.” Ashan stayed there for a long time with his own thoughts, weighing all the implications of what had happened here today.