Chapter 0
Prologue
Rotted flesh and dusty bone wrapped around tiny pawns. An ethereal game on a board only the players could see. Feints and strategy played out over eons, with goals millennia into the future. This was a game of gods, the existence of the living and dead alike used as currency in its exchange.
Marble and onyx, black and white, light and dark — beautiful pieces, shuffled into two opposing sides. Their lives allocated and tossed aside like forgotten toys. Every passing second, a piece shattered, only to be replaced by a new tool in the next instant.
At that very moment, one side's favored pawn was on the prowl. A killer with power over life and death, but even a skilled master of sorcery couldn’t conceive of the dangerous path he was being set upon.
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The wind sighed beneath the trees as the moon cast shadows across the brightened night. Leaves and twigs crunched beneath his boots as he trudged through the forest. Like a dagger, the moonlight cut through the darkness just enough for the man to see, unaided. Every so often a stir of wind would kick up leaves and other detritus, catching it and throwing it across his path. The fall moon turned brown and red leaves into deep purples and crimsons, rushing like a flood of nature’s blood across the ground. Stars twinkled like pearls in the sky, adding to the ghostly scene.
Two men walked amid the deathly silence, adding only their footfalls to the sleepy din of the surrounding woods.
The taller of the two men wore deep black armor over a gaunt, willowy frame. His features were thin and sunken, his pronounced bones cutting like knives against his skin. A manicured black beard spread across his chin, like a deep shadow across his face. His amber eyes blazed like dying stars. His greasy black hair was slicked down, forming like a helm around his face.
The pair arrived at their destination, with the gaunt man kicking a rough rock at the base of a tall oak tree aside. A small wooden box glinted in the moonlight, inside a knotted hole.
Sharth’ax, as the necromancer had come to call himself, whistled as he surveyed the inside of the box. The box itself was a simple thing with golden bands, its most notable feature being a set of dim runes etched into the wood itself, holding the magic within at bay.
Inside the box was a collection of gemstones, each perfectly carved and shining with runic configurations. The runes blazed with barely contained power, their blue light contrasting against the black shade of night.
Each gem burned with latent energy, its vibrant colors glittering even in the dead of night. Violet amethyst, deep red rubies, verdant and lively emeralds, and the deepest blue sapphires all sat neatly stacked within, waiting to be plucked. Like a teardrop, each one had seemingly been ripped from the eye of a goddess, glittering with magic and living color. Their forms looked more like crystal than gem, and were warm to the touch.
“Is it acceptable?“ questioned the blonde man. His eyes peered over the shoulder of the thin man, squinting in the dark, making them appear like open wounds against his pudgy face.
The squat man hunched down next to the tree to get a better look, his gaze switching between the shining stones and the inspecting stare of the other man.
Without a word, the thin man replaced the glittering blue stone he had been admiring, then he stuffed the box into his pack and slung it over his shoulder. As he stood, a hint of ice crept into his tone.
“They are nearly perfect, just as expected. There’s just the matter of your payment.“ The taller man punctuated his sentence with a flurry, steel glinting in the moonlight.
The necromancer paid no mind to the corpse of the guide slumped against the tree. His slashed throat seemingly still held its final few words. “Traitor,” the blonde man had choked out as the life flowed from his neck. “Evil bastard,” just another of many names and insults spit from a mouth rapidly filling with blood. But just like the rest, this fool’s feet stilled amid the darkening crimson mud.
Sharth’ax needed every corpse. What did he care if some lowly peasant insulted him? The summoner's thoughts cracked open, interrupted by a crashing sound. The storm brewing overhead straddled the skyline, its thunder sounding like the powerful strike on a drum of the gods. He hated being caught in the rain, even after all these years. The slime of wet leather sticking to his skin disgusted him.
He traced a complex series of runes in the air above the corpse as it rested against the trunk of a tree. The magic eked out and coated the corpse like a second layer of flesh. Black tendrils of mana slithered across the cold flesh, forcing their way into the gash through the throat. The dried blood flexed and snapped together like fragile glass, covering the wound and trapping the magic inside. Eyes sparked with purple light, staring blankly up at the murderous man.
The living man of the pair spoke softly and simply, “rise, follow,” he commanded the newly minted undead. The zombie silently followed its puppet master.
The necromancer and his newest toy walked purposefully through the dark forest. They stopped after a few minutes. The man unfurled a scroll pulled from within his pack. With a thought, the necromancer triggered the scroll. Crackling mana from his hands bled into the scroll, seeping into the heavily adorned parchment. Its surface bubbled and flexed, before cracking in his hands. The crack spread, gripping onto reality like inky black tendrils, tearing at the flesh of the physical realm. Then the infernal cries began. Every scream assaulted the man's ears, a cruel reflection of life, the cries of death incarnate.
As he expected, the chorus of baleful screams rose to meet him from the wound in reality. Cries of anguish and fear stretched into one long note in a dreadful song. Ice lodged in the man’s veins as the sounds echoed out of the portal. “You’ve done this how many times?” he thought, as he admonished himself for not getting used to the strangeness of this particular bit of sorcery. There were far worse things out there, and he was scared of this party trick.
Striding through the swirling, purple mouth of the dark tear, the necromancer headed home, a new servant in tow. The dull thrum of the portal echoed across his chamber like a hammer blow. A whisper-like sucking sound followed behind it, as the tear in reality zipped itself up, stitching the world back into order with a series of dull snaps.
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Arriving back in his bed-chamber, deep within his personal tomb, the necromancer sat to work. With a softly spoken command, he ordered the new zombie to wait outside, too focused to deal with more complex instructions. After all, he had more important work to do. He moved with practiced ease as he uncorked large glass bottles and dropped each gem from the box inside.
He uncorked other smaller vials, dumping their crimson liquids inside, and then sealed the gems in their noxious brew. The surface of the gems would all begin to crack and fizz in unison, as the crimson concoction forced its way into the stones, warping them, making them useful. It was just one of many steps he needed to complete before the next round of summoning could begin, but he was far too tired to care.
The man dropped his blade and armor onto the stone floor, discarding them without care. Collapsing into his bed, he passed out. The necromancer’s goals remained glued to the forefront of his mind now, never really departing, even in his sleep. A milky haze settled over his consciousness amid the firelight bouncing off the walls, pulling the man into his latest nightmare.
The smoke of his dream held visions of ancient black stones, bathed in shadow. The man found his aethereal form walking across the stone floor, his destination lost in the mystery of the dark. As hard boots clacked on stones, the sound reverberated through the halls. Each step took him deeper into the darkness until his sight left him. Standing amid the darkness, a new sound joined that of his breathing. A striking sound, steel on steel, rhythmic like the gnashing of teeth.
Each time the smack of the impact landed, a light flared to life deeper within the tunnel. 1...2...3...on and on lights flared, torches burned. But it wasn’t the comforting light of a simple torch that met his dark-strained eyes, but a violet glint, like a star burning in the night sky.
The light brought with it trails of fire, fluttering about in the darkness like lazy moths. Words formed in his mind’s eye, coalescing from the echoes of flame into a passage he knew well. It had been the only thing he’d truly been focused on for months now. The words of some ancient bit of fiction, he thought at first. But the more he turned the words over in his head, the less fictive they seemed—and then the dreams came. Dreams leading him to solve some puzzle, some dark mystery. To his chagrin, he’d been unable to find all the pieces, but he always felt tantalizingly close. Like a hauntingly beautiful song, the solution called to him, taunted him. He had searched endlessly over the last few weeks, hunting for details, and all he could find were references to ancient magics and dark, terrible secrets.
The passage had been the only one he could find that fit. Despite the massive collection of tomes within his library, the necromancer found that most mentions of the old empire were lost to time. He wasn’t sure if the cryptic and grim passage was actually a fit, but it was the closest thing he could find.
He had read it so many times that it had burned into his memory, bringing rotten nightmares that feasted on his sanity like a murder of crows picking at a corpse.
*If you ever hear its song, it is already too late. A creature of shadow and mist has come, and its hunger seeks a new morsel.
At first, not a sound echoed in the night, then would come the screams. As though carried on distant winds, the sounds of pain would blow like a trumpet, heralding doom itself.
A gargantuan hole, larger than any star or astral anomaly, would soon come into view. As this creature of the night floated above a new smorgasbord, its drool would sloth off its giant opening. The ichor coating the land in a burning mess of acidified and rotten flesh.
But unlike that of a human mouth, this portal only had one purpose. This mouth would never speak a word. This was a mouth for tearing, a mouth for chewing. And as the floating form blocked out the soft glow of the moon, the veritable nightmare would begin.
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This gaping maw of shadow and rot would only ever play host to the screams and sorrow of the dying. The din of this portal of suffering would ruin the strongest mind. But more than simple noise would torture the minds of witnesses. The sight of this unimaginable horror was the next course in its feast of terrors.
The mouth was inhuman, demonic. An unending sea of rotten black teeth—numbering in the thousands—would be the first thing to invade the consciousness of those doomed to experience this unholy creation. The ocean of flesh surrounding this portal to hell would give the appearance of a black night sky. They would see no moon in this inhumane visage, only stars of black and white bones, stained red—its flesh pockmarked by the burning suns of dozens of deep purple eyes, lazily searching for their next meal.
The last thing these doomed souls would ever see was a field of sores and rot, as this detestable mouth bit down again and again. Their screams would blend into one long, baleful wail.
Cities and villages alike could be swept up in the bloody river of its gluttonous feeding. Yet it would find no satiation for its hunger.*
With a start, the necromancer fell from his bed, landing hard on the floor, as his shoulders smacked into the lukewarm stones—knocking the wind out of him. He stood, angrily tossing the sheets back onto the bed.
The sweat-covered man stumbled across his chamber, pouring a glass of deep red wine from a ceramic flagon sat atop his desk. He drank deep, letting the drink cool the tension in his gut.
Sharth’ax ran his hands over the spines of the tomes scattered across his desk, wasting time. The brown-bound ‘A Tale of Rainbows and Shadow’ had started all this. If only there had been some easily digestible secret buried in its pages to guide him. “If only it were that easy,” he thought, “but it never is.”
His hunt for the long-lost legacy of an empire of magic and mystery had driven him to the brink, but filled with purpose. The man couldn’t stop now. And if he was being pushed into the role of an evil overlord, why not play it up? Consequences be damned.
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As the necromancer’s boots clacked across the stones, his pace was uneven, almost as if his own feet wanted to carry him back to bed. “Tired, he was so damn tired."
He walked through an ornate hall deep within the gilded and regal Noble Quarter, lined with carved reliefs of faces, both inhuman and stranger. The motifs dominated the space, casting their eerie glances down onto those that passed by. Magical braziers softly simmered along the way, lighting the dark corridor. Shadows danced along the edges of the soft blue light.
He reached his destination as he pushed open the ornate wooden doors, decorated with shining black metal bands across its surface. Within the dimly lit chamber on the other side, his assembled lords were already waiting, engaging in idle chitchat. The man hurried to the head of the dark-stained table at the center of the chamber. books and scrolls had covered the enormous table, as it often was during such gatherings. A soft green light emanated from hearths at opposite ends of the room, bathing the room in sharp, crooked shadows that reminded Sharth’ax of a great forest. Seating himself in the padded chair, the leader signaled for the meeting to begin.
Waiting for the various Demi-humans and undead to settle, Sharth’ax began speaking.
“So, we all know why we’re here,” said the Necromancer. “The reports I’ve seen suggest that we have a few major issues, primarily to do with security.”
“The guilds have become extremely active to the south,” spoke a bulky anthropomorphic tiger. “Both the Republic and the dwarven Kingdom to the east have been pushing in on our swamps.” The tigerman reached for a parchment sitting before him. He perused it for a beat before continuing. “We’ve counted twenty-four incursions in the last month alone.”
“Adventurers will always attack us. Such is the way of things,” responded the dark-haired human necromancer. “We will have to find a way to deal with them, but we also have more pressing issues we must address.
“We can’t just up and attack them. They would inevitably send greater raiding parties,” said an exasperated skeleton sitting across from the humanoid tiger. The skeleton’s facial jewelry rattled as they hung their skull, then slammed it into the tabletop. As they did so, a slight flare of magic activated around them. Their arcane shield had absorbed the blow into the tabletop. The spellcaster sighed, before lifting their head and leaning back into their chair.
“If we go after the Republic directly, they’ll surely send a larger force against us.” The skeleton Summoner continued, “Of much greater concern are these Shard Carriers. They may be few now, but our spies report more showing up with each new day.”
Sharth’ax stood and turned away from the table. Pacing behind his gilded throne, the Necromancer stroked his bearded chin and stared at the floor. The embroidered red suit he wore glowed in the magical light of the room. “They have already focused on these ‘Shard Carriers‘,“ he internally mused. “Good, I just have to keep them on that path.“
In contrast to the bickering of the other lords, one demon sat at the opposite end of the table, looking genuinely bored.
Ostrath, the Prime Demon Lord loyal to Sharth’ax, twirled a small glass orb back and forth in his off-hand. His beady, black eyes focused on the small purple orb as it rolled around in his hand. This purple-skinned demon cast curious glances at the surrounding underlings, then looked at his overlord. A flash of concern appeared, then disappeared across his demonic features. He spoke up, breaking through the din of conversation.
“These Shard Carriers are our biggest concern,” said the demon leader. “We can’t allow them to become a bigger danger. They won’t stay so meek for long.”
Sharth’ax caught the gaze of his second-in-command and narrowed his amber eyes. “That’s strange, you never seemed to care before,” he thought. The necromancer could see what the demon prince was doing, and the human would lean into it, to encourage his folly.
“To that end, what can we do immediately?” interjected the Necromancer. “We already have our crafters and summoners working around the clock. The Core can’t create new servants much faster than they already are, and we’re losing the ones we already have far too quickly.”
“We will have to summon more,” stated the Tigerman. “And we might want to place some impressive units on the edge of the swamps. We need more advanced forces there.” The Demon Lord spoke in agreement.
Sharth’ax responded, revealing his work of the night before to the assembled confidants. “I have procured the next batch of Gems for new Elite Summons,” he said, though the Necromancer knew that not all of the Gems could be used for this purpose. Some had flaws, and the ritual was never a guaranteed success. But as long as the necromancer could keep the assembled Lords focused on this task, he could pursue his own goals in peace. And judging by the looks of contentment on the demi-humans in the room, Sharth’ax was doing well in that regard.
It was the Prime Demon Lord’s turn to speak, throwing water onto the fire of hope. “I have begun funneling more powerful mana sources into the Anchor, but I fear it’s becoming more ravenous by the day,” said the demon. “Might I suggest we expedite the training program for these new Elites? Their skills will be necessary to acquire more powerful Crystals in the future.“
“Magic is a hungry beast,” the commander thought, listening to the Demon Lord speak. The Tombs were a haunted and powerful place, but they constantly needed to be fed, like a hungry child.
“That will take even more time to prepare,” spoke the jewelry-laden skeleton, now paying more attention to the conversation. “We only have supplies for basic undead prepared on short notice,” sighing, they continued, “and we don’t really have the material for a massive summon either.”
Fixing her glowing violet eyes on the tigerman, “We need more advanced corpses if we are to create specialized servants.” Reaching for a scroll in front of her, the caster perused it before continuing, “We currently have the ability to expand the crafter legion a bit, maybe by a few dozen. Before we build up our forces, we must supply them.”
Narrowing his red eyes at the skeleton, a human-looking man with a long grey beard interjected, “Varren, you can’t be serious. We don’t need more swords and armor. We need more eyes in the world. In case you’ve forgotten, everyone from the Hunter’s Glade to those damned Spire smugglers has been hunting our servants.”
“You foolish old coot,” thought Sharth’ax as he silently watched the exchange.
“I’m well aware of your troubles Lazar, these bones are old, not blind,” spoke the bedazzled skeleton in a rattling sass. “How exactly do you expect to find these new ‘eyes’ Lazar, if we have been overrun with interlopers?” prodded the skeleton, before continuing, “We have to secure our borders, then we can recruit more of your precious spies.”
These two were always competing like this. The jabs and japes between them at council meetings had become an expected incident.
The black-robed man leaned forward. “We must gain more intelligence about these Shard Carriers and their plans.” Looking around the council table, Lazar focused on each being in the group for a beat before continuing, “we don’t know enough about their abilities yet either, we have to capture some of them.”
“That will be all but impossible. We tried that already, remember?” challenged Sharth’ax, who had quietly turned his inner attention back toward the bickering lords. His amber eyes fixed on Lazar for a full second, who twisted his head away. Anyone who had been using Mana Sense at that moment would have seen the rush of Mana from Sharth’ax directed at the spymaster. Whatever had passed between them seemed to have quelled most of his resistance.
“Still. . .we must do something! The Glade has been using the Shard Carriers to frightening effect in hunting us!” stammered the now-sweating old man.
“We are, I suggest we go with Varren’s plans, which I assume they have already drafted?” The questioning glance at the skeleton was answered with a snap of their boney fingers.
“I did indeed,” responded the regal mage, as an undead scribe appeared at the edge of the council chamber. The nondescript undead was carrying a bundle of scrolls. The wraith sauntered to each lord at the council table and placed a scroll in front of each of them. With scowls and rolled eyes, each lord unrolled the presented parchment. The scrolls detailed a list of planned summons, expansions of magical item crafting, and more.
“Now, here’s what we’re going to do,” spoke Varren in an elevated tone as they began their spiel. “First, these shard carriers go right to the top of our list for infiltration targets. As you remember from Lazar’s report last meeting, they’ve been appearing in greater numbers every day, and they thrive on violence.”
“Greater by the hour.” Lazar, the black-robed old man, tutted. “My spies estimate their numbers in the thousands, at least, in the Republic alone.” A series of head shakes and exasperated sighs followed Lazar’s words.
“And it’s not just the Republic,” Varren continued. “All over the continent and even beyond. Not only are their numbers a strain on resources, but they appear to be taxing the mana networks as well. Nexus’ as far as the Emerald City are already overwhelmed with new cultivators, and I suspect the same is true wherever these insects appear.” Varren polished off her statements with a hardened glare as the magic pooling around her skull took a more substantial form, appearing as a ghostly green skin over her bones. A ghastly scowl formed, jagged and haphazard, like broken glass glued onto their skull. “I don’t think I need to explain how terrible a disruption this would be to our way of life.”
A series of nervous nods affirmed that everyone in the room understood. Sharth’ax remained silent, intently watching Varren orate.
“But before then, we need to summon and train some new recruits. Most of these will be summons of a lesser variety. However, we have just enough high-quality corpses to create some rather useful Elites.“
The gruff voice of the tigerman intercepted Varren’s next point, “I hope you will do better than the last bunch. The warriors from the previous batch were pathetic, just pathetic,“ he said gruffly.
It was then that Sharth’ax spoke up. “What of our magic research?“ He asked, pointedly staring at Varren.
“Once we’ve completed the summoning rituals, we should be able to return our full attention to spell creation once again,“ Varren responded. “Lesser spells and scrolls have been no issue. It’s the more powerful incantations and runes that are giving us trouble.“ Varren read a different scroll before continuing. “I suspect I should be able to complete a Tier 6 scroll within the week.“
The necromancer and the skeleton shared a silent stare before Sharth’ax spoke. “Excellent, what else?“ he asked in a terse tone.
The demon commander, Ostrath, began speaking about wanting to send raiding parties into surrounding villages to gather intelligence and resources. Varren had to repress the urge to curse the demon. These Elites were at the top of the food chain and had a much higher purpose beyond fetch quests. It was at this point that the conversation broke down into bickering and shouting. Varren and the demonic Ostrath recklessly led the charge into chaos.
A concussive boom of magical energy bounded across the room, pouncing like a predator onto prey, slamming into both Ostrath and Varren, silently pinning them into their ornate chairs. “Everyone else, get out!“ shouted Sharth’ax as he stormed towards the grand doors and threw them open. As a minor flood of beasts and undead fled the scene, a mess of tomes and parchment was the only remaining evidence of a meeting having taken place.
As the necromancer slammed the giant doors with the force of his magic and rounded on his two lieutenants, fear gripped both of them. “I never expected the two of you to be so quick to give in to baser impulses. Need I remind you what I do with delinquent summons?“ asked the overlord, his tone dripping with ice and malice. Neither of the two Lords spoke. “I never want to see you two engage in such behavior again. Do I make myself clear?“ Without another word, the supreme lord of the Tombs released his magical hold and allowed the two lieutenants to flee from the meeting chamber.
With a satisfied smile, the necromancer dropped his facade as the door closed behind Varren, jangling form. Now, this particular player could now get to work in peace.