Bancroft awoke with a strangled cry, jolting upright out of bed so quickly the blankets draping him practically flew off. Hands trembling with the after effects of relentless nightmares shot to his head and through his hair, searching for some still-lingering foe. Only when he found none, did the room begin to come back into focus.
Where–?! Bancroft’s head swiveled wildly around, flecks of the sweat drenching his entire body flying off to land on the plush rugs covering the stones of his room. My… room? What–
Pain spiked through the necromancer’s mind, the sensation akin to a hot needle piercing through flesh – only this time the torment was contained within his skull. Bancroft’s hands shot to his head and he fell to his knees. The ensuing agonized groans that followed lasted for several minutes. A worried voice called out from beyond his door, but it was muffled nonsense and the necromancer paid it no heed.
All he knew was pain.
Mana backlash was something Bancroft had not had to deal with in many years. Not since his first days practicing magic under his family’s stern tutors. Tutors who had been relentless in ensuring he knew just how dangerous the effect – and the mistakes that led to it – could be to make. Any mage worth their name shared first-hand experiences of the same, but only rarely from anything outside of carefully controlled environments. Because there was a word for mages who suffered backlash from their spells in combat:
Dead.
When the pain eventually subsided, Bancroft pulled himself up using his linens like netting pulling him back to shore from the sea. He coughed up the metallic tang of copper as he stood, but quickly swallowed it back down. With deliberate care and still-trembling fingers, the necromancer began wiping himself clear of sweat using the small towels specifically left out for such use by his staff the evening prior. As he worked Bancroft’s eyes stared unblinkingly out past his balcony.
Out to where the source of his current shame was roaming freely somewhere. His own minion. His property! Property that had refuted him. Rejected him– no, worse. Defied him and his will. Bancroft still couldn’t believe it had happened, that a mere skeleton – even an evolved one – had thrown off the shackles of his control.
So what if he had stretched the remnant connection the slain and consumed Inmortu had held to him to the breaking point to do it?
So what if the vast distance stretching between them had weakened the fabric of his spell?
So what if the time that had elapsed since he summoned it had all but drained the efficacy he could hope to siphon out of his spell?
It was just one skeleton. Bancroft seethed, his expression growing steadily darker. One blasted, life-soaked heap of bones and animated rot. Not even of the third tier.
Such a thing should not have been possible. Even with all the varied factors working against him, he was still a fully-fledged necromancer. He had still cast the spell with the proper rituals, and empowered it with the right ingredients. A single skeleton acting alone was not capable of resisting Bancroft’s will. Especially not one that had previously been his. Not with the mana from a loyal summon rolling around inside its anatomy.
But it hadn’t been acting alone. Bancroft reminded himself with silent fury. A slime of all things. One, single slime.
The conclusion was as infuriating as it had been obvious. Normally slimes did not heavily invest in their mental attributes. They were little more than mindless blobs, heedlessly devouring whatever came close. Bancroft had tried to elevate the mind of one before based on knowledge he had gleaned from the family library, but the result had been an abject failure. No matter how many brains he had fed it, the mindless creature had never managed to recreate a mind of its own. Eventually, he had grown sick of the wasted effort.
Bancroft vaguely recalled having tossed the jar off its place on his shelf somewhere, though he couldn’t recall where. He never paid attention to his failures.
Maybe I should. The necromancer mused, tossing the towel down to the floor alongside the rest of his sweat-soaked robes.
He donned a fresh pair, smoothing it out as he took a comb to his errant facial hair. When his beard was back to satisfactory, Bancroft gave himself several moments of practiced self-meditation. If those moments were interrupted by more hacked up and swallowed blood, then whoever was standing outside his door was wise enough not to comment on it.
This isn’t a complete loss. Bancroft allowed, when the trembling in his hands had finally stopped. The inmortu may have fallen, in doing so it has revealed the hands those fools arrayed against me are holding.
Bancroft clasped both of his hands together, confirming that the shaking in them had indeed stopped. That the night terrors of being melted alive by a crimson slime and shoved bodily down an ever-hungry bone gullet had fully fled his waking mind. Necromancers could not be afraid of the dead or their minions. It was unnatural. The mana backlash had just caused his psyche some additional damage he had to mend. That was all.
Taking in a sharp intake of breath followed by a slow exhale, Bancroft’s formidable mind squashed the last of his self-doubts. Dark eyes searched the room he was in for what he needed next, cold fury beginning to settle in now that he was fully awake. A minute later, he strode from the room, slamming the door open and startling Sabin to the point the old man nearly fell down the stairs.
“Get up, you old fool.” Bancroft snapped as he glided down the stairs towards where the zealots’ bodies were still being prepared. “It is finally time to make some use of the mana we have been gathering. Have food and sacrifices brought to the pit. When I am done, we ride to collect more of each.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Sabin said immediately, bowing his head and taking off down another hallway to do as he had been bid. Shouts followed, and the sounds of begging rose up soon after.
Bancroft ignored them. Soon, he would have new subjects to experiment upon. Preferably some who could better withstand the effects of his magic than the filthy peasants of Dry Run had been able to. There were precious few venues out in this region of nowhere to harvest such resources, but there were more he had access to.
I will reap them all tonight if I have to. Bancroft thought, a confident smirk making its way to his face as he imagined the cacophony of screams he would be treated to in doing so.
Doing so went against the precautions he had planned to take to keep his activities out here hidden, but what need was there to hide when he had already been discovered? The Gold Spire knew he was here. It was one of the secrets he had ripped from the zealots’ spirits only yesterday.
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When the rest of those repulsive, life-cursed rats show up, I will be ready for them. The necromancer swore to himself. He had been too cautious before. Too willing to hide his talents in favor of fading into the background.
“Not anymore.” He said aloud, swinging open a rusted iron grate.
Swift steps took him down to where the heart of his growing powerbase rested, past a room filled with tables and the shells of several desiccated crabs. Bancroft did not spare the hollowed-out crustaceans any more attention than he did the other of their number, which had somehow impaled itself on the gate leading down to the pit.
He crossed down the hallways, feeling renewed vigor and strength find its way into his limbs with every step. Motes of jet-black mana floated steadily growing patches in the air. Flickering torches burned with soft, covered light every few paces. Each mote Bancroft passed renewed his confidence in his earlier decision to slaughter all but the last five villagers. Sabin had cautioned him that accelerating the pit’s growth would decrease its stability, but it looked like the old fool had been wrong.
As I knew he was. Bancroft thought, stepping through the now-blackened ichor to enter the pit proper. A cold smile crossed its way onto the necromancer’s face as he surveyed the still-rising success and majesty of a project his insipid siblings only wished they could recreate.
A massive pyramid of corpses took up the center of the room, each in varying stages of decomposition. Black mana rolled up and out of the top, flowing down the sides in streams of dark ink to pool at the bottom. Where festering green ichor met midnight ink, the toxic liquid was quickly blackening to a full opaque. At the pool’s edges, even the stones were beginning to crack.
“So much power… all to myself.” Bancroft almost chuckled, overtaken by the moment. His brethren would butcher one another for the chance at an opportunity like what he now had in hand. He reached out a hand, lovingly stroking the sloughing flesh of an unidentifiable male whose teeth had all but fallen out.
“Shhh… Soon.” Bancroft promised. “Soon.”
—----------------------
The necromancer was still stroking his beloved flesh pit like it was a sleeping lover, lost in thought, when Sabin appeared. The old man took only two steps into the ichor before the overpowering smell of decay hit him, but the long-time servant of the Morian family was accustomed to such things. The only adjustment he made was to cover his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his dark robe.
How necromancers be able to stomach such things, I’ll never know. Sabin thought, before taking several cautious steps into the ichor to present his master with the tray of carefully selected food he had brought down. Dark liquid soaked into his leather boots immediately, bypassing the tanned hide as if it were porous, and the old man suppressed a curse. Bones of the Father… these were me best shoes!
“Here you are, m’lord.” Sabin said, offering the tray.
When Bancroft didn’t even move, the old man heaved an internal sigh. He stared at the pyramid before them, a carefully guarded expression on his face. Each of the bodies had recently been painstakingly sewn together by the rest of the servants, They had even attached those with naught more than bones remaining, and one of their number had been lost to the pit itself when his needlework drove dark ink into his arm.
Sabin knew his master would have considered the ‘loss’ as anything but, but it had still unnerved him somewhat to sew that particular corpse into the fold.
“M’lord?” Sabin ventured, after a long moment.
“Bring the zealots over.” Bancroft commanded, his voice barely above a whisper as he took the tray and began slowly chewing his way through it. “Arrange the sacrifices around them. Knees down, throats out. Star pattern. I will do the rest.”
Sabin paled somewhat, the draining of color from his face lost in the barely lit environment. He almost asked for confirmation, dangerous as it was, but then the old man heard his fellow servants bringing the final captives down.
It wouldn’t do to unnerve ‘em. Sabin thought, as he verbally affirmed the order and went about dragging the corpses of the two paladins over to the edges of the inky black pool. He dipped their heads in the liquid, careful not to let his fingers touch any. A second later he stepped back, dropping the heads in fully and gesturing for the five servants to take their given places. It didn’t take long for him to instruct them on the proper position to bend the captives into.
Sorry lads. Sabin tried to say with his eyes as he met each of their gazes in turn. It be for a noble cause, I swear.
Sabin knew he shouldn’t question his master, but knowing that didn’t make this next part any easier to watch. He wondered if the mistress would approve of what her son was doing. Such thoughts were not his to have, but they were coming more often of late.
—----------------------
Bancroft tossed the empty tray over one shoulder to Sabin before rolling back the sleeves of his robe. He swept a calculating eye over the ten humans arranged in a star pattern in the ichor before him, carefully noting the positions of each. Quiet sobs punctured the silence as the room silently watched to see what the necromancer was about to do.
For his part, Bancroft's mind was finally, blessedly clear. The aura permeating the flesh pit had scraped his mind clear of every emotion, leaving behind only cold, intractable logic. His mana stores were capped out and spilling over with power. Power that would allow him to reach further than he ever had. To bring forth his strongest minion... with a little extra 'oomph'.
The grey bordered prompt with a background of the void and shining bone-white text that had appeared when he had made physical contact with the flesh pit, heralded by the sound of a heavy bell toning in the distance, explained the reason for his inviolable confidence.
You have connected to a font of death mana. As a necromancer and the current master of this region, you have been recognized as its owner. You will see a drastic increase in mana storage while this connection remains, and may draw upon its reserves as you see fit until they run dry.
Note: As a living creature, your anatomy is fundamentally incompatible with the mana contained within this font. Prolonged exposure may cause the forced adoption of undead traits. Extensive use may have unintended consequences.
Bancroft had dismissed the notification and its warning almost as quickly as it had appeared, being well-versed in both the benefits and drawbacks inherent in what he was doing. The adoption of undead traits wasn't even a bad thing, from his perspective. That was the first step towards becoming a Lich, after all.
Focusing his mind and marshaling the forces now at his command, Bancroft raised both of his arms, hands extended like knives. Tendrils of dark ink rose from the sides of the pyramid of flesh, mirroring his movement. Bancroft repeated the gesture five more times, grateful that his pit allowed him to forsake the rare and expensive materials normally required for this spell.
It was part of the beauty of Necromancy, really. With enough flesh to work with, one could sidestep many otherwise burdensome spell requirements and components.
Bancroft’s finger twirled, and his fingers cut down in a rotating swirl. Dark ink rose up from the pool to form a floating disk in front of the captives, and one of them fainted. A gesture from the necromancer and the disk spun, a pulsing black void, before expanding. It sliced the throats of all five captives just as Bancroft’s other hand shot forward in a piercing motion.
Five tendrils of inky black pierced each of the servants holding onto a captive, impaling their hearts and reconnecting in the center. Shock and betrayal crossed the faces of the necromancer’s former staff as the screaming and gurgling began. Behind him, Sabin winced… but Bancroft was unmoved.
Thanks to the additional detachment provided by the death mana’s influence, Bancroft was able to focus on more than just his most potent spell. It wasn’t much, but he was able to keep a single image in his mind’s eye. The one his discarded minion had sent him in retaliation for his attempt at wrestling back control. The insult wrapped up in a child’s threat, as the rogue undead mocked his creator.
A sneer crossed, unbidden, onto his lips despite the emotional dampening effect Bancroft was currently under. It quickly became a snarl, even as the necromancer channeled more mana than he ever had before for a single summoning. Around him, bodies crumpled into a roiling mass of empty night, the torches winked out as air rushed in, and Sabin scrambled down the passage clamoring about some nonsense the necromancer couldn’t make out.
Pitch-black darkness filled the entire room, yet Bancroft could still envision that single image. Clear as day. Burned forever into his mind. That of a black-fisted, hulking skeleton with a half-dozen crimson tendrils ripping him in half… and consuming him piece by bloody piece.
Thankfully, there was nobody save Sabin left alive in the room to see the powerful necromancer, awash with an overflow of mana, shudder involuntarily as he finished his spell.