If not for recent events, Vanalath would have found it difficult to believe everything the necromancer said.
The Dread Sovereign. This being wasn’t some god looking down on him from afar—according to her, he was a consciousness that existed within the Deathstone. For as long as the Stone had been in her possession—years—he had been encroaching on her mind like some grim parasite.
Even so, as far as the woman could tell, this being was only an amalgam of memories that somehow possessed a will of their own, influencing those within the reach of the Deathstone’s energies. More often than not, his words were like those of an automaton, acting on some directive only he knew. Only when something particularly momentous occurred did this golem-like personality make way for a more human one.
The Sovereign had taken an interest in the necromancer, and for some inexplicable reason, an interest in Vanalath. Had he still trusted the necromancer, he might have requested that she remove the Stone from him at once, though such a task was probably impossible.
“The ritual you performed,” Vanalath began, “How would it have stopped the Dread Sovereign? Wouldn’t killing me have freed the Stone from my body?”
From what he could remember of the ritual, the Deathstone existed at his core, irrevocably fused with him. That lump at the center of his miasmic storm, whether it was the Stone itself or some representation of his soul, was where the presence of the Dread Sovereign had emerged. Removing that core would be no different than killing him. And likewise, killing him would destroy the storm and grant it freedom
She sighed. “If that botched ritual had succeeded, your filament—your soul-body connection—would have snapped. Then, I would have trapped the Deathstone in the husk of your body by using the power of your own death. Your soul itself would have likely been pulled into the Stone. At that point, the Stone would have continued treating your body as its vessel, but its primary method of influence—you—would have been no more. It wouldn’t have been completely sealed, but the Master’s reach would have been severely limited. Then, I would have had time to plan my future steps.”
Vanalath wasn’t quite sure how to react to hearing her speak so freely of her intended betrayal. Was she not concerned about him attacking her a second time?
“Ah, don’t worry about the Master finding out,” she said. “He probably knows everything already. He isn’t the type to punish an offender twice for a single crime.”
Again, it seemed she was missing the point. Oddly, despite her frank attitude towards her treachery, he didn’t grow angry. Perhaps it was because he understood her desperation. She had not acted out of malice towards him, but out of fear of the one pulling the strings. However, that was only if she were telling the truth.
Assuming she was, he didn’t blame her. He had lost trust in her and possibly a measure of respect, but he didn’t blame her.
Then, his brain caught up.
“You said twice? He punished you already?”
“Certainly,” she replied, quieter than before. “During the ritual, at the moment when you would have died, he reached out to me. He… he reminded me of that which is truly frightening.”
Her soft tone contrasted her actions. Though she tried to hide it, her fingers had begun to gouge deep grooves into the wood of the table. Just how strong was she?
Vanalath came to a realization in that moment. “The Dread Sovereign attacked you. Your mind.”
Just like how the sight of that horrible eye had invaded his mind, something had happened to the necromancer as well. This explained her actions after he had awoken and seen her fleeing the site of the ritual. She hadn’t been scared of him at that moment, but of the thing residing in him. Perhaps that is what made her direct the newborn ghouls to stop him.
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I wouldn’t call it an attack. A scolding, perhaps.”
If being driven to insanity didn’t qualify as an attack, then nothing did.
“The Dread Sovereign… he turned you into this thing? This ‘lich?’”
Her appearance continued to baffle him. What he sensed from this woman couldn’t be put into words. Looking at her was a little like he was looking at a façade, a wooden puppet being manipulated by invisible strings.
She corrected him, “He gave me the knowledge necessary to carry out the transformation, but I performed the steps on my own. It was a process that lasted two years and came to completion only yesterday, when you killed me. Had I not wavered after reaching this land, I would have likely completed it a long time ago.”
So, he truly had killed her, back then. Though she’d already said as much, he still hadn’t been sure.
“And the ‘attuning’ you spoke of…?”
Vanalath asked this question, not because he truly wished to know, but because he needed time to think. Parts of her story weren’t matching up.
The necromancer lifted her hands, revealing the protruding needles. “These needles perform the role of anchors. Because my soul no longer resides in this body, I shouldn’t be able to move of my own volition. Iokina is assisting me by calling back my soul-body connection whenever the tether drifts. This condition may continue on for a day or more as I craft my false filament.”
“I see,” said Vanalath, though he didn’t, not really.
There was still that strange dissonance. Perhaps she hadn’t necessarily lied to him, but certain details had been left out. Foremost among them: she was cursed by the presence of the Deathstone, but why hadn’t she abandoned it long ago—thrown it down some dark pit and fled?
Not noticing his doubts, the necromancer continued, “You killing me and severing my filament was the final step in my long transformation. Had I died on my own terms, the attuning process wouldn’t be necessary and I would have retained more of my stats, but things are what they are. I will recover with time.”
And who was she running from in the first place? Was there a force more terrible than this entity that resided in the Deathstone? And why wouldn’t she look at his face?
The necromancer spoke. “So. Vanalath.”
She splayed her hands as if to show that she had no more hidden cards.
“I have told you my story. What will you do? I wouldn’t blame you if you chose to leave, but all the same, I don’t wish for that.”
Still seated, Vanalath didn’t reply. Crossing his arms, he leaned back and thought. It was a pointed question. But he had one of his own.
His speech had grown less stilted and less raspy throughout this short conversation, though he hadn’t spoken much. Exercising his throat muscles once more, he asked, “How do I recover my potential from Orimo and Anamu?”
She flinched slightly. “Ah, yes… that. I will tell you as a sign of good faith, but I urge you not to do anything rash.”
“That depends.”
“Of course. It is quite simple. You shared your potential with them, correct? If another being were to slay them, their portion of potential would dissipate. Some would enter the person that killed them, but only a tiny amount. Virtually none would return to you. On the other hand, if you—the one who granted them access to your well—were to kill them yourself, that lost potential would return to you almost entirely.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Had either of his Peons been present, they might have felt a shiver run down their spines after looking at Vanalath.
Was it truly such a simple fix? He stood, heading towards the exit.
“Vanalath!” she exhorted. “Do not resort to such actions. Not unless you see no other way forward.”
“I understand,” he said. “However, it happens that I’ve encountered a wall like the once you spoke of.”
What else could his poor choice of future classes represent than a blockade? He would rid himself of Anamu first, to see if it made a difference. Of the two, he liked Kalaki the most, though the ghoul had a habit of staring at the sky whenever he wasn’t following orders.
“They could be a great boon to you, Vanalath. A great boon. Subordinate monstrous Branded… such a thing has never been recorded in—Vanalath!”
The tall wight didn’t halt, and was even now stepping around Orimo who stood by the door, unable to understand their conversation. However, a sudden whisper from behind made him stop. The woman’s voice had changed, and she no longer spoke to him.
He found her gripping the table once more, her hands like claws.
“I took notes,” the necromancer whispered. “Watching vital signs fade. Some were more durable than others, taking hours to die. Sometimes, they told me to channel the energy away from them, or concentrate it. The other researchers, they had more talent with the undead, but not me—I couldn’t control them. No, I was given the living. The living. The living. They came in droves, herded like cattle into my small room. They thought The Institute would be kind to them. Kinder than prison. Kinder than debt collectors. But Kindness is cruel. Criminals volunteered for this. Parents sold their children and hoped for a better life. I watched. I watched them all. I watched as men women children came to die cheeks withering their eyes sunk into their skulls the black veins spreading then two twins a girl and a boy begged and I gave them mercy and a Brand blazed into existence on my flesh like a sick mockery of truth—”
The necromancer clutched at her chest, heaving shuddering breaths. She continued choking out her words through the pain, but at that moment Iokina stepped forth once again, repeating the same process as before. Two taps of the hammer on the protruding needles, one on the amulet, and then she retreated after placing the talisman in the woman’s pocket. Then, the necromancer collapsed in her chair, energy drained.
Like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Vanalath took one last look at her. Maybe he should reconsider his course of action. He would give it a day, at least. After exiting the cottage, a sound from behind told him Orimo had followed him.
Vanalath ignored the question.
Orimo broke into a jog to match Vanalath’s long strides. Kalaki and Anamu, who had waited outside, soon fell into step behind them.
Vanalath glanced over at him. The hunter’s bloodless face bore a wry smile.
He lifted his sleeve to reveal his shoulder, where a scorch mark painted his flesh like some great black bruise.
He lowered the sleeve, scratching the arm as if it itched a little.
With a thought, he summoned the floating runes.
You have qualified for a rank up.
Select a class.
[Squire], [Assassin], [Berserker], [Duelist]
As expected, there was no change.
Orimo shook his head.
Their small group came to a halt roughly a hundred yards from the cottage, where they wouldn’t be disturbed by other ghouls.
Vanalath explained his circumstances as he understood them, making it clear that he didn’t see any of his options as viable paths forward.
Orimo scratched his head, sighing.
Vanalath said, tracing the red mark with his fingers.
Vanalath didn’t see why the hunter was responding so heavily to everything, but he told Orimo all he knew, hoping that some mysteries could be cleared up at last. He read his status, explaining his class and race levels, as well as his skills and abilities. Orimo appeared rather interested in his racial abilities, and how they were different from his skills, which were a part of his class.
Were it anyone else, Vanalath wouldn’t have spoken so freely of his strengths and weaknesses. However, he shared a pact with Orimo. This pact was even stronger than the necromancer’s control over the hunter, so he held very little back. But he still didn’t mention the Deathstone or the Dread Sovereign. It was unlikely Orimo would be of any help in that regard.
the hunter said, once Vanalath had finished.
Vanalath frowned but held his tongue. Orimo saw the look.
He nodded.
Orimo scratched his chin.
Vanalath stared him down without replying. Was this all the wisdom the hunter had for him? To give up?
Suddenly, things began to click into place for Vanalath. He had. The scene in the grove earlier was testament to that. Even prior to the ritual, he noticed himself growing frustrated more easily, with both the necromancer and Anamu. He had to stop himself from physically lashing out multiple times. Unconsciously, he had attributed it to his increased intelligence after his evolution, but if this wasn’t the case…
Vanalath spoke.
Vanalath understood where the hunter was coming from. But to never increase his class, forgoing half of his power? Without his class, would he have even been able to use his blade? He turned to Kalaki, who was currently leaning against his spear like it was a walking stick.
The spearman turned to him.
He shook his head.
He nodded.
Vanalath was taken aback at this. He was certain the ghoul had possessed a class such as [Spearman], or some other analogue to his own [Swordsman] class. However, if he didn’t and still possessed that level of skill with a spear, perhaps classes weren’t as vital as he thought. Maybe he could abandon his own…
As if. The idea that he might back down out of fear caused disgust to rise in him like bile in his throat. No, he would continue. If he abandoned his strength, he would never be able to rise above those who looked down on him, treating him like an expendable toy. Whether it was the necromancer or the Dread Sovereign, he wouldn’t back down. Not after a single taste of defeat, and certainly not by the threat of defeat. He’d made his decision.
That deadly route that he glimpsed during his last rank up—he would find the path and tread it once more. Danger, insanity, whatever maybes that loomed ahead didn’t frighten him. However, the idea of giving up did.
said the hunter with a sigh.
Why did everyone feel the need to preface their explanations with even more explanations?
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