Chapter Sixteen #3
remained my only shelter from anguish.”
“How
long were you planning this?” Isaac asked.
Berith
glanced down, looking over the neatly rowed heads of his thralls. “I’ve known I
would have to kill you since the day you were placed in my care.”
There
was silence in the extraction chamber. The dust seemed to shiver, glinting in
the golden light. Somewhere below, further beneath the earth, there seemed to
be a subtle rumbling.
A deep
thrum of power.
A
massive chorus of screams.
“Pirate,”
Berith said.
Isaac
felt the hand on his shoulder tense.
“Thank
you for saving my nephew’s life.”
Zaria
scoffed. “Clearly weren’t to your benefit.”
“No,”
he said, looking down at Isaac. “It was. Thank you.”
“Get
fucked, cuntsucker.”
“Isaac,”
Berith said. “Leave the tomb.”
Isaac
didn’t feel capable of responding. He was afraid any motion would cause him to
faint.
“You’ll
have to travel,” his uncle continued, “far outside the Diet’s jurisdiction,
where the Nine still have not conquered. If the Archons know you’re alive, they
will send assassins.” Berith gestured towards the bronze doors, the bones on
his sun-eating robes sliding and dribbling together. “Go. Head through the
waste, passed the hinterlands. Live the life I could not give you.”
“The
Diet of Nine ordered my death?” Isaac asked.
“I gave
you an order, boy. For your own sake, follow it.” The glow in his eyes shone
brighter. “I won’t allow you to interfere with my mission.”
“Your
mission?”
“Yes,”
Berith said. “My mission. Not yours.”
“This
is my mission,” he replied.
“It was
never yours, Isaac. It was always a lie.”
Isaac
glared up at his uncle.
“I
know,” Berith said, “you’ve hated this. You’ve always hated your lot. You’ve
resented your fate since you were old enough to read. Don’t tell me you’ll
defend it now, of all times.”
Isaac
had nearly forgotten that he was holding a mnemonic stance for fire. As he
straightened his posture, the trickles of flame grew into a large, shooting
spout. “Why are you here? Why did the Diet send you in secret? Does the
necromancer possess some arcane knowledge, some ancient technology the Diet
wants for themselves?”
Berith
paused. “The necromancer?”
“Yes!
That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re here to kill her in my stead!”
His
uncle took a deep breath. “Isaac. Leave. Now.”
“No!”
“I
would spare you from this.”
“No! I
have spent my entire life preparing for this moment! I will hear the truth from
you!” The fire in his palms licked towards his face, nearly singeing the
unshaved beard. “What does the Diet want from the necromancer?”
“There
is no necromancer!” Berith shouted. “The sorceress is dead! Your father killed
her before you were born!”
The
flames began to die. “What? How do you—”
“Isaac!”
His uncle’s roar echoed through the extraction chamber, bouncing over rusted
metal and rocky blood. “Are you sure you want to know this? Do you truly wish
to learn the fate your father inflicted upon us?”
He blinked, his feet rooted to the ground.
“Answer
me!”
“Y-yes!”
“Fine!”
In the dusty air above Berith’s head, the constellation of bones shifted and
swirled. “Then tell me! What is the definition of mnemonics?”
“I—they
are—”
A salvo
of bone shot into the ground at his feet, showering him in splinters.
“Answer
me, boy!”
“Mnemonics!”
Isaac said, his posture growing rigid. “A device—a learning technique designed
to aid the memory!”
“Adequate!
And why are casting incantations called mnemonics?”
“Because—because
the energy dynamics require altered pathways in the body! The—the—the brain and
the body!”
A
screaming arrow of bone flew past his shoulder. The crack it made in the
pipework sent shivers down his spine.
The
cane.
The
cane.
The
cane—
“Magic
changes the body,” Berith said, pacing back and forth on the raised platform.
The cloud of bone followed his every step. “That is why we practice! That is
why we train! The simplest spell requires years of effort! Not because the
incantations are hard, but because the body and mind must alter themselves!
When you exercise, your muscles tear and grow, your nerves endure, your bones
grow thick! When you train, you teach the flesh as much as your mind! Right
now, your brain and body are forever changed with your powers. It is a physical
stamp, right in your very form.”
Zaria
let go of his shoulder. He felt her shift behind him. For a moment, he could
see the steel of her axe.
“But
the soul is distinct from the body,” Berith continued, “is it not? One is the essence, the other is a vessel. They are entwined, but
separate. And with effort, they can be separated from each other.”
He had
to hide. He knew this tone of voice. The punishment was coming.
The
lecture was a prelude to pain.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain—
“Take
your father, for example,” Berith said, his bone-armored robes flowing over the
heads of his thralls. “When he travelled to this tomb before your birth, he
slayed the sorceress, as was his command. But he was arrogant. Foolish. He
thought he could excavate this ancient empire without the aid of specialists.”
His laugh came with a sneer. “I know my brother—he wanted the sole claim on all
its discoveries. These necromancers, these. . . .” He glanced up at the hanging
coffins. “These grisly demons were, unfortunately, quite our superior when it
came to the technologies of magic. Namely, the process of extracting the soul.”
Zaria
came out to his side, shoulder to shoulder.
“He blundered
into a trap,” the Bone Hunter said. “Because he was impatient, he had his soul
sucked from his body, like the tens of thousands before him. But, of course, he
was lucky, because the device that captured him was specially designed by the
sorceress herself. It was to be used as an emergency reservoir,
in case her life was ever threatened. It gave him control of her forces. He
became the new necromancer, in her stead. Now it was his turn to reign over the
city of the dead, buried beneath the scoured land.”
Isaac
stepped forward. “How does this connect with the mnemonic—”
“Do
not interrupt me, boy!”
He
flinched.
“His
body was destroyed,” his uncle said. “He told me so, himself, when the Diet
managed to attune to the energy of his soul. We discussed his condition. He
needed a new body to escape, and he would not allow us to enter this tomb
without assurances that we would provide him with one. His stolen bones would
kill us if we tried.” He shook his head. “He wanted his freedom again. He
wanted safety from those who would kill him, just to steal the bounty for
themselves. It was not an unreasonable concern, in those days. The Diet was
still very young. It had many schemers within its ranks. But, of course, in the
end, we could not sacrifice just any person for his livelihood.”
His
glowing eyes centered on Isaac.
“Why is
that, Isaac? Why can a soul not be implanted into any body we choose?”
He
swallowed. “Core rejection.”
“Core
rejection,” Berith said. “The soul and vessel must be related. They must be
very close, in both body and lineage. Like, say, father and son.”
The
dust seemed to swirl around him.
The air
reeked of blood.
“Your
father was trained in two disciplines, wasn’t he? Elements and anti-necrotics.
He was famous for it, in fact.” Berith worked his jaw, his necrotic scars
twisting in the light. “Of course, it was only natural that his son should be
trained the same way as him. His body had the right heritage. He had the
potential. Once he had been trained properly, he would be the spitting image of
his father. No one would bat an eye.”
Isaac’s
mind raced and raced.
“Did
you never think it odd,” Berith said, “that the Diet would send only you
to rescue your father?” He gestured down at Isaac, his hand barely visible
beneath the cuff of his robe. “You, a single journeyman, a fledgling boy,
pitted against the might of an ancient necromancer. It’s absurd! The Archons
could’ve sent dozens of sorcerers. They could have beseeched the aid of the
deathless wizards, the masters who have ascended beyond the flesh. For Oerin’s
sake, the kingdoms of the Diet could drown this tomb in an ocean of soldiers!”
Isaac
looked away.
“But,
of course, they sent only you.” His uncle grimaced. “The young child. The
orphaned boy. The son who never knew his father.”
His
uncle stopped. His shadow spread across the hanging standard.
“I did
not raise a child,” Berith said. “I raised a vessel. A vessel for your father.”
Somewhere
deep below, by the feet of the giant corpse, the earth rumbled and shook.
Thousands of voices screamed in agony.
“That
was the deal we struck.” His uncle paced across the platform, casting a black
shadow. The bank of devices leaked a finger of purple fog. “He would allow us
access to this ancient tomb, once his son had been trained in the ways of
sorcery. This could not be faked. The transmutation training is a physical mark
on your form. The knowledge of your studies has changed the structure of your
brain. Only a body similar to the original would allow his soul to survive.”
His
uncle glanced downwards, in the direction where the obelisk would lie beneath
the floor.
Where
his father was.
“Inheritance,”
Berith said. “What a chain it is.”
Zaria
stepped to the side. Half of the thralls followed her. She raised a hand, and
they lifted their arms in response, cocking a salvo of ice and fire.
She was
testing their reaction.
Isaac
wanted to slap her.
“You
should have seen his desperation,” Berith said, returning his gaze. “He begged
me to save him. He wouldn’t hear of allowing the Diet access to the tomb. He
didn’t trust the Archons—for good reason—and, of course, what little knowledge
he had gleaned from the necromancers told him this was the only solution. It
was your life or his. And, of course, he was sorry—blubberingly sorry—but he
had chosen himself.”
Berith
snorted.
“He