• CHAPTER ONE
    REALM

    A grin of pleasure came to his face as he surveyed the night’s work. Everything seemed to be in order. Now all that remains is to wash off the blood, he mused to himself. Before the G.W.’s arrive this time. Damnable Garrison-warriors. Nothing more than glorified guard dogs. Disposing of them always proves interesting, but there are too many questions afterward. And all questions aside, it’s very difficult to deal with a whole Dispatch and not leave at least one of them alive, a witness. The last thing I need. As he made his way to the small pond, not thirty yards off, the true extent of his pleasure became clear to him. He could see the blood, at least what of it that hadn’t flown from his skin in his haste to wash, running off his body in little rivulets, that ran from his expansive chest, over the taut skin of his stomach, down over the loose fitting skins he fashioned, himself, into pants, to briefly pool in the turned down tops of his boots at mid calf, before over flowing, and finally running to the ground.
    As he was washing, the Voice, his glorious visitor from beyond, spoke once again.
    The warriors... they approach… Merc-class. They know you... they hunt you... Flee now if you wish to avoid them... or stay... do me proud... The choice is yours.
    Merc-class warriors? That’s impossible, there was no one to alert them, no one that could connect him to the recent rampage, he had made sure of it himself. And there was no way a Merc-class warrior would fight without substantial pay. And there was no way it could be simple coincidence, no one travels this way, it’s suicide! He must have made a mistake. No. I DO NOT make mistakes. But then how? The Voice? Could it be wrong? No, that can’t be either, the Voice is infallible. No matter, he reasoned. The “how” isn’t important, only the fact. How many my friend?
    A Fist... they take you... your kind... your threat... very seriously.
    A Fist? That’s at least one hundred men! And all of them Merc-class! Even I can’t take care of that kind of threat. Help me!
    Surrender... Surrender fully and I shall... surrender... surrender your flesh... surrender your will... surrender your soul.
    This was new. What? What’s all this talk of surrender? That wasn’t part of the bargain! I was just supposed to bring you the souls of the victims as I chose them, and in return you grant me the Eye. I’m supposed to be all seeing, all-knowing! Now this trash about surrender?
    Surrender... I will do better than that illusion of power... you will be invincible... you will live forever... you could rule the world... under Me.
    Invincible. This was new too. It seemed to be a very eventful day; first the wench, and her scornful laughter, now this. Invincibility. He didn’t even have to think at that point.
    Yes! I surrender! My will, my flesh, my soul... they’re yours!
    With a deafening clap of thunder, and a wave of pure, and total darkness the Voice spoke again.
    Bargain struck... You are mine... you will not be harmed by any mortal hand... Now prepare yourself... they approach.
    And, just as the last echoing words of the Voice faded, he saw, coming toward him, over the rise of the hill, the sinisterly gleaming, black armor of the Merc-class warriors.
    “Come! Fight me! Fight if you dare! You cannot win! Not against I, the Invincible Bakhim Cadamir! Come, fools, and die!”
    Just as the last words were leaving his mouth, an archer let fly two arrows at once. One arrow that pierced Bakhim’s heart, perfectly centered, and one that punctured his throat, cleanly severing his spinal cord.
    †††††††

    As the man fell First Archer Adar Charazon clearly heard his last, gurgled words; “But... I am... invincible.” As the archer, brushing his strait white hair from his piercing gray eyes, went to retrieve his arrows his commanding officer said, in a congratulatory tone, “Quite nicely done, Adar. I don’t know another man in all the Seven Cities who could make that shot at half the distance. Even one arrow at a time.”
    “Thank you General. But a ‘man,’ I am not.”
    “You know what I mean, Warrior, er, Sorcerer, uherhuhw whatever you are! Anyway, what do you think he was doing out here? It’s the middle of nowhere, and at this time of year it’s as hot as Marax’s forge! I’m going to die, not of dehydration, but of drowning, in my own sweat! ”
    Just then, as Adar was fetching his arrows, he noticed the body, or what was left of it... Here and there. “I think I know, sir. Look at this. It’s him, The Creator’s Demon. The ruthless b*****d. Inhuman.”
    “Why, I believe you’re right. What luck! To find this heartless beast! And to think, we almost didn’t come this way! It seems cross country really was the better way for us to travel. Good thinking, Charazon. I think I may smell a rank advancement on the wind my friend.”
    “But sir, it was just dumb luck!”
    “That may be so, but I’d rather that the Officers under me have both extensive skill and at least a little luck. After all, your luck just saved an untold number of innocent lives.”
    “Maybe so sir, but what about her? What do we do with her?”
    “All we can now. Bury her. There is no way to identify her; we’ll just have to wait for the next family to come to us, to have us seek their missing loved one.”
    “Then we can give them the bad news.”
    “Try not to think about it that way. At least you avenged her. That was all the family could hope for by the time we arrived.”
    “I guess. But sir, did you see his eyes? I’ve never seen the like among your people. They were like mine, that is all of one color, but his were almost entirely black. He had no white, no iris, just darkness, speckled here and there with flecks of the darkest crimson I’ve ever seen. They were like a portal, opening into hell itself.”
    †††††††

    “WHAT AM I DOING HERE? WHERE IS HERE?” Bakhim was shrieking at the top of his not inconsiderable voice, in his terror at the failure of his ever piercing eyesight. He could see in the deepest of caverns, under the most impenetrable of night’s blankets, and had even, on one of his earlier... exploits, seen in the very heart of the Graydwarves mountain, lightless in those passages not containing the forges. But, in this place even his eyes were useless.
    This is my realm... You are mine... Your eyes don’t work, because, in my realm, all is as nothing... Nothing cannot be seen.
    It was the Voice! But not in his head, it was coming from everywhere, all around, like he was speaking to the Almighty Himself.
    “How do you know about my eyes? I’ve said nothing!
    What parlor trick is this? And WHERE AM I?”
    For the last time, you are in my realm... No tricks... In my realm, I know all, I see all, I AM all.
    “Your realm? What does that mean? What is your realm?”
    Death.
    ****

    CHAPTER TWO
    ESCAPING ABYSS

    Charazon and General Mastemios had only been out for a tenday, when they had come upon The Creators Demon. His execution had not even been their mission. In fact, if he hadn’t seemed to have been threatening the General, Adar wouldn’t even have involved himself. A fist is more than enough to handle one crazy Townsman. Any Merc-class warrior worth half his Blood could defeat one measly Townsman. At least that was the General’s belief. Charazon wasn’t exactly like his Feignblood; he didn’t share that view. Not necessarily. A Townsman could fight. Of course to fight a Merc-class is to invite certain death, but there were exceptions to every rule. That was his firm belief. Ever since the Battles. Ever since the re-growth of his arm. Ever since that man. His eyes. He’d said that he’d never seen the like of them before, but that wasn’t true. He’d seen them. He saw them every day. Staring out at him from the past. More than a decade ago. The night she died. The night I lost my arm. It was still sore, even fifteen years after the “procedure”. The Saws said it will always hurt, the price of the use of his new arm. The Saws. A blessing, or curse?
    †††††††

    “Charazon!”
    “Hmm? What?”
    “You were wool gathering again. First Commander Shin-kar says your point for this little excursion. Pay attention man.”
    “Of course. I beg pardon. Not used to company yet, I suppose.”
    “It’s been, what, at least a decade since that first battle of the Everlasting Wars of the Seven Cities. When will you stop berating yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”
    “I know. Can we not talk about this now? We need to be alert.”
    “Oh! You’re one to talk!”
    “Just shut up and keep an eye out, okay?”
    “Keep an eye out? For what? There’s never anything wrong at these places. The Shield works fine! And even if it didn’t the Chromo Filter wouldn’t let a hostile in. Besides, assuming that both of them fail, we have no idea what would come through. They could be friendly, they could be something we can’t handle! What’s the point!?”
    “The point is that if something does get through, we’ll know, regardless of whether it’s hostile or not. Even if it or they do kill us, our absence will alert someone.”
    “Yeah. That makes me feel better.”
    “Just watch where you’re going, huh. I’d be horrorstruck if you “accidentally” fell into the Abyss.”
    “‘Accidentally?’ You wouldn’t! You’d never get away with it. Not since the new security measures the Sorcerers placed on the Portal of the Abyss the last time someone “accidentally” fell in. Do you have any idea the kind of pressure it takes to get through that thing without the help of a Sorcerer?”
    “Yes, but I am a Sorcerer, as you well know, and if you don’t shut your trap, and get your a** moving, Rakash, you will have my ‘help.’ Understood?”
    “Yes Commander Adar.”
    “Good. Now, check the damn thing, so we can get out of here.” As Rakash walked over he began to feel uneasy. He felt a faint tug, inside, as if his soul were being gently, but firmly pulled at. He felt a splitting in his mind. He was here, seeing the Portal, but at the same time, in his mind he could see a plain of absolute darkness, could feel the cold caressing his skin, smell the acrid odder of burning leather.
    “Sir! There’s something wrong here!”
    “No you don’t, I’m not falling for it, so save your breath. Besides, you’re not strong enough to push me through that Shield. It was made by seven Veteran Sorcerers. I’m not sure even I could force you through it. Even with my Sorcery.”
    “That’s just it sir, there is no shield.”
    “What! What do you mean?”
    “I don’t know sir, it’s just... gone.”
    “Move aside, and shut up.”
    As Adar moved forward, a cloak of absolute darkness began to spin itself out of the air, around him.
    “I’m going to put up a temporary shield, so any travelers passing by wont fall in.”
    “But sir, what happened to the Veteran’s shield?” As this question was asked the darkness was beginning to spin itself out again, coiling around Adar’s arms, weaving in and out in intricate patterns.
    “Sir?”
    Suddenly the darkness shot out at the place where the shield should have been, to the Portal, wrapping around the indistinct edges, weaving through it, covering the ground around it.
    “It was shattered.”
    “What! But... that... that would take at least seven Veteran Sorcerers, wouldn’t it?”
    “Yes. On this side. At least thirteen from the other.”
    “So... how? Our Sorcerers wouldn’t do that. So... there are thirteen enemy Sorcerers out there!?”
    “No. One.”
    “WHAT!? But... you... thir-... Oh I’m so confused.”
    “It’s rather simple. There is an energy left behind, a trace, of all magic used. These traces fade with time, depending on the skill of the Magic User, and the strength of the spell. Judging by what I can feel here, there is one, immensely powerful, inexperienced, man out there. Possibly an enemy. We don’t know where, or why, or who, and only roughly when, since these checks are only once a month. Oh, and he’s not a Sorcerer.”
    “Well then what is he?”
    “A Necromancer.”
    “But the study of the Power of Death is illegal! And you’re the only one who can do it by instinct right?”
    “Yes.”
    “How can one man be so powerful as to shatter a Shield of Seven?”
    “Necromancy is much more powerful than simple Sorcery, and the combination even more powerful. But to keep up the power of Necromancy, one must kill at least once a month until you really know what you’re doing. Hence the illegality of its study. Our man uses both.”
    “How can you tell?”
    “The energy. I can feel that of Death, and Life.”
    “So now there are two Necromancers. Can you tell which of you is stronger?”
    “I think that we may be about the same.”
    “So how strong is he?”
    “Well, I am a Death Breather, if that helps.”
    “No, it doesn’t.”
    “That means that I am powerful and experienced enough that I need not kill to maintain my power.”
    “Well that’s good at least… Right?”
    “From a certain point of view it would be, yes. But I get the feeling that our man doesn’t know what he’s doing. And most Necros like killing anyway.”
    ****

    CHAPTER THREE
    BAKHIM

    Bakhim grinned as he stood over what was left of the cocky tailor. So much power! More than even he had ever dreamed he might posses. He could feel the energy he had taken from the no longer laughing tailor filling him, brimming over his restraints. As he walked out the little tailor’s shop, he could see even the most miniscule of cracks in the plaster of the outer wall of the knife shop across the street, could feel them. He could feel every stir of the air, and smell the faint trace of Elves on it, imperceptible to all others, as the wind blew out of the trees of Silverfang, far to the west. It was heavenly. He didn’t even bother stealing all the tailor’s gold. With his newfound power he could just make gold. Or better yet, use his devastating abilities to force whoever has what he wants to give it to him. Bakhim has always been a bully at heart, and he knew this. It may lead me to trouble someday, but for now why not indulge? After all, who’s going to stop me? Suddenly he couldn’t resist the urge to grin. He began laughing quietly to himself. As if any of the lesser mortals could rival his power.
    †††††††

    “Are you serious Adar? He’s actually a Necromancer? But how? No one in our Cities studies it, and the Elves are too weak-hearted to even consider the use of it. Maybe discuss its theoretical applications, but use it? Never. They can barely stand to kill on the field for the Creator’s sake! If you ask me that’s why they’re such good Bowmen. Don’t have to look them in the eye that way.
    But all Elves aside, who could it possibly be? You don’t suppose the Graydwarves have any Power-Users do you? I don’t really know much about them, but the Dwarves don’t seem to have many and certainly no Necros.”
    “It certainly would be a miracle by the Creator’s own hands if any Power-User Dwarf didn’t fry at least himself! Hah. A Power-User Dwarf!” interrupted Rakash, the only one at this impromptu meeting that didn’t hold some kind of rank.
    “The only “miracle” that has ever taken place in the Dwarven Citadel is that they haven’t all died of alcohol poisoning already,” First Commander Shin-kar added.
    “As to who it may be,” Adar said, bringing them back to the subject. “If it isn’t one of us, and it isn’t an Elf, or a Dwarf, whether of the gray or normal variety, then the only possible conclusion is that it is someone not of this world, and not simply the return of someone banished or someone who “fell in.” Apparently the Chromo Filter was not effective. The Veteran’s vaulted Shield was just as ineffectual, seeing as how it was utterly destroyed.”
    The General tried to digest these thoughts for several minutes, but found them more disturbing the more he dwelled on them, and eventually decided that the middle of a “War Council” was hardly the time to stop and debate the merits of an idea that was based in something that he knew very little about in the first place.
    “Okay, on second thought, let’s not get into who just now. All identity theories aside, is it really the threat you make it out to be, Adar? You put his power on par with yours, but- and don’t take this the wrong way- you aren’t all that powerful a User. I mean, not compared to a Bond of Seven, and certainly not to a Sharing of Thirteen!”
    “Actually, sir, I am more powerful than either of those, or, indeed both. Very much so. I just don’t use the Power out of respect for the laws. Whenever you’ve seen me use my power, it’s been Sorcery. Necromancy is unbelievably more powerful.”
    “You keep saying that, but how so?” interjected Rakash.
    “Okay. I’ll explain it the best way I can to people who only have a theoretical knowledge of Power. The simplest way to put this is that Sorcery is the power of life, and Necromancy that of death. But their differences don’t stop there. Both Powers rely on the concept of Parallel Value. That states that to create something, something of the equivalent value must be given. In Sorcery this is the energy of life. To use the energy of life, one must put in at least a part of their own energy in order to establish the connection, and use the life power of another. This is why all who use Sorcery will eventually tire, and must rest. Necromancy uses the same power as Sorcery, in essence. But, the power of death is different in that all of the life energy of the creature is given off in one explosive concussion. Since that power is basically there for the taking, and not being used, a Necromancer doesn’t have to make any connection, and thus doesn’t tire. At all. And since things die constantly, an experienced User can take all the Power he wants, whenever he wants. That is devastating enough. But if the User is able to call on the power of Sorcery as well, and establish a connection with a living soul, he can actually rip that soul from its body, and enslave it. Depending on the soul and the skill of the User, this slave could be an invaluable ally.”
    “I see.”
    †††††††