The Nekromancer - 68. Chapter 68

The room was filled with the flicker of black candles, Mythara and Anya standing in the middle of a sigil. Four months spent in the alternate dimension, the three of them working on rituals, and Mythara had finally declared them ready. Jakun wasn’t so sure. The amurrun was nervous about the room; the darkness reminding him of the vision he’d had in Graydirge. He had his fears about this ritual, but it was the only way he could see to get back at Loran. There were no guarantees that Jeremy and Amnor Sen would return, or that they would take him to Absalom with them, despite what they said.

Everything was set up to perfection. The flow of necromantic energy was already present in the room, an ambient wave of death that Jakun could tap into at will to push through the ritual. They would be here for nine hours. He would be here for nine hours, his sacrifices dropping in the first six hours. It had taken Jakun a while to get used to the thought that Mythara was okay with death. The dragon said that he had died before, and that what came after for him would be unaffected by any sacrifice he made in Jakun’s name. If his death would provide the catalyst for good acts, Mythara was willing. Jakun didn’t trust the dragon’s faith, but he wasn’t going to question it. Mythara knew the risks. If he was wrong, he would no longer exist.

Anya was a different matter. She would be back tomorrow, if all went well. Mythara had mentioned a possibility of her being trapped in the phylactery instead of Jakun’s soul, the undead werewolf a soul in and of herself. But the way their chamber was set, the dragon had assured the amurrun that it was a very slim chance.

Mythara stood in his circle, black wings spread behind him. It was his natural form, no transmutations anywhere on him for fear of disrupting the magic present. The bipedal dragon nodded at Jakun, the amurrun opening his book, now filled to the brim with necromantic writings and theories. There were nine steps to the ritual, nine groups of spells to be cast, and as he started on the first set, the catfolk felt a small thrill pass through him.

Succeed or fail, what happened today would change Jakun forever.

“Lethil sia sepa de sia mamiss.”

The words were spoken, the ritual started. Energy flowed around him, dark waves passing through the cat. For each sacrifice he made, the energy would dissipate, saving his body to complete the spell. Using Mythara’s formulae, Jakun had figured he had three hours to release the pent up energy. For the last three hours, he would be forced to take the necrotic energy into himself, but by that point, if they were correct, it would be too late to kill him.

Words poured from him, his body relaxed, a conduit and a sacrifice in and of itself. Slowly the energy grew, Mythara’s voice chanting with him as the dragon spoke from memory, aiding the amurrun in the spell.

And then the first wave of energy exploded from Jakun. It coalesced into a singular point, before whipping across the room to strike Anya in the chest. A piercing scream escaped the werewolf, her eyes wide in agony as she was lifted off her feet. Jakun stumbled in his words, Mythara’s voice building as he carried the chant. The dragon pulled Jakun back to the moment, the catfolk staring at Anya as he returned to the chant.

‘Forgive me Anya.’

The spirit’s eyes stared at him, her mouth open in a wordless scream as she started to unravel. Unbridled fear leeched from her, and Jakun realized his vision had been right. Sacrifice was meaningless without finality. The werewolf was dying for him, and she would never return.

The energy shifted suddenly, blood red eddies appearing within the werewolf as she was suddenly sucked toward the book in Jakun’s hands. The catfolk steeled his nerves, pushing on, ignoring the tinge of hope that threatened to carry him away. Anya had been taken by the necromancer’s curse. Maybe, just maybe, he could bring her back.

“Majak wer bekir ekess ve.”

What was left of the sacrifice filled him, the sense of power growing almost orgasmic to the amurrun. His voice picked up, the biggest hurdle behind him. He would shed his tears later, for now there was no stopping.

Mythara watched him closely, the dragon’s voice matching his, a seemingly endless well of energy pouring out of the remaining sacrifice. Jakun could taste it already, another explosion building as he met Mythara’s eyes. The dragon stared back unflinchingly, not allowing the budding lich any control over Mythara’s emotions. It brought Jakun back to his senses again, the amurrun focusing back on the book that had taken his former life.

There was no longer a curse, Anya’s soul buffering the catfolk’s. His soul was his own again, ready to be stored for eternity. And as the sixth hour approached, and the energy built, Jakun began directing his energy toward himself and his phylactery.

Another ball of energy, Mythara grunting as he was struck. His demise was quick, sudden, body erupting into a blinding darkness that flooded Jakun. The amurrun stood firm in the river of undeath, feeling it tear at his mortality, a burning agony that he was well acquainted with. He could do this. It was easy compared to what he had been through at the hands of his master.

And the ninth hour came, Jakun releasing the last of his spells.

“Duulo ve de sia mamiss. Origato sia sepa qe tokeq!”

Death came swiftly for the catfolk, a spear of darkness piercing his chest. Jakun screamed as his body was assailed by the spells he had cast. Shrinking into himself, the necromancer’s mind recoiled, his soul ripped from his body. He felt empty, drained. There was no floating away on a peaceful river. There was only darkness. And then nothing.