Book 3: Chapter 35: The Accord

Book 3: Chapter 35: The Accord

Alchemy revolves around extracting and enhancing the natural properties of materials to achieve a specific outcome. This process is fundamentally powered by the alchemist's own Mana, which dictates the final characteristics of the concoction. Materials with a stronger innate magic are more malleable and responsive in this process. However, the quality of the end product relies more on the Alchemist's skill and belief in his process than on the materials themselves. Instead of relying on chants and rituals, alchemy uses precise recipes and measurements, though the essence of the practice with its use of Mana remains deeply rooted in spellcraft. The act of creating a magical potion is simply a spell construct in a liquid form.

Therefore, hypothetically, a true master can achieve wonders, such as creating a healing potion from mere water, provided they possess sufficient talent, enormous Mana reserves, and an unwavering belief in their method. A highly unlikely proposition, as the whole art is steeped in esoteric nonsense.

- A Study of Alchemics by Vincenzio Barbierri.

In my arrogance, I had made a grave error in judgment. Whips of segmented bone flowed like liquid lightning from the Necromancer without warning, striking at me with fierce suddenness. The Mimic within formed a shield almost as swiftly, a thin barrier of false wood and iron against the storm. Where sharp white bone met flesh, a dull cold blossomed, eating away at my Health as they drew fresh blood.

In response to the cold, a familiar emotion grew in the pit of my belly. Sparked twice already in a single day, it was not hard to stoke the remaining embers of anger into a new flame. In answer to that anger, the dark part of my magic begged... no, demanded, for release. A release I willingly granted.

Entropic Aura burst from me in a seething pulse, an echo of the final death knell. Ivory bone began to turn gray as the waves of raw entropy crashed against bone whips that slashed at me. Seven were their number, heads of a relentless hydra made of engraved bone. Mystic sigils flared briefly about the tendrils of bone, tiny motes of black eroding its arcane nature. What attacks that struck through my automatic guard now bruised instead of drawing blood.

“You must be quite powerful for a Visitor,” snarled Vincenzio the Necromancer.

I took in his words as I stepped away, trying to get some distance as I drew the dagger at my waist.

“You are indeed powerful, but you will find one to be no easy prey,” he continued in a flat clinical tone, the barrage of bone tentacles on my person unceasing.

Game theory dictated that the correct response to an attack was to initiate an overwhelming counter-attack of one’s own. It was the only logical choice. However, my need to complete my new quest stayed my hand from following this obvious course.

“I have no quarrel with you,” I shouted as I dodged a snake-like length of bone. A crashing tinkle of glass soon followed as it smashed into a row of beakers, vials, and alembics behind me. Liquid spilled from them, and an acrid stench filled the room like rotten fruit plucked too late from the vine.

This was definitely not how I expected a Necromancer to fight. But then again, outside of video games and fantasy, what did I know of Necromancers?

“But one has quarrel with you, feckless servant of the hated gods. The stench of their blessings is upon you. The reason for your coming can be no other than one’s demise. One is not so feeble of mind to believe in coincidence,” he answered, blind hatred staining his words with passion, and twisting his expression.

Another whip of segmented bone came down, as if in thunderous judgment. “Do you know not of the hundreds that are caught up in the wake of your kind?” he spat as I barely dodged his attack. “The suffering that you people bring to this world!?”

"All of you lack free will, no more free than the pitiful zombies one mastered in youth. You're merely another puppet in their grand, foolish game. Ignorance being, perhaps, your only defense. Exterminating your sort has ever been a most mundane and odious task. Like weeds in the garden, you sprout where you are not welcome. One will pluck you out, as one has ended the others."

He began chanting in a flat, mechanical monotone, each syllable echoing softly. A glowing circle materialized, expanding into a series of concentric and intertwining rings. These rings spun slowly, with archaic and mystical symbols flashing and revolving around the center. A sickly green hue, the mystical spell construct, seemed to bleed unnatural magic.

It was plain to see that if he finished whatever spell he was casting, my immediate future would not be a bright one. Greater Drain, my only offensive magical option, whispered seductively in my ear. Too long had it been, it whispered sibilant and sure. Still, I was hesitant to attack. There had to be another way.

Even as I was weighing up my options, my shield blocked two more, almost simultaneous, blows of hard bone. My unnatural shield provided an impressive defense, but it was not perfect. Each successive blow against the Mimic shield chipped away at its Health. A few more blows snaked through its guard, bruising and cutting where they impacted against my flesh.

The Necromancer's voice surged, rising to a tumultuous clamor with echoes from beyond the veil of death. Oddly, I heard the faint tinkling of bells and shuddered as the air grew unnaturally cold and a chill crept over me.

“I am free. My freedom bought with agony and suffering. Damn the gods and their ilk! Who are you to judge me so? What do you know of me?” I declared in defiance, my cries almost feeling cathartic in their expression.

A flicker of hesitation passed over his face, and in his corpse-wax features I saw something hinting at a burgeoning seed of doubt. His relentless assault halted, the whirling flails of sharpened bone freezing in place.

"You dare to speak against the gods... Such defiance would be unthinkable for one in their power. Do you not fear the punishment of heaven?" He regarded me with a mix of suspicion and wonder, as if I had suddenly sprouted wings and horns. "Or is this a ruse? Yes, it must be a trick!"

I felt I was close. This encounter, this story event, could be solved with something other than violence. Just a little more, one final push.

“Vincenzo! I have offered you no harm, and have only defended myself. A Visitor you say, what is this? I fear there is a hidden meaning in such a word. I offer you this; I am not of this world, if that is your meaning, but I swear upon my mother’s grave that I am no friend of the gods,” I confessed as sincerely as I could.

My mother, to the best of my knowledge, was probably still very much alive but the lie came easily to my lips for the added dramatic effect.

Stretched across a few agonizing seconds, silence reigned supreme here, in the lair of the Necromancer. However, it was soon shattered by the growing heavy thud of many boots descending the stairs.

The bone growths disappeared, slinking back into the Necromancer’s voluminous robes. Hastily, I sheathed my knife, my shield becoming a tangle of wormy threads, then disappearing into my arm.

A good thing too, for a group of well-armed men burst into the basement room, scant seconds later. Armored in ensorcelled heavy plate and chain, they could have been mistaken for automata golems. With weapons drawn, they scanned the scene before them through the grills of their helmets.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded one of them, his voice deep and strong, yet somewhat muffled by his heavy helmet. His presence exuded a menace, like that of a faceless and uncaring machine.

Vincenzio stood motionless, like a statue. "One was being assisted by a Copper in one of one’s experiments, Ezlas. Unfortunately, an accident occurred," he replied slowly, his eyes not quite meeting those of his questioner. It seemed to me that his gaze was fixed on a point just beyond Ezlas' head.

"And if I were to go upstairs to verify, would I find that such a request was indeed made? That your experiment has received the necessary approval?" Ezlas's voice rose sharply in alarm, his tone verging on the edge of irritation.

“One has never been one to just go along with accepted societal norms,” The Necromancer shrugged nonchalantly, a gesture that seemed out of place with my image of him. He let out a raspy sigh and shook his head, subtly dismissing the question.

The armored man approached Vincenzio with heavy, metal-clad steps, towering over him. Yet, despite his imposing stature, he did not seem to overshadow the Necromancer.

Removing his great helm and tucking it under his arm, he revealed his features. Beneath, a padded mail coif struggled to contain the curls that peeked out from its edges. Yet, it was his face that was of note, dispelling much of the dread and mystery. With homely, rounded features, he resembled perhaps a benign village baker. A face far from menacing, but strikingly ordinary and harmless.

More seriously now I asked him, “Why? For what ends?”

“By what obligation does one have to explain my reasons to a stranger?” he rasped.

The man was like a woman. Hot and cold, my patience was being worn away slowly but surely. “Are we not to speak plainly? I am indeed, as you say, a stranger, but one you know you can trust. Perhaps a Visitor as you call it. As another offering of trust, I will tell you of myself. I am from a different world, a world called the Earth.”

“A rather bland name for a world. Too bland to be anything but the truth. Then, yes you are a Visitor. A being summoned from another world for the Divines’ inscrutable purpose. But not you. You are not, or it seems, the common sort of Visitor. What is different about you is that you seem to be in full command of your faculties. No thrall are you, and one would be able to detect the heavy mark of their yoke upon you. Perhaps, it is as you say, that you are free?” There was a hint of something else in his voice. Was that eagerness?

“A moment,” he ordered, a tentacle of bone flowing out of his robes to grasp an old tome from a shelf. The appendage plopped the hidebound text on a research counter in a small explosion of dust. “One must not let hope undo caution. This is a holy text of Kaes-Loka, the god of hearth and herd of the steppe savages. Read from it and make a mock of it.”

I frowned, his meaning escaping me for a moment. “You wish for me to read a little from this text, and ridicule it? Just to make sure, of course,” I said, caught off-guard.

“Has one not stated it as such?” he replied flatly, nodding at the old text. “Go on.”

“Very well, then,” I acceded. It was a small thing to humor the man.

Little did I know that it would be the first request of many. He produced many more texts of various gods, making me mock their names and ridicule the wisdom upon the pages. Religion in this world, as it was in mine, was an institution built upon silly lies draped in the garment of fairy tales.

However, enough was enough. After going through a veritable pantheon of gods, I decided that I had only endured enough. I had only put up with this as much as I had because I wanted answers.

“What more would you have me do? How many other gods must I curse?” I asked in a strained voice. “What more must I prove?”

The sallow and pale man rubbed his chin in thought. He bent down to rummage through a battered chest in the corner of the room. It creaked with the squeal that set my teeth on edge. After a few moments, his questing hand emerged, clutching a rough stone. Cracks ran across it and it held a sick and weak glow of stained yellow.

“Place your hand on this, it is a Binding Stone. Blessed Zajasite. Similar to what the Guild uses. Swear upon that you will not speak of our conversations,” he offered, holding out the stone in front of him.

Shrugging and wanting to get this over with, I quickly took the stone... no, snatched it really, in haste. “I do swear to keep the confidence of Vincenzio Barbierri. Good enough?” I declared.

There was a quiet pause, pregnant with the heavy air portent. Vincenzio looked as if he was shouting something at me, but he seemed so distant as if he was speaking through several panes of glass. Suddenly there was a shift, and a sense of vertigo overcame me. I felt as if I was lying down instead of standing. I could see nothing save for an inky blackness. Was I blind? In panic, I drew a heavy breath. There was something around my mouth, a pressure like a mask. Distantly I heard odd beeping noises and rhythmic mechanical hissing that grew and lessened in cycles.

Then a cracking sound, like ice breaking under a heavy foot. Disorientated, I was standing again. More importantly, I was free from the claustrophobic dark. I could see once again, and before me was Vincenzio, looking to be muttering and nodding to himself.

Incredulously, I took an involuntary step back. Yellow sand was sifting lazily through my fingers. Sound slowly returned as I came back to the here and now.

Disorientated, I could only croak stupidly, “What happened?”

“One does believe you are responsible for breaking an almost priceless artifact,” he replied, pointing with a bony digit at the last of the sand falling from my fingers.

“What the... that was no fault of mine,” I stated in immediate denial.

The man looked at me as if I represented a profound quandary. “Indeed, perhaps it is so. It seems, within you, you possess the innate ability to defy the goddess of the twin blades herself. That was, as one stated before, a Binding Stone. It places a geas of sorts on a person who gives an oath freely. It seems that you are free of even divine constraints. Both a worrying and hopeful prospect,” he stated calmly. “It gives weight to your claim of being free from divine meddling.”

“Then do we have an accord?”

“And compensation for the Stone?

“That was no fault of mine. The fault lies with you.”

“One had to try. Indeed it does, one grants you that. A small price to pay. Yes, we have an accord. For the Isurru Sutu, one means Beron’s Dream, and other things. Consider this a downpayment of sorts,” he acceded, producing some dog-eared and well-worn notes from within his robes.

“Your scroll?”

The man almost seemed to bristle. “We will discuss that another time. A magister’s Manzaza is a personal thing. A heavy matter.Unclouded by recent events and emotion, one must think and reflect for a time.”

“Very well then... another time. But when exactly?” was my reluctant reply. I wanted more information. And sooner, rather than later.

“Word will be sent in good time. Where can one find you?”

I pursed my lips, before giving my answer, “The Begonia’s Shade. Do you know of it?”

“Yes, one knows of it. We will speak soon and one will send for you. Now, it is best that you be off now. Ezlas will likely return with his lackeys soon. It's best if he finds only the straightforward truth that his simple mind can grasp," he explained.

After a brief pause, the odd man offered me a suggestion in an almost conspiratorial tone, "It would be wise for you to continue playing the part of a humble adventurer. One will post some requests for some... some odds and ends. It'll provide us with a bit of cover for any future meetings."

I nodded in agreement. “So be it. Stay true to your word, and I will stay true to mine, Vincenzio.”