ZIHAEN, The Shadow of the Revenaunt, Book 2

CHAPTER 18 - LORREVAAL (Part 2)

The mausoleum showed black against the ruddy twilight. Vasthul could see every detail of the silhouette as sharp as if it were drawn on paper: the spires on the roof, the wings of the creatures along the edges, all dilapidated grandeur of a bygone era. The man in the brown robe paid no attention. He hurried to the entrance, closed by a massive bronze door. He got no further. The chills went through his emaciated body and his coughing seemed loud enough to wake the dead. He leaned against the frame and waited for the worst dizziness to subside. After a while, he put his right hand on the lock and gathered his strength. Soon the metal began to glow. When it was weak enough, he pulled the door open and stepped into the dark. A snap of his fingers and a faint light appeared around his head. Before him stood the ancient sarcophagus. On the cover was a magnificent marble image of a man in a long robe, with folded hands and a stern expression on the stone face.

Vasthul pulled a paper from his pocket and checked the right pronunciation again. Then he stretched out a hand to the sarcophagus and read the spell aloud. His words rolled sonorously through the narrow space and reverberated from the walls. When the last echo had died down, an unearthly sound rose from the chest, a lament so full of pain and longing that even Vasthul's heart grew cold. Slowly the lid of the stone coffin slid aside. The dust of centuries whirled around it and the sorcerer had to suppress a sneeze. With a crash that should have echoed all the way to the afterlife, the lid fell off the sarcophagus and two fleshless hands gripped the edges of the coffin. Slowly the dead body came erect and its hollow eye sockets stared at Vasthul. 'Why,' said the undead inaudibly. Then, like a silent cry of pain: 'Why!'

'Ambiaunt Neferestan?'

'That was my name.' The voice seemed to come from far away and it was filled with emptiness.

'I am your master.'

The undead rattled the invisible chains that linked him to Vasthul. 'It seems so,' he said. 'Why?'

'I need the strength of an Archmage.'

Hollow laughter. 'What strength? I'm dead, mortal.'

'But your magic isn't, daghuur.'

'Daghuur! I am Archmage! I am... daghuur. Why?'

'I seek power, daghuur.'

The undead laughed scornfully. 'Don't we all? See where it brought me.'

'The Revenaunt is my lord, daghuur. Through him, I will not die.'

'The Revenaunt! Has he returned? No... I would have noticed. You will bring him back?'

'Soon,' Vasthul lied calmly. 'But for now, I need soldiers. Undead soldiers to defeat my enemies. And you will call them for me.'

'Not here,' said the archmage. 'Those who rest here are of no use. We must have a battlefield.'

'I know of three battlefields.'

'Take me there.'

Vasthul coughed and pulled himself onto his horse. 'Follow me, daghuur.'

The archmage thought of the chains and the Revenaunt. Obedient and tireless, he followed his new master.

Shortly past sunrise, after the daily morning meal of pancakes and cawah, they left. The stream was still swollen and they had to ride higher along the edge of the moors.