Excerpt of The Conquest of Kiynan by Eric P. Caillibot

1 - Lament

A thick, nearly impenetrable fog hung over the vast, desolate landscape, unremarkable except for the thousands of tombstones comprising Tombe—the great cemetery of Kiynan. Undisturbed for uncountable years by even the slightest breeze, the stagnant air reeked of mildew and corruption. 

A vague silhouette appeared. The man moved wearily, slowed and hunched by his age and responsibilities. He wore a thick but worn cloak, charcoal grey, almost indistinguishable from the fog around him. The man leaned heavily upon a short oak cane, lined almost as deeply as his tired visage. He stopped near one of the larger grave markers and placed a wrinkled, trembling hand upon it. The man’s long, grey-white beard gently brushed the granite tombstone as he peered down upon it. His eyes, pupils and whites alike, were a dark grey, matching his sombre garb. He took a deep tremulous breath, and closed his eyes, turning his senses inward. Feelings of sorrow and despair washed over him. He concentrated on these emotions and embraced them. His grief and misery engulfed him. His mind centred on a name, Hanna. He muttered the name over and again, immersing himself more and more fully into utter despair. Finally, he opened his eyes.

Although one would have thought it impossible, the fog had thickened, yet the old man could see more clearly. He was no longer amidst the gravestones; instead pale, translucent shapes wandered aimlessly past him. The ghosts paid him little heed for they could sense that he was not of their world. Only one of the shapes turned toward him. Recognising the old Necromancer, the spirit moved unhurriedly in his direction.

“Hanna,” said the grey man.

“Master Marhault, I am glad you are here,” returned the spectre, though neither her tone nor her expression revealed any sign of such an emotion. Her voice echoed and faded as if she were speaking to him from across a great distance.

“I have sensed something stirring far away.” 

“As have we all,” the wraith gestured ambiguously to the others around her as she spoke. “We are afraid.” Again, neither her pale face nor her eerie tone revealed any trace of feeling. “The demon spirits are heading south, obeying some irresistible compulsion, answering some inaudible call. It is the Conjurer’s doing.”

“But what will he do?”

“He yearns to return. I fear he has discovered a way…”

“Impossible!” The old man experienced a sudden flash of anger and terror. His vision began to blur, and he felt his contact with the world of the dead slipping away. He quickly recovered, letting the anger pass through him, and again he filled himself with pure misery and despair. His vision cleared, focusing again on the spirit before him.

“And yet, he has done it, or nearly so…” the apparition’s voice trailed off.

The Necromancer felt himself tiring, and knew he could not stay any longer. He nodded to the dead woman, who merely drifted past him, her eyes distant. He slowly allowed his overwhelming emotions to seep from him. The world began to blur again, and he closed his eyes. As he returned to his normal state of emotionlessness, he reopened his eyes. The phantoms were no longer visible, and granite tombstones, cracked and decaying, again surrounded him. He took a long deep breath of the moist air, gathering his strength. Then he removed his hand from the stone, leaned on his cane, and hobbled back the way he had come.

The shape of a large structure manifested itself out of the fog ahead of him. He looked up at the monastery, Lament, stronghold of House Despair, as he continued to walk toward it. Suddenly, a faint tremor of fear struck through him, like a cold splinter. He stopped and gazed to the south, beyond the Valley of Tears, toward the ruins of Lethe. He shivered slightly, and turned back toward the monastery, stepping up to the door.

As he approached, the massive oaken double-door, more than twice his height, opened inward before him. A servant stood by each of the doors and sealed the entrance behind the Master. The old man began to shuffle his way up the long staircase leading to the next floor. His breath was ragged and his legs ached before he was halfway up. A young man, dressed in the same charcoal grey clothes and cloak, ran down the steps to the old man. Placing his arm around the Master’s waist and placing the Necromancer’s arm around his shoulder, the youth helped his exhausted senior up the rest of the steps.

“Take me to the Long Room.” 

The youth said nothing, but helped the old man down the winding hallway. They entered the cold discussion room, furnished only by a long pine table and matching chairs. The novice eased the Master into the chair at the head of the table.

“Now gather the others. Tell them we have urgent need of discussion.”