Arkenholm

Pale blue and ice cold. Four words to describe a corpse, and none come to the mind faster then these. Of course, these thoughts usually come from mortals and humans with no real connection to the dead. For those of a more daunting origin; For those with only half a heartbeat, the dead are no more unpleasant then their very own flesh and bones. For those with only half a heartbeat, the dead very well could be their own flesh and bones. The only thing separating this dead from the poor cadavers are the sigils and runes that bind their souls to artificial (or a slightly more natural) body, and hold them to this plane.

A circle of light glowed harshly on the ground, slowly warming with an unnatural heat, the very ground bulging and contracting, an ungodly pulse monitoring the satanic heartbeat. The circle in question was the appropriate size to accommodate three people of average size linked arm in arm, though only one stood in the center. The edges were tainted with a lingering white, a combination of all colors minus black, though that remained in question to be a color of it’s own.

Outside the circle the world remained ignorant to it’s purposes and deeds. The stars shone heavenly through a thin veil of clouds that was drastically thickening. The moon watched over the realm of Arkenholm, a silver-rimmed eye half-closed, hovering betwixt the realms of sleep and wake. It would only be an hour until she was allowed to close completely, twin brother Sun taking her place.

The ring’s glow sharpened. The man inside inhaled quickly, his heartbeat slowing despite the adrenaline free lining through his veins. The wind picked up, swirling around the circle as a host of demonic spirits, a double-helix of red lace pulsating. It did not penetrate the man’s defense. A final intake of breath, and his heartbeat stopped.

Rising hands began to fall, fingers twitching in post-mortem relief as blood began to slow and cool, relaying it’s icy fringe throughout the body. Impossibly, the corpse remained standing, though the knees threatened to buckle at any time. The ring’s color began to die down, the thick outline thinning as the red winds beat at the ring without mercy.

Then his eyes shot open. They had shut when his heart had stopped beating, but no longer would they remained as closed as the gates of Hell. No longer would the gates of Hell remain as closed as his eyes once were. The circle’s edges suddenly thickened with a pulse, the red wind forced away with an increase in the pulse’s speed. Driven away, the spirits howled in anguish, a soul shattering shrieking that lacerated the souls of all whom heard it. All but the man.

Clenching his fingers tightly into fists, he brought them close to his face, studying them with dead hands. He recognized the blue that his flesh was turning. It was the same as his father’s. His father, a renowned Necromancer in their home, was one more thing to him.

His hero.

Splitting his hands to his sides, his palms pressed against the ethereal walls of his self-made prison. A reverberation. Black rings pulsed outwards from his hands, the rhythm matching the pulsing of the ring below that surrounded him. Without a sound, the stillness inside the circle grew in eeriness as the thick clouds above released their torrential downpour of ocean-spew.

He remained dry. Not a flicker of movement could be seen inside the circle. Even the clouds above seemed to part when they drew near the approximation of the dirty circle.

Then the ground split open.

Patches of grass and mud moved themselves, rising from the ground in vertical rectangles, roughly six feet long each. Hovering, the thirteen boxes floated closer to the Necromancer, positioning themselves in a perfect circle around him before landing. The rain worsened, filling the holes that remained with mud and washing the mud from what was inside the boxes.

The corpses.

They too made no sound. Nearly description less, they were what one would expect to see when they read the word ’corpses’. Like the necromancer, they lacked a heartbeat. They lacked a pulse. As if to make up for it, the black ovals that surrounded his hands on either side of the spiritual cylinder increased in generation, as if making up for the lacking hearts in the surrounding area.

A crack of thunder like the whip of the gods.

As if on cue, the 13 corpses bent unnaturally, falling onto rotten knees. Slowly, their bodies moved with a creakiness, like a machine that had not been used in ages.

They were bowing.

To he their Lord, the corpses showed their allegiance and silently swore their fealty.

He had them.

Bending his elbows, the necromancer drew his hands back to him, though his palms remained as they were, and the black pulsing followed. Slowly, he pulled the cylinder into himself. Blinking in conjunction with his summoned, unholy deviants of the earth, his perversions stared with black eyes, rings of red surrounding each pupil. It was the only true notation of their origin. The bodies had been perfectly preserved in the dirt of Arkeholm, as the corpses always were and yet would remain to be true.

With a push, he snapped the circle. It physically broke from him as an explosion of raw power coursed through his body, and then the bodies surrounding him. They were given the life they would need to carry out their deeds. When they returned to Hell, he would regain his life.

He would regain his heart.

Until then, he would remain as dead as they, his skin cold and unpleasant. In a matter of days, his eyes would gain a familiar red ring around the pupils, and he would be undistinguishable from the others.

Except for the crown.

A black crown, simple in design yet complex in function, would appear upon his head in the presence of another Necromancer, as was the design. And in his world, with his family nonetheless, he had best become accustomed to wearing the mark of royalty. Especially the royalty that he was.

The King of The Dead.

A simple title given to all Necromancers of moderate skill, it defined him from the others that lived in Arkenholm. Or at least, from the others that existed. Few lived so unsullied enough to be given the title of “Alive”. Only the temple to the east that housed the Monks of Raj-Dice could boast themselves truly Alive. Only they Paladins.

With a groan, the corpses rose. Nodding, the Necromancer slowly lowered. In the midst of his spiritual subjugation, he had begun to levitate slightly. Touching the ground with unfeeling feet, his shoeless soles did not feel the wet grass. His hair and skin did not notice the rain as it now touched him.

Cold streaks of water slithered down his body, pooling on the ground below. A hint of steam rose as the ring that had been surrounding him faded, the only remains being a black circle scoured into the earth. The mud that had rose with the bodies snaked it’s way back into the holes they had originated from, expelling the water that had filled it.

Aside from the ring and the corpses that surrounded he, there was no evidence of what had occurred this day. Nodding to each corpse in turn, a telepathic command was given to each of them. Each received it and turned, heading off to fulfill their respective tasks without question.

When each had gone, the boy turned slowly. With hesitant steps, he began to head back towards his village. It was a comfortable rath, surrounded by wooden stakes the size of trees. In fact, that was what they were. Trees that had been skinned and sharpened, impaled into the earth. Each was inscribed with the protective sigils and prayers that had made his village so famous. Making his way through the woods, he brought his hands up occasionally to brush a branch out of his way. The going was slow.

It had taken him until the sun had risen to arrive back at his home. Knocking on the gate with the large tree knot that they were so accustomed to using, it did not take long for the guards to open it and allow him entrance. Smiling with thinning lips, he thanked them silently.

“Welcome home, Young Master.” One replied pleasantly, only to receive an elbow in the gut from his partner. With a confused look, the welcoming guard questioned him with hushed whispers. After a quick explanation, the guards face went pale. Of course his face went pale. It was usually the reaction one received when they met Joseph Arkenson, son of Abraham The Dead King.

“Thank you, kind guard.” His response baffled the two guards. They had expected him to be as cold as his father. Truth was, he was. However, he was also fair. One good turn deserved another. He had been welcomed warmly, so why not thank the welcomer just as warmly? Turning from the guards, Joseph silently trod down the sandy path towards his hut.

As he neared the doorway (mats woven from the hide of dragons), he heard his
father’s voice.

“GET OUT!” A typical roar. The hides burst to life as a thin woman scrambled from the hut, loping on her hands and knees to escape the furious monster that was Abraham. Smiling, Joseph shook his head slowly. How amusing.

Entering the hut, a black crown appeared on his forehead in a puff of fire.

“Father, I have returned.”

“I can see this. Come sit.” Abraham was surprisingly kind to his son. Well, that was not the case. Abraham loved his sons dearly. After their mother left, they were all he had for family, and Necromancers were not known for their legions of undying, devoted friends.

“What is that on your forehead? Another makeshift Crown? What did I tell you about faking successive summonings?” His father rose, a hand raised to show Joseph prudence.

“No father. This is a true crown. Feel it.” Standing boldly, Joseph stepped towards his father, arriving within a single stride. Grunting, Abraham brought his thin hands towards the crown. Joseph watched with a fire of passion in his dead eyes. Although Abraham’s hands were thin and bony, they packed the punch of 10 men inside them. Or so the legends went.

“Hm.. Not bad.” Joseph felt his father groping at the ethereal crown on his head. Although it could not be physically felt, there was a pulse of sorts that emanated from the area. A spiritual heartbeat, one would say. “How many?”

“13.” Joseph boasted, knowing his father had only summoned six on his first attempt.

“…Are you lying?” Abraham’s own ghost crown slowly began to form atop his head of wiry hair.

“No.” Defiant and pure, the truth resonated from his mouth. There was no question.

“Joseph Arkenson.. My boy.” Abraham swept his young inside his arms, the embrace uncomfortable for both of them.

“Dad… Lemme go.” Joseph whined, causing his father to release him instantly.

“Of course… my apologies..” Abraham murmured. The two looked each other in the eye before bursting into laugher.

“Where’s Cain?”

The question came after an hour had passed. The two had been sitting at a table carved from the bones of a rather small giant, drinking mead, when Joseph registered what was missing. His elder brother was not home. The question hung in the air, pregnant as a bubble of acid hovering over Joseph’s head, ready to pop at any moment and render him dissolved, a puddle of flesh and bone.

“Cain is… Gone.” Abraham would no longer look Joseph in the eyes. Joseph’s anger leaped at the surface as a leopard, clawing at his face with sharp daggers resting in furry hands covered in blood.

“Where did he go?” Joseph hissed. His brother was always pulling stupid things like this. Standing quickly, his chair toppled behind him. The clatter was evidently audible in the morning air, people outside hushing their companions to listen. Slamming his hands into the table, the bone cracked from the force behind it.

“Where. Did. He. Go?” Joseph repeated his question, each word punctuated with a tremor of anger.

“He left, okay?!” Abraham too rose, his chair flying out the window behind him and crashing into the meat house. There was a collective grumble in the growing crowd. Flies would get into the meat. Abraham’s single fist shattered the table.

Glowering, Joseph turned from Abraham. Raising his right hand into the air, he snapped his fingers sullenly. A staff of oak hazed into existence, topped with a pulsing black gem.

“You failed at stopping him.” It was not a question. Joseph stated this with blatant disregard for his own safety. Abraham was readying himself to attack Joseph, when the pure honesty of the words pierced his still heart. He was right.

“Yes.” His voice was quiet.

“Goodbye.” Gliding from the hut, Joseph knew he would not see his father again for quite some time.
“Joseph, wait!” Abraham rushed from the hut, following his son. Turning, Joseph glared at his father.

“I will return with him dead or alive. If you try and stop me now, I will have no choice but to strike you down!” The crowd instantly buzzed to life. Joseph, the broken son, had threatened his father. Joseph, the failure of the family, had threatened his FATHER.

“Strike me down?” Abraham breathed this repetition of Joseph’s words, before a cruel smile curled onto his lips. “And just how do you intend to do this?”

With a returning smile, Joseph raised his staff into the air slightly, before slamming the butt of it into the ground. The sound of it echoed loudly, impossibly
drowning out the utterances of the village as they watched in amusement.

A red wind, familiar to all Necromancers, escaped from Joseph’s lips as he exhaled slowly. A red wind was the worldly counterpart to a simple thing. A soul.

“I have found a soul, Father. A soul that should interest you greatly such as this will not be taken lightly.” Suddenly, he cracked his staff against the ground again. Behind him collected dirt and stones from the grounds around him, until a recognizable lump was formed.

“No…” Breathed Abraham, whom took a step backwards.

“Yes.” The simple word echoed out of Joseph’s mouth as the dirt and stones formed a temporary body. The body of the one person that Abraham would never strike, living or dead.

“With the words of Subjugation and Fettering, I bind the red winds of Arkeholm’s maiden.” Sweeping his arm back, Joseph struck the body with the jewel crafted on the tip of his staff. Instantly, the soul that had been swirling around him slowly, lazily, sparked into movement, rushing for the corpse. Invading it’s nostrils, there was a heavy intake of
breath.

“Awaken, Mother.” Joseph’s voice finalized the incantation, and she that birthed him was reborn.

“Abraham…” Her voice cooed from warming lips as the earth and stones were slowly transmutated into flesh. Turning, Joseph slid from the village. All eyes remained on the woman as she approached Abraham slowly. The man trembled in fear. He promised himself he would never bring her back into this world.

“Why did you leave me in Hell, Abraham?” She asked, a spark of passion returning to her eyes.

“Marian…” Raising a hand to brush the hair from her eyes, Abraham’s attempts were thwarted as she swatted him away.

“ABRAHAM!” She roared, a fist reared back. Launching it forward, it struck Abraham directly in the gut, throwing him backwards. He crashed into the meat hut, unconscious. There was dead silence. Until…

An old man laughed.

He remembered watching the scraps the two would get into when Marian was living. It went similarly to this.

“Glad to have you back, Lady Marian!” The man called, and soon, the entire village was cheering with happiness. Their beloved Maiden was home.

Joseph was not there to see it. He had disappeared into the wilderness, his eyes set on the north. That was where Cain had gone. He knew it. Raising his staff, he cracked it downwards onto a large stone. It cracked slowly, before shattering into inestimable shards.

Thirteen Corpses suddenly surrounded Joseph.

“Have you all been successful?” He received 13 nods.

“Now comes the important question…” Each waited silently, unmoving. Their eyes bored a hole into Joseph as they waited.

“What do you wish?” It was customary for a Necromancer of Joseph’s heritage to repay their summons with a boon. Twelve corpses stepped back to allow the first summoned the first bid. It was the way.

“M’lord. I wish to remain in this world, in this body, for 10 years.” He was very precise.

“Any particular location, or will you follow me?” Joseph asked, slipping a hand into the pockets of the long robe he wore. Withdrawing a simple coin casually, he began flipping it through his fingers.

“I wish to remain with my daughter and wife.” His answer pained Joseph. He had been expecting it nonetheless.

“Then go to them.” The coin was shot into the man’s open hands. The moment it made contact, he disappeared with a flash of red.

“Next.” The process repeated with similar answers. It was only when he reached the final corpse that he received a drastically different request.

“I wish to fight.”

It was simple enough, really. What unnerved Joseph was the fact that the man appeared to be a young man. He had summoned him for the sole purpose of scouting, not fighting.

“Fight? You wish to fight? Just who do you wish to fight?” Joseph asked, bewildered.

“You. I wish to fight you and prove my worth. You call us from the depths of hell as if we were puppets. Your brother is especially cruel. He enjoyed calling upon the spirits of women for certain deeds which should never be done to living women, let alone those that had passed on.” He smirked, obviously enjoying the look of shock on Joseph’s face.

“Very well. We will fight. BUT… I need help with one more thing from you. You obviously have a passion regarding my brother. Why not assist me in returning him to my father, or at the very least, killing him? You may exact your revenge then.” Joseph explained, the final coin flipping through his fingers at an unnerving speed.

“And after that?”

“After that we will fight.” He promised the corpse, the coin still in his hand.

“Deal.” The coin was tossed. The coin was caught. The contract was made.