Chapter One
The air inside of the crude temple was stifling, somehow even hotter and thicker than the humid summer night outside the hide walls of the tent. The deeper Raven infiltrated the structure, the stronger the stench of sorcery grew, until it clung to the air and made the whisper of wrongness in his gut too loud to ignore.
There should have been acolytes all throughout the temple. But they seemed to be all dead, a trail of corpses leading his way toward the inner chamber.
Traveling through the silent corridors, he could almost identify the flavor of affinity that lingered in the air, if only he had the time to stop and properly examine the acrid notes. But his second of three targets was somewhere inside, likely in the central chamber. He needed to find the sorcerer and kill them as quickly and quietly as his expertly honed skills would allow, before they completed the ritual. By the look of the corpses, the warlock seemed to be well underway.
Raven picked up his pace to a trot, sticking low and to the sides of the hide walls, senses buzzing at high alert. He traversed the maze of narrow corridors, most of which led to dead-ends and loops designed to confuse anyone seeking the path to the center. That wasn’t a security measure. Well, not directly, anyway, even though the design did wonders to slow him down. It was the way all Kulthene temples were designed—a shockingly primitive test of the purity of one’s spirit for these so-called chosen people. They believed themselves superior to every other nation, especially citizens of the Sovereign Cities on the endless Djudeni like Raven. It was bizarre.
The Kulthenes believed the time it took to find the sacred altar at the center of a temple was a direct reflection of the purity of one’s soul. Take too long to find your way and it was said the priests waiting within would withhold their blessing. That was utter foolishness, but not what Raven found bizarre about this journey. It was the fact that Raven’s targets were not priests at all, rather a trio of warlocks corrupted by their dark powers; each a devout follower of the Cult of the Radiant Star. Worshippers of any of the dark cults made it a point to shun all piety in pursuit of raw power. These warlocks were no different. So why observation of the religious norms?
A soft crunching underfoot broke the silence of Raven’s passage and brought him to a sudden stop. Eyes closed and ears straining, he listened for reaction to his sloppiness as he cursed himself for making a sound. After a few tense moments, he slowly released his held breath and looked down at the packed dirt around his boot. There was nothing out of place at first, but then, just as he went to turn away, a shimmer of reflected torchlight caught his gaze. There was a thin layer of ash. The flavor of affinity that rode the air just outside of his awareness just slid into the place. Pyromancy.
Raven frowned. Something was very wrong. The report on these warlocks said they were powerful sorcerers of life, death, and chaos affinities. None were reported to be either pyromancers or dual aspected. Carrion’s intel was sometimes vague, but always solid; never outwardly wrong. An error so egregious was out of the question.
Raven lowered the rest of his weight onto his lead leg and accepted the crunching of his boots on what he assumed were the remnants of some charred organic matter. He’d need to give up the idea of stealth the rest of the way. From this point forward, if anyone was still within the makeshift temple, they would know he was coming. It was time to switch tactics.
He spun the dagger in his hand into a reverse grip and made a stabbed into the stiffened hide wall beside him, then dragged a ragged opening through to the other side to create an opening wide enough for him to pass through. He had no idea the level of affinity this pyromancer possessed, but the wall itself showed no signs of fire damage, indicating a level of control that suggested a dangerous mage, regardless of magical potency.
It was still slow going, now carving his way indiscriminately through toward the central chamber, but at least he knew he was headed in the right direction. The pyromancic affinity became hotter and more pronounced, another indicator that he was headed in the right direction.
When Raven burst through to the inner sanctum, like that first warlock he’d encountered—and swiftly killed, an altar rested at the center. But unlike that first temple, there was no pack of zealot cultists eager to throw their lives away. Because they were already dead.
He surveyed the scene with furrowed brows. Corpses. Dozens of them, all scattered throughout the spacious interior. Some were piled atop one another with no apparent sign of death. Others were chopped and butchered and scattered about the floor in grisly disregard. Many more were charred husks, utterly unidentifiable outside of their blackened human forms. Raven found it hard to wrap his mind around the disparate methods of death.
It was a brutal scene, one that would be added to the ever-expanding catalogue of nightmares that haunted his dreams. But he didn’t have the time to dwell on those poor souls. He was on a contract, and needed to find his target. To do so, he had to first piece together what had happened. After all, his warlock might be at the bottom of one of the blackened corpse piles.
A mage had both burned and cut through this temple? That was doubtful. A team would be more likely. After all, the Bloody Murder was often not the first contracted to deal with high level sorcery. But by the time it made it to Raven’s cabal of mage killers, all other lesser—and cheaper—options were normally exhausted.
Raven made slow progress as he checked each corpse in his path toward the altar. If another mercenary band or rival assassin had completed this portion of the contract, unlikely as that might be, that meant nothing to Raven. The Bloody Murder received payment up front. All he needed was proof of the kill to preserve the reputation of the Murder.
As he neared the central dais, he could now sense the residual stench of this warlock’s flavor of sorcery lingering in the air. It was a tainted version of life affinity, riding just below the remnants of pyromancy that overpowered his senses this deep in the temple.
Raven grunted as he came to the remains of a single corpse sprawled in the ash behind the altar, burned beyond all recognition. The head was missing from the rest of the charred body. His gut told him this was what remained of his target. That hunch was confirmed when, from where he stood, he raised his gaze to the rear wall of the altar and saw a severed head nailed to the pristine wood, complete with the ridiculous jeweled circlet still neatly in place atop his brows. It was the same circlet worn by the first of the three warlocks that he had killed.
Studying the neck, it looked like a single clean stroke of a blade was what separated head from body. There was no blood and no burns. A glance at the underside showed the wound was cauterized. Odd. This suggested the one who butchered these people and the one who unveiled their pyromancy was indeed one and the same.
He frowned at a creeping suspicion.
The expression frozen on the severed head’s face staring out at him had a mix of shock, horror, and rage. Lips pursed from the macabre sight, he pulled the head free from the wood, crinkling his nose as the residual stench of corrupted life energy radiated from the head.
He paused at a faint shuffling from from close by. The sound was brief, barely audible even in the utter silence that was the temple’s interior chamber, but he’d heard it.
He waited just a heartbeat longer, then turned and dashed toward the nearest tent wall, not waiting for some surviving acolyte to make their appearance. He had what he came for—the severed head of the second warlock.
The sound came again, loud enough this time for Raven to identify the location. He reached the hide wall and snapped his head around to the source. But, his frown deepened, there was nothing but a lone corpse sprawled face-down into the ash. What flesh remained on the corpse was charred and blackened, making a sharp contrast to the bright white of the exposed bone. Raven squinted through the dim torchlight and noted the disturbed ash around the sprawled figure’s arms and legs.
Nauseating life affinity assaulted Raven’s senses, drawing his gaze back down to the head still clutched in his hand. The stench of magic coming from the head was somehow intensifying, to the point that his body tingled from the effect of the black elixir’s magic negating properties from the vial he had consumed.
The life affinity had already grown more potent than the remaining traces of pyromancy that had just dominated much of the temple interior. Seeing that the headless warlock still had an effect on the area wasn’t surprising, given the aspect of affinity. Seeing the aura intensify after the warlock’s, however, was very surprising.
A spasm wracked the charred body, and then a gurgled gasp of air filled the chamber, followed immediately by a low moan the sound of pure agony. A surviving acolyte was his first thought. But no, that woman should be dead by all rights. Undead then.
The animated corpse had been a woman, but it pushed itself up to its knees like a marionette jerked violently by tethered strings, making an odd sight to reconcile. A blanket of ash and soot cascaded from her ruined back and shoulders in a soft hiss. She swayed on her knees, as if she might topple over, but instead grew stronger with each passing moment.
It was no doubt now. The life affinity that choked the chamber created a twisted and perverse healing aura. He wasn’t sure if he had ever encountered life affinity strong enough to raise the dead after the sorcerer themself had been slain. It was impressive. Even after the difficulty he had eliminating the death aspected warlock that he had hunted and killed first, it wasn’t until now that he understood just why the Bloody Murder had been tasked with taking out the threat that these warlocks posed. Had the three warlocks been allowed to complete their strange ritual, their collective power just might have rivaled that of an ascendant.
Of course, that made him all the more curious as to the pyromancer responsible for the apparent murder of this powerful life aspected warlock, along with all remaining acolytes. Part of Raven thought to examine the undead acolyte rising just across the room. But there was no need. Curiosity killed in his line of work, and he had learned over the years it was always best to stay focused on the mission. The hand that butchered this warlock and his acolytes was not the Bloody Murder’s concern. All that mattered was that his second target was already dead and now he could focus on the last of the three warlocks. Which meant it was time to move on. He would leave the wretched undead woman to her fate.
But of course things wouldn’t be so easy. The undead woman’s head twitched violently, then whipped around to regard Raven. She took a step toward him and a length of cord unraveled from her waist to pile on the ash coated ground at her feet. She had been disemboweled.
Another pathetic moan escaped her voice. Only this time, that moan stretched longer, rising in pitch until the hide walls of the inner chamber reverberated with her raw, guttural wail. Soft green wisps of luminescent affinity wafted from her eyes.
That was just great. Not only had the warlock been strong enough to raise the dead even after its death, but this was not the mindless shambling corpses that all but ignored other living creatures until the source of the power faded or was negated. It was exceedingly rare, but if the life affinity was strong enough, not only would a corpse rise again, but it was retain some of its base instincts. And primary amongst those urges was an insatiable hunger.
Raven glanced down at the headless corpse of the warlock, then back up to the corpse now regarding him, teeth bared and eyes wild like a rabid animal, and sighed in frustration. Not knowing how fast or strong the corpse would be in undeath, he would not take the chance of turning his attention away from it to attempt to cut through the hide walls to exit.
Raven sighed as he set the head down in the ash beside the corpse, then slid his fighting dagger back into its sheath. His style of knife work—crippling wounds that maimed or bled his enemies—was all but useless against the reanimated. Instead, he opened the satchel strapped across his chest and reached inside for one of his alchemic orbs, quickly finding the munition he sought.
The dead woman shambled forward, trampling her intestines underfoot and uncoiling more from her abdomen with every step.
At maybe fifty full strides away, give or take, Raven cocked his head, estimated the amount of agitation the alchemy his alchemic munition needed for the creature at the given distance, and then slowly rotated the viscous amber liquid. Soft luminescent golden light began to radiate from the swirling liquid within the orb, illuminating the dim interior of the central chamber.
At thirty paces he intensified the motion and the softly glowing light flared bright, the orb warming in his palm from the alchemical reaction. He needed to be careful here. Reanimated corpses were notoriously hard to kill. The trick was to ensure the reaction was potent enough to do the job, but not become too volatile and shatter in his hand.
Raven waited another three steps, two, one—and then he lobbed the now fiercely glowing orb across the room, causing the elongated shadows within the chamber to shift and dance in the swift moving golden light. It struck the ground and shattered at the corpse’s charred feet, releasing a blinding flash of light in a silent golden detonation.
The corpse jerked forward as if shoved—or pulled, landing on its hands and knees with incredible force. Arms trembling, the corpse strained against the incredible force of the alchemy trying to crush it into the ground. The remaining intestines still in her body were sucked out onto the ash-packed ground, and then the twin ropes that had trailed behind her were pulled into the pile. And then, in a sudden release, both arms snapped at the forearms and it slammed face-first into the ash coated ground.
Raven turned away as the sounds of bones snapping and breaking under the mounting preternatural alchemical force, and crouched to retrieve the warlock’s head. But froze as another tormented groan filled the stifling air, this time from the opposite end of the chamber. He turned over his shoulder to see another layer of ash cascade off the corpse of what had been a burly man whose skin now looked a sickly grey instead of the rich brown. It pushed itself up to a standing position and turned its attention to Raven.
For two heartbeats, Raven assessed the animated corpse, considering the best action to take. Now that a second corpse had risen and, given the number littering the chamber, many more were likely to follow, he now had to turn to the consideration of his current assignment. But all potential options cut short as more groans filled the air. It was dozens, coming from every direction inside the chamber.
“Burning damn sands…,” Raven muttered as he saw corpse after corpse rise around him. Like that first reanimated corpse of the woman he had alchemically ground into the ash moments before, their deep groans gradually rose in pitch, until a chorus of shrieking wails pierced his ears in a cacophony of sound.
Seemingly in unison, the sound cut short and the head of every corpse snapped to him, their iridescent green wisps softly wafting from their sightless eyes. And then corpses all sprinted toward with startling speed.
Raven reacted at once, ignoring the head of the warlock and rushing to meet the closest of the group, sending a pair of throwing knives spinning out ahead to intercept the two closest. His aim was true, and the knives buried dead-center of the corpse’s foreheads. Both pitched forward and did not rise again. Whatever residual sorcery from the warlock that gave them life still held them, but their brains would no longer function well enough to command their bodies.
A quick draw of another pair of throwing knives from his vest sheaths, and he sent two more blades spinning out at another pair of corpses closing in on him. One knife caught a dead man in the side of the head as it ran at him with its head twisted around at a grotesque angle, once again penetrating brain. The second also landed true, but he didn’t have a good angle on the woman’s head. He opted instead for her throat. It was a decision based on pure instinct, the muscle memory of thousands of repetitions aimed at living mages. That last one was a mistake.
The corpse took the knife to the throat without breaking stride and barreled into him with inhuman strength, knocking him clear off his feet. The petite dead woman followed him down and began clawing at the exposed portions of neck and face, tearing deep gashes into his flesh before they even hit the ground. And when they did, the corpse’s weight felt like a mountain pressing down atop him.
The strength of the dead woman was appalling. This was the way of life’s aspected affinity; the stronger the affinity, the stronger the reanimated corpses. It was a testament to the power of the warlock that all of this came from the lingering effects of some incantation cast prior to his death. This one would have been a handful to deal with. It made Raven wish he’d been the one to sever the damn bastard’s head.
Raven ignored the pain of the blackened nails tearing into his flesh and focused on fighting his way through the savagely flailing limbs to the hilt jutting from its throat. He closed his fingers around the handle, pulled it free, and then punched it through its eye, piercing the brain and immobilizing the dead woman.
The entire exchange lasted maybe four heartbeats, but that was an eternity when you had a score of undead converging on you with enhanced speed and strength.
He rolled to his feet, face and neck already healed from the effects of the protective alchemy coursing through his system, and sent the knife he had just punched through the eye of the corpse flipping end over end to bury into the eye of the closest corpse rushing towards him. And then the mass was on him.
He considered using another alchemical orb, but he didn’t have time to cook another munition. Instead, he drew the twin fighting daggers from his waist and planted his feet. The ebon bladed knives danced as he slashed and stabbed, working his way into the thick of the creatures. His movements were well-practiced, but as he expected, the wounds didn’t so much as slow the pack of undead. Still, the effort kept their teeth and clawed fingernails away from him.
Soon Raven found himself pressed on all sides and focused solely on keeping the creatures at bay, having abandoned all attempts at an offense. He growled in annoyance, then slammed his knives back into their sheaths and crouched into a tight ball. In that moment, the horde pounced onto his back, a mound of screeching, rotting flesh all desperate to fulfill their dead master’s final command. He felt teeth and clawed fingers digging into his exposed back, shoulders, arms. And then there was the even more painful forced alchemical healing waging constant war with the damage.
In a matter of moments, his shirt was torn completely from his torso. By the sun, even the thick hide leather of his vest was being stretched and torn. But all that he paid no attention to aside from his mounting annoyance at the situation. It was the bandoleer strapped to his chest that he held tight to.
The undead would rip him to pieces if he didn’t do something about the current position. Of course, he had no intention of letting that happen. He worked his hand into his bandoleer and quickly found the alchemical orb he sought. So pressed by the weight of the bodies atop him, he could see none of the bright yellow radiance of the orb he held in hand, but the etched character on the surface told him he had right one.
He clenched the orb, shattering the crystal and detonating the alchemy in another soundless flash, this time bright yellow instead of the dull amber of his first munition. He grinned at the sudden weightlessness as the weight of the score of corpses on his back lifted and the very ground released him from its grip. He launched himself upright in an eruption of force, sending corpses spinning weightlessly away in all directions. The undead bodies spun or flipped in whatever direction their inertia had sent them.
Raven, too, had shot outward. But unlike the corpses that flailed aimlessly, he had aimed his leap forward, towards the open tarp flap, and shot forward inches above the ground like a loosed arrow. He zipped past corpse after corpse in a clear path.
Up ahead, he saw the point of transition where the effects of alchemy ended and prepared himself as best he could. But there was no real preparation for the moment the ground reclaimed him, and so he held his breath and tensed his body. He was yanked downward with such intensity that he nearly emptied the contents of his belly. It had happened many times, and was, in fact, the prime reason he loathed the yellow alchemy. But spirits, the brew was highly effective.
He crashed to the ground in as graceful a roll as he could muster. He had hit hard, shoulder first, but momentum carried him forward and back to his feet without anything more serious than what would have been a bruise had the power healing alchemy not still been working in his body.
A quick glance around to assess his surroundings made him beyond pleased with his work. He had corralled the undead horde into a mass as tight as he dared before detonating his alchemy, and the result was that nearly every one his undead attackers now floated weightless in the heart of the temple’s main chamber, harmless and shrieking whatever personal agony they experienced.
As for the remaining four stragglers outside the radius of his alchemy, well, he drew his daggers and made quick work of them before retrieving the warlock’s floating head, then padded out through the tent flap.
He made it only halfway down the corridor when another horde of undead rounded the corner at the far end at a full sprint. It was scores of the wretched people, all rushing toward him in such a frenzy they shoved and trampled one another as each fought to get to him first.
More pressed in at the hide walls from both ends, desperate to get through. The corridor walls pitched and warped, ready to collapse. Cursing, Raven spun and doubled-back into the main chamber of the temple. His plan was to skirt around the center that was still under the effects of his alchemy, and duck out of the far side hide opening.
Except, he didn’t make it more than a dozen strides before slowing to a halt as he caught sight of more undead already pouring into the room from that direction. Most got caught in his alchemy that still dominated the center, but enough had chosen a random path that sent them around the trap to cause concern.
To this point, the damage done by the horde had been superficial at most, easily healed by the healing tonic that he had taken prior to entering the temple. But enough ripped flesh and nasty bites, and even the minor bumps and bruises would eventually add up. Death by a thousand paper cuts. Raven grunted, sheathed his daggers, and downed his second and final vial of the gold healing elixir as he took a moment to assess his surroundings.
Coming to a decision, he nodded, annoyed at having to resort to such an extreme measure, but then a powerful spike of pyromancy crashed through his senses and seized his body. It was powerful affinity, the source of which continued to rise, folding onto itself as the sorcery grew and expanded, choking the air with the stifling energy.
Even as the rising air temperature within the temple became unbearable and shimmering waves of heat distorted his vision, the ambient affinity rose higher still. The undead no longer sprinted towards him, instead moving at a sluggish, wavering pace, as if trying to beat back the air itself. Blisters formed and then burst from their ashen skin and their tattered clothing caught fire.
But that was not so for Raven. The other support alchemy coursing through his body—the black elixir—had taken effect, negating the powerful waves of pyromancic sorcery. He felt nothing more than the tingling in his skin that caused discomfort enough for him to grind his teeth.
And then the pyromancic affinity spiked, rising so sharply that the air trembled, and then detonated into a churning storm of fire that sent searing air whirling in a deafening howl. The world itself became waves of blinding fire and driving winds. The intensity of the sorcery drew concern as he felt the negating alchemy that protected him draining with terrifying speed. He thought to run clear of the sorcerous storm, but it cut short with sudden relief.
In the fire storm’s wake, soft flurries of ash and smoldering embers flittered to the ground amid acrid black smoke. The altar, the bodies, the hide walls, and all other evidence of the temple were all gone. All that remained were the thick plumes of steam venting from his body, a collection of perhaps a hundred charred bones scattered all around him, and the open night sky above.
Some two hundred strides away, well clear of the blast radius, stood a black cowled figure.
Raven looked down at the now charred and blackened bandoleer still strapped to his chest and hissed. The alchemical coatings on the bandoleer that protected his munitions from sorcerous assault had nearly failed. That would have been deadly.
He drew his daggers and looked at the figure in black, his anger rising.
The hooded figure cocked its head to the side, and a coarse voice filled the air. “Is that any way you greet me now, Raven?”
“Had you been anyone else, Torgos, and I would have already killed you.” Well, except for Rook, of course, but Raven kept that thought to himself. “You know the Bloody Murder rules. We do not interfere with each other’s assignments. And even more important, we do not steal targets.”
Torgos raised his hands. “You’re right, Raven, of course. You know me. I wouldn’t have, had I any other choice.” Torgos gestured.
Raven scowled, but offered no response.
Torgos sighed and lowered his hands. He approached Raven with purpose. “Sheath your damn knives, Raven. I don’t mean to cross blades with you.”
Raven grunted and slammed his blades home. “You’d better have a damn good explanation. I didn’t need any help.”
“Burning sands, I know that.” Torgos laughed, a hitching, wheezing sound. “Cool that temper of yours. I’m supposed to be the hot blooded one.” Torgos crooked a wry smile that went unanswered. “Damn Carrion to the driest pit in the ochre ocean for putting me at odds with your bull-headed ass.”
Raven cocked his head. “Carrion sent you?”
“Why else would I be here, half a world away?” Torgos lowered his cowl, revealing a face more lined, weathered, and haggard than the last time Raven saw the old man. He reached into a fold in his heavy coat and produced a folded parchment. He stopped a stride away from Raven and held it out to him. “Also, against protocol, I saved this, just to calm you down.” He tipped his head toward the parchment. “My orders.”
Raven knew the look of the parchment. A set of orders. He sighed and reached behind his head, undid the band that tied back his bound hair, and shook his thick locs free to fall past his shoulders. It was a petty move, just to make the old bastard have to wait an extra moment. Then he took the parchment and read.
Frowning, Raven handed the paper back to Torgos and, for a long moment, was at an utter loss for words. “Why would Carrion give you my assignment?”
Torgos shrugged. “Yes. He needed these upstarts put down, so he sent me to finish things up.”
Raven swept his gaze around the burning expanse. “Quickly? Carrion emphasized discretion above all. He wanted nothing to alert the Kulthenes of our presence in their lands. This hardly does that.”
Torgos shrugged. “You don’t send me when you want subtle. Fact is, there was a change in priorities. He needed them put down fast and you back at The Roost.” He produced another folded parchment and held it out to Raven, this one still sealed with Carrion’s wax mark.
Raven took the parchment, broke the seal, and read over the single line scrawled within. He looked back up at Torgos with a frown. “I’ve been recalled, back to the Sovereign Cities.”
“Allow me,” Torgos said, holding out his hand. Raven gave him back the parchment, which Torgos promptly set aflame in his hand, then tossed it to the charred ground. They both watched until the note disappeared in the ashes.
Raven shook his head. “Not headed back to The Roost after all.”
Torgos arched a bushy brow. “Oh?”
“I’m to report to Carrion’s personal estate, in Bhadestan.”
Torgos pursed his lips. “The Bad Lands eh? Well, that’s new. Ah well, looks like I’ll be traveling back to The Roost alone, then.” Torgos then turned and began walking.
Raven frowned. “The third warlock?”
Torgos didn’t bother turning as he replied. “Already smoked that one out. She was a tough one. I’ll need to see Coragyps when I get back, get more of her gold and black elixir.”
Raven watched him walk for a time, then called out to the man. “Hey. Sorry for the terse greeting. I wouldn’t have actually—
“Put a knife in me?” Torgos barked a laugh. “Don’t you try and shake my hand and blow smoke up my ass at the same time, Raven.” He wagged a finger into the air as he strode away. “You would have. But that damned Carrion sent me, knowing I was the one person in the Bloody Murder you would give a chance to explain the situation.” He shook his head. “The bastard is always a step ahead.”
