Necrophobia by Mark Devaney Read Free Book Online

the kneeling cultists were blank-eyed and watched almost without seeing. Enthralled and ensnared to the will of the two before them. Others seemed unaffected and fidgeted and looked around, some shivered in the cold.
    “—Our master ordered us to deliver the dragon and we will be rewarded.” The rotten man interrupted, eliciting a glare of pure hatred. His voice high-pitched and callous, somehow it felt colder and more chilling than the mountain itself. There was a cruelty, an indifference in his tone that left her on edge.
    “No sacrifice is too much. Our master conquers death itself. Pain and death are fleeting, temporary.” The man continued, cackling to himself. The other, dour-faced man winced at the mention of ‘master’, it was subtle. So subtle she’d almost missed it. Whatever foul pact they had it seemed there was an unspoken disagreement, a difference of opinion or goals. Interesting she thought.
    “Faith and sacrifice are the cornerstones of what we do today.” He smiled, or perhaps assumed he was smiling. The rotten man’s faced twisted and twitched, pulling itself into a pained rictus. “We shall be rewarded. Immortality is within our grasp. The master has promised it so. And it is with your aid we’ll accomplish this. And of course, our friends here.” He turned to face his Caelite army and bowed towards them with an out-stretched hand, gnarled and rotten almost to a claw. As one the assorted bodies mimicked his motions, jerking and twitching as they did so. Like a puppet controlled by less-practised hands, bowing towards the kneeling cultists. Their burning emerald eyes and leering death-masks remained static as they rose.
    “Enough Morveil. Before you talk us to death.” A low murmur of laughter passed through the kneeling cultists, or at least those with the free will to do so. The armoured man’s eyes never left Morveil’s scarred and rotting face. Barely restrained hatred shone through. “The deed is not yet finished. You—” He pointed toward a group of the nearest cultists. “Assist me in the ritual. The rest of you stand guard. The Caelites will figure us out soon enough.”
    He turned and stalked towards the slain dragon and knelt before it, ignoring Morveil’s petty and childish sneer. Dipping his fingers in its fresh blood he began a series of complicated symbols into the snow. Beside him four cultists stood watch around him, chanting in a language Claire couldn’t make out over the storm.
    “Claire.” Razakel whispered behind her. His breath and what little colour he had returned.
    “There’s too many of them. We should fall back and summon help.” She whispered, risking another glance. The cultists not assigned to whatever blasphemous ritual wandered in small groups watching the tomb, the undead too staggered aimlessly around.
    “Not quite. The undead far outnumber the cultists. We take them out it’s a much fairer fight.” He knelt down beside her. At least twenty cultists were still present, not counting the two leaders. Fair fight indeed …she thought.
    “We can’t take out the undead without raising suspicion.” She countered but the sorcerer smiled and shook his head.
    “We can. Use your bow and take out the rotting one in the coat. He’s the one controlling and summoning them. Take him out the undead will die with him.”
    She peered past the fallen plinth, the rotting man — Morveil stood near the other leader arguing over something. The kneeling man paid little attention to him and continued the ritual. The Caelites were miles away and she had no idea how long the ritual might take.
    “I’ve…” She hesitated, feeling foolish. “Never killed before. Not a person.”
    He smiled and placed another reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I envy you, I really do and I’m sorry to ask this of you. They’ll sense my magic, the air is too charged. We need to strike with the element of surprise.”
    “I know, I know. He’s evil. Just give me a few