“Sit up.”
Gorain’s body followed the order. Through the dim haze of his broken awareness he saw he was on an iron table. The stone walls of his keep surrounded him, and Gorain saw he was in one of its lower chambers. The man in black regarded him intensely. A shudder swept through Gorain’s body.
Suddenly, Gorain again felt the pain of his death. He moaned and gasped and clutched at his throat. The man in black waited patiently.
“Never fear, Gorain, the tremors will pass. I have brought you back myself, and I know these arts better than any.”
Time passed, and then Gorain felt his body still.
“Now, before we begin, I must perform some tests. What is your name?”
“Gorain Delman,” Gorain heard himself say.
“Good. We are within your island fortress. What is it called?”
“Nexos.”
“Excellent. Now, I believe some introductions are in order. My name is Sentar Scythran. I am called the Lord of the Night. Who am I?”
“Sentar Scythran,” Gorain said woodenly. “The Lord of the Night.”
“Well done,” said Sentar Scythran. “Now, as you probably know, you are dead. You are under my power and the power of my necromancers. However, you can also express your own thoughts. Speak freely, Gorain.”
“Why have you done this to me?” Gorain moaned. Something inside his consciousness was missing. He was no longer a man. He was something else.
“An excellent question, my friend,” said Sentar. “I am planning an invasion, and I have a great army fit for the task. My plan is simple, as all good plans are. I will take my army across the sea in my many ships and conquer the lands in the east.”
“I don’t understand,” Gorain mumbled.
“Well, Gorain, great armies are led by capable commanders, and my necromancers know little of naval strategy or siege tactics. You are to become one of my commanders. I have brought you back, personally, with all of my skill set to the task. I have worked for three full days on you, and a large amount of my precious essence has been spent on the lore that enables you to sit here and speak with me. Look at your body,” Sentar instructed.
Gorain examined himself. He was shirtless, and saw thousands of tiny glowing symbols covering every visible portion of his skin. Gorain felt power course through him. Even as he suffered through the missing parts of his awareness, Gorain felt strength and speed in his limbs and the complete absence of the living’s problems of pain and fatigue.
“I will never serve you,” Gorain said.
“Ah, but I think you will.” Sentar Scythran nodded to a man in gray robes, who had been standing against the wall, watching the proceedings. The gray robed man disappeared through a door, returning a moment later with two followers.
Gorain’s wife and son looked at him with dull eyes that were perfectly white. On the throat and hands of both woman and child were more of the strange runic symbols, glowing eerily blue where clothing didn’t cover their pale skin.
“No,” Gorain cried. He lunged forward.
“Sit and be still,” Sentar commanded.
Try as he might, Gorain couldn’t contradict the order.
“What is your son’s name, Gorain?”
“Arsan,” Gorain whispered.
“Arsan,” Sentar said, as if tasting the words. “Now, Gorain, you can think; you can feel. How much of your little son do you think remains? Do you think his inner self screams with horror at the things done to him? Answer me, do you believe there is still a part of his soul, chained to his body?”
Sentar had asked Gorain a question, and even as he tried not to speak, Gorain answered. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I want my son free.”
“Necromancer Renrik, a demonstration, please. Take off Arsan’s hand,” Sentar instructed the man in gray robes.
The necromancer took out a long dagger and lifted one of Arsan’s arms. Without hesitation Renrik hacked at the flesh, grimacing as blood splashed out and he was forced to push through the thin bones of the boy’s wrist. Gorain’s son didn’t make a sound, but Gorain wanted to scream. The necromancer removed the hand and held it up, the stump of the limb dripping red blood to the stone in a steady patter.
Even as he raged at what was being done to his child, Gorain felt a greater horror at the fate of their souls. His eyes roved from Sedah’s beautiful face to Arsan’s sightless eyes. Trapped in some horrific semblance of life, Gorain’s wife and son would never be free.
“Speak, Gorain,” Sentar Scythran said.