Chapter 393: On the Trail
On the Trail
Outside the Lyceum, six inquisitors had gathered. They stood at the centre of the square; any other citizen passing by skirted along the edge, as if the presence of the mage hunters physically repelled other people. Feeling vulnerable, Martel walked out of the castle to cross the open space and join the waiting group.
Four men and two women turned to look at him. Besides the blue uniform with the emblem of Sol, they all wore gold in different places. Shoe and belt buckles, cloak clasps, jewellery on their fingers, in their ears, and around their necks; to Martel, it felt like approaching the emissaries of Death, clad in coldness. In addition, each of them had chains nestled in their belts and a weapon, either held in their hands or attached to their waists. They all seemed to favour different types; blades with a length that hovered between dagger or short sword, a staff, axes or clubs. Martel did not need his magic to know that each of those weapons would be edged or tipped with gold.
One inquisitor, holding a club in one hand with the other resting on the pommel of a dagger in his belt, scowled as Martel approached. "Sod off, boy, or we'll be hunting for you next."
Refusing to be intimidated, Martel held his gaze. "I'm here to lend you aid. You'll treat me with respect."
Red colour flushed the zealot's cheeks. "What did you say, boy?"
"Calm yourself, Henry. This must be the mage sent to help us," said another inquisitor, the one armed with a staff. He looked older, perhaps a little past forty, where Martel judged the others to be in their late twenties or early thirties. Furthermore, his emblem of Sol looked more complex.
"I was not sent by anyone. I volunteered to help. Nobody asked me."
"You're just a child! Barely a hair on your chin," Henry said in protest.
Martel nodded at the two women in their company. "Beards are not a requirement, I notice."
"He's got a point," said one of the female inquisitors with a smirk.
"Enough. We appreciate the help and willingness," said the ostensible leader of the group. "Have you been informed as to the nature of the undertaking?"
More than that; as the only one, Martel knew what they faced. But already sensing the suspicion radiating from at least one of the mage hunters, the young wizard saw no reason to elaborate. "I am fully aware."
"In that case, let's not waste any more of Sol's blessed light. Noon will soon be upon us." He set into motion, and the others followed. Martel did as well, though happy to fall behind a little and bring up the rear; yet he soon discovered that whenever he tried, one of the inquisitors would naturally slow their pace as well.
***
They walked for a while until they reached an entrance to the sewers. After unlocking it, they descended. Martel finally remembered a preparation he had overlooked; a cloth mask doused in perfume would have been good. Instead, he had to rely on breathing through his mouth.
Almost on instinct, Martel summoned a flame in the dark and sent it ahead down the tunnel. As soon as it got close to the nearest inquisitor, it died. The zealots laughed as one of them took out a lamp and ignited it.
Not to be deterred, Martel summoned another flame and let it fly up under the ceiling, moving it forward while avoiding the gold-clad inquisitors to finally illuminate the path ahead.
The staff-wielding leader, whose name Martel had learned to be Tiberius, took the lead. They began walking down the narrow ledges of the sewers with the rancid water floating in a stream next to them.
Even if they kept a bit of distance to him, Martel could feel the presence of the other people at all times. Every time he reached out where he should feel heat, he felt only the cold. He remembered the ambush by the docks, where he, Flora, and Marcus had been lured into guarding a house while guardsmen and inquisitors assembled outside. If they had not reacted so swiftly, Martel doubted they would have escaped in time; even then, Flora had nearly lost her life by taking a severe wound.
So strange to think back on that. Flora and Marcus had been his comrades in arms, and the inquisitors his enemies. Now, it was Flora who had tried to engineer his death, and it was the inquisitors with whom he marched to battle. Less than half a year had passed between these two events.
Whatever their faults, the inquisitors knew the way. Soon after, they stood in front of the entrance to the catacombs, once more boarded up. Two of them removed the obstacle while a third placed a hammer and a small bag of something metallic next to it. "No point dragging that around in there," he said in response to Martel's quizzical look. "We won't need to board it back up until we return."
"Be on your guard," Tiberius warned them as the passageway became clear. "You all know what roams these corridors. Do not make light of the danger."
Nobody responded other than to grip their weapons; one after the other, they entered the catacombs.
***
After a short while, they reached the first fork in the road. As the inquisitors halted, they turned to look at Martel. "Last time, we searched as far as we could before we had to turn back. But I was told you might have a better idea where to look," Tiberius said.
Not as such; Martel would have to catch the scent of the jinni first. Which required him to be clear of the inquisitors, whose gold dampened his magical sense. A fatal flaw in his plan to stay back and let the zealots face all the danger. Moving to the front of the pack, Martel stood before the two diverging tunnels ahead. He closed his eyes and let his magic feel what it could.
Nothing pleasant lay ahead. An uncomfortable presence, either caused by the countless dead or the necromantic energies preying upon them. But nothing as powerful as how the jinni would feel.
Even with his eyes closed, Martel could feel the inquisitors watching him. He needed to choose. With no obvious sign to follow, Martel turned towards the tunnel that gave the strongest response to his magical fumbling. "That way."
Tiberius made a chalk sign on the wall to mark the way back, and they continued.
***
They walked in silence, Martel still leading the way. Magelight illuminated the path, but it could not tell him where to go. Every now and then, he paused to once more feel what he could, though he knew it would probably not help; on previous occasions, the presence of the jinni had been so powerful, it had been impossible to miss.
The fourth or fifth time that Martel examined the magic around him, something finally felt different. A shiver down his spine, a touch of sadness, an unhappy memory resurfacing unprovoked. "Something is ahead," he whispered over his shoulder.
The inquisitors moved forward and past him, raising their weapons. This left Martel unable to use his magic against any target down the corridor, so he hoped they were ready for whatever came.
Moving around the bend, a skeleton animated by necromancy came into sight. Shreds of ragged fabric clung to some of its bones, somehow not decayed despite the centuries. Slowly, the skull turned its eye holes towards Martel's magelight floating in the air.
To his credit, despite his other flaws, Henry stepped forward and raised his club. The undead creature noticed him and responded by snapping its teeth together and charging him. Just before it could reach his throat with its bony fingers, his blunt weapon came smashing down to strike the skull clean off the spine. All the bones fell to the ground.
"Almost too easy," the inquisitor grinned.
Martel looked at the remains of the undead creature. "Don't celebrate too fast. If it rose from the dead once, it might again." Sure, it lacked a head, but being without muscles and flesh had not proved a hindrance either.
Henry looked at him with an overbearing expression. "Necromancy mimics real life. It can't reanimate something too far removed from how it looked when alive." Just for good measure, he stomped his boot through the ribcage lying on the ground. "Don't they teach you anything at that school of yours?"
"We don't learn about necromancy in detail, or old bones, for that matter. A more apt topic for mage hounds." Despite his barb being aimed at the inquisitors, one of them laughed at Martel's jest. As for the wizard, he moved past Henry and all his gold in order to sense ahead. Strange – despite the destruction of the undead creature, he felt the same cold disquiet as before. In terms of magical energies present, nothing seemed different.
Or rather, if anything, it felt stronger. Taking a step further away, it increased greatly, emanating from ahead. It even came from the sides with the alcoves where the dead lay arraigned.
A sudden thought made Martel push through all the inquisitors to the back of the group. The same creeping sensation filled the space behind them, the way they had come. Martel realised his mistake. He had followed the trail of magic thinking the source lay ahead; he had failed to consider that the gold-clad inquisitors bringing up the rear left a dead area behind him, which his magical sense could not penetrate. This cold, crawling presence of ill sorcery did not originate from somewhere forward; it surrounded them.
"Go back," Martel exclaimed, turning to look at the inquisitors. "Go back!"
Around them, from every alcove, the dead began to rise.
The source of this c𝐨ntent is freewe(b)nov𝒆l