The small pack of demons didn't want to go towards the city. They saw the buildings collapsing, smelled the rot that spread out like a miasma across the land, heard the unending death cries of the damned, and felt the cold touch of death deep in their bones. Every instinct they had told them the dead city was dangerous. Yet they moved towards it, just like hundreds of others of their kind, the voice in their head commanded it, and it could not be disobeyed.

Scrambling through the muddy craters and trenches, they reached the shattered earthworks that marked the edge of the city. Their skin itched, the chill in their bones grew worse. They snapped and chittered at each other, unsure why they felt so strangely.

Creeping along the ground, they watched a crumbled building disintegrate into dust and fly up into the sky, adding to the glowing black cloud. Needles poked into their flesh. Wailing filled their ears.

Going further into the city, they found the streets perfectly clean. There was no dirt or debris on the hard surface. It looked and felt like the top layer of asphalt had been stripped away. Translucent, distorted faces watched them from the piles of rubble.

Huddled together, finding comfort in the touch of their pack mates, the demons pushed on. Limping as their feet began to burn. Whimpering as their hearts laboured to keep beating. Gasping as the air became thick and hard to breathe.

A pale, ghostly white figure came out of the shadows. It moved oddly, suddenly jerking forwards, only to stop as its limbs painfully contorted. Pitch black eyes stared at the demons through thick, messy hair.

Growling, the demons prepared to attacked.

Shadows, barely visible in the darkness that covered the city, stretched out of the open holes that had once been buildings. Tendrils of frost spread wherever they touched.

Seeing the shadows, the demons backed away from the unknown threats. They yelped and whined, their joints felt jagged, tearing their flesh with every move.

Pitch black birds with short, hooked beaks, and long pale arms under their wings soared out of the clouds. Their high pitch, childish laughs filled the air. Their sharp, white talons brushed against the demons skins, leaving long, thin cuts.

The demons cowered. Pain wracked their bodies. The bitter cold seemed to turn their bones to ice. They felt their lives being sucked away. They wanted to wail and scream, to call for help from their kin, but the air was too thick, it filled their lungs like water, choking them.

A bloated, sickly white hand rose out of a puddle of filthy water. It was followed by a rotting corpse, it's skin dangling from its body like an ill fitting, waterlogged coat. It vomited foul smelling, polluted water. Dead white eyes glared at the demons, as it crawled out of water that was only a few inches deep.

The dead of Kodor watched as the demons whimpered and writhed in agony. Their bodies and souls joining the growing cloud of death.

As the flesh and bones disintegrated and blew upwards in the wind, the dead made their way out of the damned city. Memories of warmth and food filled their minds. They would take both from the demons. And if there were no demons, there would be other living things, they could take the warmth and food from them as well.

For the tenth time in as many minutes Emer pushed her long red hair away from her eyes. Sweat dripped down her face falling onto her breasts, her stomach growled for food, she was itchy, and she just wanted to lie down and sleep. But she couldn't.

It was the third day of the ritual. She and her fellow mages had exhausted themselves powering the runes that surrounded them. two hours at a time, it didn't sound like much. On the first day it had been a little taxing, but it was only two hours, then they had eight hours to rest before doing it again. Clean up, eat and sleep, then power the runes once more.

But each time she had to kneel on the rune and open herself to the magic, it seemed to take a little more from her. She could feel the energy coming from the Necromancer, it flowed through her body. The pain, hatred and despair within it tainted her soul, filling her mind with the screams of the dead. Even when she slept the screams stayed with her.

The unnatural blackness that hung over her head howled in time with the screams. It was made of the same taint that clung to her. She refused to look at it. Certain that if she did, the death inside of her would tear itself free and rise up to meet it, taking her soul with it.

She wanted it to end, but not by dying. Not here.

If she died here, her soul would be in a place worse than the Abyss. At least in the Abyss she'd be torn apart as if she never existed. If she died in this cursed city, her soul would join the damned in the tainted cloud above. She would be turned into one of the monsters, roaming the land, screaming for blood, in never ending torment.

The dead were watching them. They surrounded their little area of life and sanity. Children turned into monsters laughed and shouted, flying through the air on wings of death. Shadows moved along the ground, feasting on the light, leaving only darkness. And the soulless eyes of the wretched bodies that shouldn't be moving watched her, hungering for her.

Emer wanted to stop the ritual. She wanted to feel clean again. She wanted to crawl under her blanket and hide from the eyes that never blinked.

But if she did that, what would happen next?

Would the protective runes falter? Would the ritual go out of control and destroy everything? Would the ghosts go mad and break through the barrier. She didn't know. She didn't want to know.

Silently she continued to feed the ritual. Weeping as her soul became dirtier and more corrupted.

Sitting at the very edge of the safe area, Sagan watched the ghosts, searching for a face. He could hear her voice. His wife was calling for him. She was somewhere in the darkness, searching for him.

The laughter of the children echoed in his mind. Clutching his head he wished they would shut up. He couldn't hear his wife. He needed to find her. He'd left her alone once. He couldn't do that again. But there was no way for him to get past the crowd that surrounded the safe area. The tattered, bloated, moaning bodies were so thick he couldn't even see the road.

Why hadn't he died with her?

“Sagan?” his wife said.

Looking up he finally saw her. “Iva! I knew I'd find you here. That's why I came back. I never should have left you.”

She smiled, her beautiful blue eyes half hidden by her golden brown hair. “I knew you'd come back, and I forgive you. And look, you have a son.”

He broke into a grin, at the sight of the tiny baby boy. “He's wonderful,” Sagan sobbed.

“You should hold him my love. I'd been waiting until you returned to give him a name. Hold him and give our son a name,” Iva said.

“I can't step out there, come in here. It's safe in here.”

“I can't do that. I'm locked out. Can you let me in?” she asked. Her voice was enchanting, even better than he remembered. It sounded almost like she was singing.

The thought of holding his son filled his mind. He needed to let his family in. He needed to make sure they were safe. The rune was keeping them out. If he stopped the rune, they could come in.

Wandering back to the camp, he saw that almost everyone was asleep. Only the mage in the middle of the ritual area was awake, and he wasn't paying any attention, too busy weeping and covering his face. Sagan grabbed a sledge hammer they'd used earlier to help clear away some debris while setting up. That would work.

Iva and his child were waiting for him when he came back. His wife had the most beautiful smile in the world.

Swinging the sledgehammer over his shoulder, he brought it down on the rune. Cracks appeared in the pale blue surface. The light slowly faded away. Now he could be with his family.

Grinning he looked at his wife, holding his arms out to her and his son. A pale lady wearing a faceless wooden mask stood where Iva had been, she was carrying a ragged blanket full of sticks. Falling back in horror, he saw she had no feet. Then he was swarmed by the dead.

As they tore him apart, he heard the shrieks and screams of his living companions.

Through the haze of exhaustion Keir felt the flow of energy buckle and fade away. One of the ritual areas had fallen. He was too tired to tell which one it was, it didn't matter. Reaching out with his mind, he grabbed the loose energy, wrestling it back under his control.

He wouldn't let the ritual fail.

He was Emperor Keir, the most powerful mage to have ever lived. He'd bent a continent to his will. He would not fail.

Ignoring the pain that flared in his mind, he forced the magic that filled the city to obey him.

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Necromancer Unmanned will be updated every Sunday. My other story Doom Valley Prep School will be updated every Monday.

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