The [Necromancer] stopped. He was in the middle of a small forest, having hid from all people for the last two days, travelling at night. But now—he turned his head. He had been running for the border.

The nation bordering this one, Ailendamus, would shelter him for a month or two while he accumulated a second horde. Two months, and he could try again, though he’d have to be fast and lucky. They’d give him that time and perhaps the bodies or flunkies necessary for a second attempt. Albeit reluctantly. He would have excuses to make, but he’d have another chance; his employers knew he was dangerous enough to keep alive.

“Someday I will turn on them too. Noelictus, Ailendamus, Calanfer, and then…”

Feremont clung to that. His list, which would eventually include every Terandrian kingdom. First, survival, though. He began to head away, preparing to argue for his life by pointing out the flaw in the intelligence he had been given. His employer, the [Baron], was normally so…precise.

But something called to him as Feren stumbled through the forest, arresting his flight. It was not one of his five senses, but another sense.

Magic. It hung in the air. Noelictus was a place of death, perfect for his kind. The only thing that discouraged [Necromancers] was the vigilance of the Hunter’s Guild, worse than even adventurers.

And the fact that bodies were so carefully disposed of. [Necromancers] needed bodies to practice their craft, after all; summoning ghosts and spirits was beyond all but the long-dead masters. The

[Necromancer] had been blessed with a surplus of magic—and nothing to use it on.

But now—he felt something.

“What is that?”

Feremont had never felt this before. The man slowed. He walked forwards, still invisible. Something…

Called him.

The rift in the ground where the earth had collapsed had yet to fill in with rain and debris. The

[Necromancer] stopped when he saw the broken stone. The earth. The open crypt. His eyes went round.

“One of the Crypts of Noelictus? But they were supposed to be sealed!”

Sealed, after the dead had suborned the living. Centuries ago. Not even Az’kerash, his mentor, had broken the crypts; Noelictus had fought desperately to keep him from unearthing their dead.

The dead that gave the land such fertility and strength. The [Necromancer] hesitated at the opening.

Could this be? It was too easy. It had to be a trap.

But no one could fake that much…slowly, the man descended the dirt slope. He kept his staff raised. But he was invisible. And as he stepped foot in the tomb he felt it.

“Dead gods.”

Feremont whispered into the mass grave. This was no trick. He walked into the tomb. And his hand holding his staff shook. He felt it. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands of bodies.