The necromancers blade, p.1
The Necromancer's Blade, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Mad Cow Press
The Necromancer's Blade is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, places, incidents, or living or dead persons is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
THE NECROMANCER'S BLADE
A FANTASY NOIR MYSTERY
FALSTAFF
CONTENTS
Prologue - The Eldritch Peninsula War
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
The Eldritch Peninsula War
Part Two
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The Eldritch Peninsula War
Part Three
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
The Eldritch Peninsula War
Part Four
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue - Ten Years Earlier
About the Author
Email Signup
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PROLOGUE - THE ELDRITCH PENINSULA WAR
SHADOWS AND SULFUR
The fog clung close as 2nd Lieutenant Blackwood led his platoon through the corpse-strewn wasteland of the Eldritch Peninsula. The phantasmal mist smothered sound and vision, reducing the grim advance to ghostly silhouettes drifting across a nightmare landscape.
Blackwood glanced back at the hulking form of Lance Corporal Marcus Rocco trudging behind him. Weeks of war had forged a bond between a commanding officer and enlisted man few could comprehend.
"How you holding up back there, Lance Corporal?" Blackwood asked.
"Ready to spit in Death's grinning mug when she comes for me, LT," Rocco replied. Consistently stoic, that one.
They knew the odds likely spelled doom for their entire platoon in this unearthly place. Still, orders were orders, and marines went where they were sent, even unto the mouth of Hell.
The brief exchange bolstered the men's spirits despite the oppressive pall. Jokes and gallows humor had gradually faded miles ago, sacrificed to the insatiable hunger of the mist. Now, all that remained was survival, one foot grinding ahead of the other.
Shapes loomed out of the fog banks, contracting to ruined walls and trenches from battles fought weeks or years ago. Time mattered little amidst the formless void. Today, yesterday, a century past—all blurred into a perpetual graveyard twilight on the Eldritch Peninsula.
The muddy earth gave way to a crunching, cracking carpet of bones with each slog forward. The dead lay strewn so thickly beneath their boots that soon, the living were forced to tread upon the remains of the fallen. Jaws clenched, the marines averted their gaze from the horrific mosaic of shattered skeletons woven together by the ravenous hunger of war.
Rocco halted abruptly, rifle raised. The men froze as indistinct sounds drifted through the mists—the guttural snarls of the peninsula's twisted denizens echoing from all directions at once.
Blackwood tensed, gripping his sidearm. "Steady, marines..." he cautioned needlessly. These were hardened men, veterans of countless brushes with death in all its twisted forms. They knew the fiends would attack soon, seeming to coalesce from the accursed fog.
Moments ticked past in tense silence as the marines scanned for targets. Finally, ragged shapes poured howling from the mist, slavering jaws gaping hungrily as they flung themselves upon the outnumbered platoon.
Gunfire crashed in staccato bursts, muzzle flashes briefly penetrating the gloom. Blackwood fired methodically into the horde even as he was borne down by the weight of clawing, snapping bodies.
Then, Rocco was there, ripping the horrors from his lieutenant with gore-slick hands. Face spattered in ichor, he hauled Blackwood to his feet. Together, they beat back the shrieking tide through sheer grit.
As suddenly as it had come, the assault ended. Blackwood and Rocco found themselves alone among the maimed bodies of the aberrations. A different horror dawned as they realized the fog had swallowed the rest of the platoon during the chaos. There was only silence in reply to their urgent calls.
Jaw clenched, Blackwood reloaded his pistol. He met Rocco's stoic gaze and nodded. Without a word, they turned and moved onward through the pestilent mist. Whatever unearthly evil festered on this peninsula, they would face it as they had faced every trial and loss—with resolute hearts and steel in their spines. The Marines' creed allowed no other option.
The two soon disappeared into the roiling gloom. The lesser men were gone. But these two would never stop pushing ahead through the darkness. Such was their duty.
Blackwood paused, senses prickling. The mist swirled oddly as if warped by something lurking within. He signaled silently for Rocco to ready arms.
Shambling forms took shape around them. Misshapen things that may have been human once, before the occult ravages of war transformed them into ghoulish entities. Glowing eyes studded decaying flesh as they shambled closer through the mist.
"Ah, hell," Rocco muttered. "So much for quiet passage."
Blackwood's pistol fired, dropping the nearest creature with a hole between its luminous eyes. "Weapons free, Lance Corporal! Light 'em up!"
The marines opened fire, muzzle flashes piercing the gloom. But three more emerged snarling from the fog for each horror cut down. Claws and teeth tore through fatigues with sickening ease.
A hulking beast grappled Rocco, fetid drool dripping from its gnashing jaws. He struggled in its grip as bony fingers encircled his throat. Then its head exploded in a burst of gore as Blackwood blasted it from behind.
"I got you!" Blackwood extended a hand to haul Rocco up. Back to back, they made their stand. But the ravenous horde surged on, heedless of losses.
Soon, the beleaguered pair was ringed by a writhing wall of twisted flesh. The mist swirled thicker, and Blackwood realized the hopelessness of their predicament.
"Never thought I'd clock out in a hellhole like this." Rocco spat out a glob of blood. "Ah well, it's been one ugly ride anyway."
Blackwood met his comrade's gaze. "I don't plan on checking out here yet. C'mon, we're getting out of this meat grinder."
Trusting Rocco to guard his back, Blackwood reloaded and fought relentlessly towards a gap in the horde. Step by gory step, the marines hacked through with bayonet and boot to escape the mist-shrouded slaughterhouse. The occult peninsula's dark magic had not claimed them yet.
Caught in the throes of close-quarters combat, Rocco did not see the lumbering horror approaching from the fog behind until it was too late. A massive limb swung out, catching him across the torso and launching him through the air. He landed unmoving several yards away.
Seeing his comrade incapacitated, Blackwood fought like a man possessed, cutting down creature after creature, trying to drag Rocco's limp form into the mist. But the tide was relentless, and he was just one man.
As monstrous claws grasped Rocco's boots, Blackwood threw himself recklessly into the fray. He severed grasping limbs and blasted out glowing eyes, fighting inch by bloody inch. But still, those dead white fingers clung to Rocco, pulling him inexorably into the swirling fog.
With a primal roar, Blackwood surged forward, plunging his combat knife to the hilt into the largest horror's skull. It toppled back, releasing Rocco. Not slowing, Blackwood hauled his friend's body over one shoulder and charged towards sanctuary. His men needed him.
Just then, the mists parted for an instant. In that horrific glimpse, Blackwood saw swirling galaxies of insanity, endless cosmic vistas of a reality not meant for human comprehension. The crawling chaos writhed and churned, welcoming the influx of mortal lives to feed its endless hunger.
Blackwood shuddered but did not slow his pace. The unearthly revelation confirmed the true magnitude of the forces arrayed against humanity in this unholy conflict. He could only continue the fight, trusting that others, too, gazed into that abyss without surrendering to fear or madness.
With Rocco secured momentarily, Blackwood trudged onward through the mist. This peninsula teemed with terrors beyond mortal imagination. But protecting his own still outweighed brooding over forces beyond his control. Steeled by duty, he marched onward, one firm step after another.
Blackwood surveyed the carnage grimly. The platoon was devastated, with only a handful of marines remaining. They could not withstand another assault out in the open.
He turned to the sole figure still standing stalwartly at his side. "Rocco, these men need an exit. Think you can manage it?"
Rocco grinned, blood staining his teeth. "Smoke bombs, LT?"
Rocco hurled the occult explosives at Blackwood's sign
Sheltered in the ruins of an abandoned bunker, the marines caught their breath. Blackwood clasped Rocco's shoulder. "We'd be buzzard food if not for you today, brother."
Rocco waved it off. "All in a day's ugly business. I wasn't gonna leave you hanging back there."
As night fell, Blackwood gazed out at the shadowy battlefield. In the quiet, his thoughts turned to the true cost of this hellish war and the long road still ahead.
Rocco cleaned his rifle nearby, ever stalwart. At least Blackwood didn't have to walk this lonely path alone. Together, they would see this through to the finish, no matter where that road led.
For now, the horrors were held at bay. But tomorrow would bring fresh nightmares. On the Eldritch Peninsula, darkness pressed from all sides. Their meager fire seemed so fragile against that endless malign fog.
But it would have to be enough. These were marines, and surrender was not in their creed. The war raged on, but they remained unbroken. Come what may.
PART ONE
SHADOWS STIRRING
CHAPTER 1
THE CLIENT IN THE VEIL
Shadowhaven
The moon hangs low over Shadowhaven, casting elongated shadows across its narrow alleys and Gothic spires. A damp fog crawls through the labyrinthine streets, muffling the clatter of hooves on cobblestones—the night air tastes of smoke, secrets, and the sea.
In an office nestled in the amber glow of gas lamps, the painted window reads Alderhart & Blackwood, Investigations into Mystical Matters. Inside, Morthos "Mort" Blackwood reclines in his chair, eyes closed, contemplating the whispers of dark forces slithering through the city's underbelly. He feels the mystical ley lines shifting, an unnatural chill seeping up from the ancient pacts that bind this urban sprawl. Something stirs in the shadows.
The creak of footsteps pulls Blackwood from his brooding. Lyra Swift, his secretary, raps her knuckles on the office door as she enters, her auburn hair pinned up neatly, ink smudges on the sleeves of her practical dress.
The creak of footsteps pulls Blackwood from his brooding. Lyra struts in, blowing a bubble with her chewing gum.
"Yo, boss. Some real classy dame here to see ya," she says, thumbing over her shoulder. "Got that whole noble look going on, you know the type."
Lyra surveys the cluttered room, scrunching her nose at the stacks of musty books and weird artifacts.
Blackwood runs a hand through his messy hair. "Alright, send her in, I guess. And how 'bout some coffee, love? The good stuff from that shop on Bellview."
"You got it," Lyra says with a wink. She spins on her heel and sashays out.
A moment later, the office door swings open, and in walks a woman in a fancy purple dress, long dark hair spilling elegantly over her shoulders. She's dripping in jewels, her striking emerald eyes scanning the room. After removing her lacy veil, she says smoothly, "The name's Lady Elara Nightingale. I need your special skills, detective...got myself a situation with my brother that needs some discrete handling."
Lady Elara Nightingale perches on the edge of the worn leather chair across from Blackwood, gathering her thoughts.
"It started a few months ago," she begins, her voice hushed. "My brother Cedric was always a bit obsessed with occult lore and forbidden magic. But it got worse after our father died and Cedric became head of the family estate."
She smooths her dress, the jewels on her fingers glinting in the lamplight. "He became withdrawn, secretive. He started spending all his time in the mansion's cellars, which he's converted into some kind of... ritual chamber."
Blackwood leans forward intently, steeping his fingers. This wasn't the first time a naive aristocrat's dabbling in the dark arts had taken a dangerous turn.
"At first, I didn't pry," Elara continues. "Figured it was just a foolish hobby. But the servants whisper of strange chanting late into the night. And there are...changes happening in the house."
She shudders, rubbing her bare arms. "An unnatural chill in the air. Flickering shadows where there should be none. And a presence I feel when I'm alone at night like unseen eyes watching me."
Blackwood frowns, perturbed by the all-too-familiar signs. "It seems your brother may have made contact with forces not of this world," he says grimly.
Elara's emerald eyes glisten with tears. "Can you help, Mr. Blackwood? I know Cedric is in over his head. If he's not stopped..." Her voice trails off, unwilling to put her fears into words.
Blackwood studies Lady Nightingale closely, noting the subtle tells that belie her cultured veneer - the averted gaze, the nervous twisting of a jewel-encrusted ring. He's no stranger to deception, especially among the aristocracy with their games of manners and facades.
Leaning back in his chair, he steeples his fingers and says coolly, "Now, why don't you tell me the real reason you've come calling, Lady Nightingale? The true purpose behind this fabricated tale of a brother dabbling in darkness?"
Elara's eyes widen slightly in surprise before her composure returns. "I...I don't know what you mean. Everything I've said is the truth, I assure you."
Blackwood shakes his head. "You are practiced in deception, my lady, but not without tells. The inconsistent details, the theatrical elements - chanting servants, flickering shadows, strange presences in the night. Rather melodramatic for a woman of your breeding."
He pauses, holding her gaze. "You have a request for my services, but I prefer straightforward dealings. So let us dispense with these fictions and speak frankly, no matter how delicate the actual circumstances."
Elara flushes, breaking eye contact. She fidgets with a bejeweled bracelet, considering her words carefully. "Very well, Mr. Blackwood. You are correct. I have not been entirely forthcoming. The situation is...complicated, you see. I had hoped for discretion, but if you insist..."
She takes a breath, steeling herself. "My real dilemma is profoundly personal. But I see now that deceit will not do. You must know the full truth if you are to help me.”
Lady Nightingale sighs, steeling herself to confess the whole truth. "In his grief after father's passing, my brother Cedric fell in with...unsavory men. Gamblers, occultists, purveyors of vice. They ensnared him in their sordid world and now use his debts to blackmail him."
She twists a jewel anxiously. "I fear they have tasked Cedric with some foul errand to repay his debts. But he is in over his head. When he tried to break free..." Her voice quavers.
"Strange whispers filled the manor. On the night he disappeared, I saw a bizarre symbol seared onto his door, reeking of sulfur and burnt parchment." She shudders at the memory.
Blackwood leans back, fingers steepled as he studies Lady Nightingale's anguished face. Her tale of blackmail and sinister whispers chills his blood. Still, years of contending with deception leave him wary of accepting her words at face value. The sulfuric symbol she described bears the mark of malevolent forces. He cannot readily dismiss signs of the occult, however doubtful the source.
"Very well. I will seek out your brother," Blackwood says finally. "But my services do not come cheaply. My usual rate is ten silver sovereigns a day plus expenses. Discretion assured, of course."
Elara nods in understanding, relief washing over her. "Of course, Mr. Blackwood. Money is no object if it means finding dear Cedric." She rises, gathering her veil and reticule. "I will have the payment delivered to you tomorrow morning."
