Retribution
The prisoner violently shook the chains that bind him. “You can’t do this; do you have any idea who I am?”
One of the guardsmen in the cell smirked and rolled his eyes to the inquisitor, who stood unimpressed.
“Certainly,” spoke the tall hooded dhampyl through the sash that covered his mouth. “You are a traitor to the Empire. You shame Vrodah with your crimes.”
The prisoner, Oktató, shook his head, “No, it is you who are the traitor. I have done nothing, and you have imprisoned and harassed one of the most important necromancers in Nizzal! I’ll have your head for this, you can be certain.”
The inquisitor did not seem to move, but those in the cell could all feel him smile beneath the sash. Then, he stepped closer to the prisoner.
“You have one last chance to redeem yourself. Tell me what you know of Kaliyl Muwth’s assassin.”
Oktató scowled. “I told you, I know nothing of the matter.”
“Lord Muwth says otherwise.”
“That twisted old bastard had so many enemies, it could have been anyone. You tell your captain that the Muwths do not sit at the left hand of Zin. If I am here by his order, which I suspect highly, then those who continue to hold me here will share that doomed family’s fate.”
“Uh oh,” one of the guards cajoled, “sounds like threats there.”
The inquisitor raised a silencing hand. “Prisoner, it has been discovered that shadow-magic, bearing your mark, was used at the scene of the crime. It was much weaker than any wrought by you, so we suspect the assailant may have been an apprentice of yours. Would you care to change your final statement?”
The necromancer turned away, angry. “No.” Then he looked back as the cell door creaked open.
There stood Lord Muwth himself. Before he could say another word, Muwth sprung forward and plunged a long blade into his chest. His vision blurred as blood spilled out of his body and onto the floor. His legs felt weak, and he dropped to his knees. Gasping, he tried to reach out, but the manacles held his arms down. Then, as he expired, the room’s walls began to pulsate and stretch.
The light dimmed, and the guards and inquisitor and executioner all faded away. He felt airy, and the manacles slid from his wrists. He looked down at his hands, green and transparent. Through them, he saw his body as if through a thick fog, lying dead on the floor. He was a spirit, newly emerged in the Shadowrealm.
Almost immediately, he heard the voice of Lord Muwth, muffled and hollow from across the barrier of life and death: “Destroy him.”
“No…” croaked Oktató.
Like ghosts themselves, Oktató could faintly see the shimmering outline of the living figures that occupied the cell’s space with him. The inquisitor removed the shawl from his face, revealing a skeletal jaw that was all too solid in the Shadowrealm like a hovering set of fangs. They began to draw in a long, slow, strong breath. Oktató felt the necroplasm of his body being torn away, and drawn into the void.
“NO!”