“Serpent!” the Black Warlock commanded, and the dark wood became a venomous viper writhing across Thalasi’s skinny wrists and forearms. The serpent head wriggled to within an inch of the Black Warlock’s face, and he blew into it gently, soothing the enchanted beast.
He knew what he must do now, though any conscious thought of the act surely sent a shiver running through his spine. Yet this being that he had become was much more than mortal man, he knew, so he tilted his head to the side, offering his bared neck to the serpentine gift of the black willow.
The snake coiled and struck, sinking its venom-dripping fangs deep into Thalasi’s neck. But the snake had not bitten in any attempt to inject its killing poison-and the poison would have had little effect on the likes of the Black Warlock anyway. Instead the snake’s vampiric fangs drew out the lifeblood of Thalasi, sent the potent fluids of the Black Warlock into the thing that would become his magical staff. As Thalasi felt his strength draining away, his knees buckled under him, but still he held the serpent close, giving it every ounce of power he could spare.
He would regain his strength in time, but that which he gave to the staff would be eternal.
And when it was over, sometime later, the snake became a broken branch again, though now its surface shone with ebony smoothness and its length verily vibrated with evil power. Holding, cradling, the wicked thing, Thalasi recovered his strength quickly. They were joined, blood in blood, he and his staff, his extension of perversion.
The Staff of Death.
“Greetings, my lost friend,” Thalasi said to Mitchell’s skull. He tapped the object with his staff, and a red light appeared in each of the empty sockets.
“Good,” murmured the Black Warlock. “You have heard my call. How do you find the realm of the dead, Hollis Mitchell?”
“That is not for the ears of the living,” came a distant reply, as much empathic as audible.
“Of course,” said Thalasi. “Perhaps we can talk more when you have arrived.”
“Arrived?” The voice reflected concern. “Leave the dead in their sleep, Martin Reinheiser. Especially ones who owe you a wicked debt. I have not forgotten your treachery; eternity itself will not erase my anger!”
“Reinheiser?” chuckled the Black Warlock. “But that is only part of the being you will face. Sleep again, Hollis Mitchell,” he said, and he tapped the top of the skull once more, extinguishing the red dots of light. “And know that when you awaken to walk in the world of the living, you will be the slave of Morgan Thalasi.”
Thalasi dropped the skull into a deep pocket of his robe and clenched his staff tightly. He conjured an image of Mitchell’s grave below the cliff face, every detail coming into clearer and clearer focus as he deepened his concentration. And then the Black Warlock stepped through his thoughts, walked a mental bridge back to the remaining pile of Mitchell’s bones.
Carefully, Thalasi lifted the bones free of the muck that had begun to envelop them and reassembled the skeleton. He knew that what he was about to attempt was a powerful enchantment indeed; it would test him to his very limits, and even the slightest error could prove catastrophic. But arrogance had ever been the calling card of Morgan Thalasi and of Martin Reinheiser, and even the specter of embodied death could not dissuade the Black Warlock in his quest.
When the skeleton was complete, Thalasi walked a slow circuit around it, his staff tracing out the circumference on the soft ground. The staff glowed with an eager black light; this was the primary purpose of its creation.
“Hollis Timothy Mitchell,” Thalasi called softly. “Benak raffin si.”
Another circuit, another summons. And again.
The ground around the skeleton bubbled, and a thin wisp of black smoke rose up and wove in and out of the bones. Thalasi controlled his excitement and continued the ritual. He didn’t know exactly what to expect, but he sensed that the spirit of the dead captain was near, very near.
“Benak raffin si,” he whispered again.
“You dare to disturb the dead?” thundered an unearthly voice. The Black Warlock wheeled to face the skeletal sickle-wielding figure that every man since the earliest days of the race had come to recognize as the embodiment of the netherworld.
“Mitchell?” Thalasi squeaked, his heart failing at the sight.
“Hardly,” replied the specter. “You know who I am, Morgan Thalasi Martin Reinheiser. I purposely assumed the form that you would surely recognize.”
After the initial shock had worn away, Thalasi found himself more curious than afraid. He stooped over a bit, trying to catch a peek under the low cowl of the specter’s hood. “Charon?” he asked, now more curious than afraid.
“Charon, Orcus, Arawn-my names are many,” replied the specter.
“As are your powers, by every reputation, attached to any of the names,” said Thalasi. “So Death himself-itself-has answered my call,” he mused. “Truly I have outdone myself.”
“Fool,” retorted the specter. “Truly you have overstepped the bounds of mortals. You are strong, Black Warlock, but I am blacker still!” The specter uplifted its arms, its bony fingers reaching out toward Thalasi. “Death has indeed answered your call, warlock-your own death!”
Thalasi swung at the bony hands with his staff. The specter caught it in midswing, but the contact between the embodiment of Death and the perverted staff was not what either of the combatants had expected. Black shocks of electricity engulfed both of them, cutting and tearing, draining at their vital forces with a chilling eagerness.
“What have you done?” the embodiment of Death demanded.
“I have beaten even you, inevitable victor!” laughed Thalasi. The lightning crackles wounded the Black Warlock deeply, but he knew already that in wielding the ultimate perversion that was the staff he had created, he was the stronger. He and Death were linked; he could feel the specter’s horror and pain.
“Fool!” Death cried again, but it was Thalasi’s response that carried the most conviction.
“Death will not take me,” he growled. “I am no longer a part of the world you rule. And I can hurt you.” To emphasize his point, the Black Warlock clenched the staff tighter, sending a wicked blue-black bolt coursing through the corporeal form of his nemesis.
“But I ask only a small thing of you,” Thalasi continued, not even trying to mask his sarcastic snicker. “Grant me my wish and I shall let you return to your dark realm.”
The specter’s eyes shot lines of killing red energy at the Black Warlock, but Thalasi accepted the pain of the blast and returned it twofold with another crackle of his staff.
“I want Mitchell.”
“Mitchell is mine,” Death replied. “Fairly won and fairly taken.”
“I gave him to you; I shall take him back.”
“I will have you-”
“You will have nothing!” Thalasi boomed. “I will hold you here, and those that enter your realm will find no one to greet them. Lost souls forever lost!”
The specter’s grasp of the staff weakened at the wicked truth of the Black Warlock’s words. Death could not be so engaged with one resistant mortal-if Thalasi was indeed mortal. With a flash that knocked the Black Warlock to the ground, the specter was gone.
Thalasi glanced around nervously. Despite his boasting, he was not so certain of the wisdom of making such a powerful enemy. A moment later another being did rise above him as he sat on the ground, but to the relief of Thalasi, it was not the return of the embodiment of Death.
“Greetings, old friend,” smiled Thalasi, holding his staff out in front defensively until he could fathom the intentions of the one he now faced: the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.
“Greetings,” Mitchell replied, his voice grating and broken.
Thalasi rose slowly, taking full measure of the wraith. It looked vaguely like Mitchell, the bloated corpse of the captain, at least, though its form wavered and shifted between two opposing planes of existence. Thalasi had taken the essence of Hollis Mitchell from the realm of the dead, but a part of the wraith existed there still, a fact that would only heighten the being’s power.