Grand Magister Sarevinn stood by the window, observing the third-year students training in the inner courtyard. The adepts were practicing a spell that inflicted physical damage, known among wizards as the Magic Fist. Their targets were battered dummies representing combat necromancers. The air around the mannequins hummed and vibrated from poorly aimed spells, while the scarred ground was littered with crumbled stone debris.
Noting the results of the particularly “skilled” adepts, the sorceress couldn’t help but reflect on how complacent wizards had become over the past century and a half. One hundred and fifty peaceful years, unmarked by full-scale war against the undead. Once, peers of those now training in the courtyard had successfully repelled necromancer attacks and helped drive them back to Wolf Valley. These teenage novices, however, wouldn’t survive their first real battle. Sighing, the sorceress turned her attention back to Surtaz, who sat silently by her desk.
“So, I’ll ask again—why did you do it, necromancer?”
The dark-haired young man winced as if slapped, and silently lowered his head.
“Keep in mind, your silence helps neither me nor yourself. And I intend to help you. You know necromancy is strictly forbidden. Absolutely,” the Grand Magister paused before adding, “But if you tell the truth, a different fate might be possible for you.”
“Instead of execution—torture or banishment to some far-off place?” The adept glanced up at Sarevinn from under his brow, his pale, almost translucent gray-blue eyes piercing.
“That depends on what you were trying to achieve.”
“A golem,” Surtaz took a deep breath, then rushed out the rest of his words in a hurried jumble. “I wanted to create a new kind of golem.”
“We noticed,” the sorceress replied sarcastically. “What drove you to do this?”
“I couldn’t figure out how to preserve the partial immunity to magic that enchanted mechanisms have, while also making the golem faster and less vulnerable to physical damage. This…” the adept faltered, “was supposed to be my graduation project.”
“An admirable ambition. However, I assume you now understand that such a creation should never, under any circumstances, exist in our world? You couldn’t control it.”
Surtaz lowered his head again and offered no response. After a brief silence, Sarevinn continued her questioning.
“How did you obtain the specter?”
“Caught it at a graveyard,” the adept’s voice came out muffled.
“That’s good.”
Surtaz looked up at the sorceress from under his lashes.
“I couldn’t find a ritual in the library to create a specter,” he said, irritation twisting his features. “So I made do with what I had…”
“If you had created one yourself, the only future awaiting you would be burning alive,” Sarevinn cut him off coldly, then added in a quieter tone, “And even if you had found such a description, I dearly hope… you wouldn’t have dared to replicate what it detailed.”
“So you…?”
“Yes, I know. I served in King Sayres’s army when he was still the crown prince, and I saw enough of it during clashes with necromancers. The way they create specters… it’s horrific. So for now, you still have a chance at life and…”
The door swung open without a knock, and Korvel appeared on the threshold of the office.
“My apologies,” he addressed Sarevinn respectfully. “Are you finished? The royal inquisitors have arrived.”
The sorceress couldn’t help but notice how Surtaz shrank under the fleeting glance the senior magister cast his way.
“I believe I’ve learned enough,” she nodded. “Do they require my presence?”
“They didn’t say as much. But if you don’t mind, I’ll stay nearby in case Surtaz needs assistance.”
Sarevinn nodded silently, and Korvel gestured for the adept to follow him.
***
The simultaneous wave of nausea, dizziness, and suffocation was driving Surtaz mad. He tried to take a deep breath, but the thin metal band around his neck seemed to choke him. The room spun before his eyes in a kaleidoscope of blurry, colorful splotches.
“Easy now, it’s over.”
During all those minutes that felt like an eternity to Surtaz, Senior Magister Korvel had been by his side. The trio of royal mages, however, paid no attention to his presence. Surtaz had been seated on a hard chair, and Korvel had placed an amulet on him to suppress his magical abilities. Only then did the inquisitors surround the adept. One mage stood behind him, resting heavy, hot palms on his shoulders. The second positioned himself to Surtaz’s left, while the third, a sorceress, stood to his right. Then it felt as though a searing needle pierced through his temples, and the world went dark before his eyes.
“Can you hear me?” Korvel’s voice sounded distant, laced with concern.
“Yeah…” Surtaz’s tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he tasted blood.
“Good…”
Surtaz felt a wave of relief—the dizziness had stopped, and the colorful splotches took on familiar shapes: the same room, him sitting on the chair, but the royal mages were gone. Only the senior magister remained. He stood in front of Surtaz, leaning slightly forward to peer into his face. Straightening up, Korvel muttered a short spell that Surtaz recognized as one of the simplest healing charms. His guess was confirmed—the nausea receded.
“Can you walk?”
The adept nodded silently and, gathering his strength, slowly rose from the chair. Despite his weakness, thanks to the senior magister’s spell, he felt decent enough. Probably even better than in the first moments after waking from the magical slumber induced by the Deathwarden’s Shield.
“You need to rest. Tomorrow, the king will decide what to do with you. Let’s go,” Korvel said, opening the door.
Surtaz stepped out of the room first. Pausing, he listened. The unusual silence that hung around them felt like the calm before a storm. It didn’t surprise the adept, though—the school was holding its breath, awaiting the verdict for the necromancer. Surtaz took a few steps down the corridor before stopping.
“Where are we going?”
“Until morning, you’ll stay in your room,” the senior magister replied, catching up to the adept. “I’ve been instructed not to remove the amulet, so you won’t be able to cast spells. For your own safety, protective wards will be placed on your room. I advise against trying to leave.”
For a while, they walked in silence through the empty corridor.
“Many… casualties?” Surtaz asked quietly.
“Four dead,” Korvel answered emotionlessly. “And three more injured. There would’ve been more if we hadn’t found your notes.”
“Olrik told you?”
“Yes.”
Out of the corner of his eye, the senior magister noticed Surtaz’s frown at the response but chose not to comment. For a time, only the sound of their footsteps broke the silence of the corridors. Finally, they turned into the residential wing.
“Why the Deathwarden’s Shield, of all things?” Korvel broke the silence. “There are plenty of other options.”
“I needed absolute protection during the golem’s activation,” the adept said, his expression darkening again. “Just in case something went wrong. I realize now I overestimated my abilities, even though the shield seemed simple and effective.”
“It left you unable to fix anything,” the senior magister pointed out. “If you found the formula, you must’ve come across the description explaining why this shield has such a… hmm… telling name.”
“I read the description…” Surtaz faltered, suddenly finding the pattern of the floorboards beneath his feet fascinating. “Briefly. I didn’t have much time to study the legend in detail.”
“This… what you call a legend,” Korvel said with a sad smile, “is the remnant of memory about wizards who once chose an easy death over captivity during the ancient wars with necromancers.” After a pause, the mage added, “The Deathwarden’s Shield was used for painless suicide. An absurd spell in its essence. It grants absolute invulnerability to any physical or magical damage, but it’s so unbalanced that in its short duration, it drains all of a mage’s strength. On top of that, it temporarily severs their connection to the Source. With no way to replenish their energy, the mage pays for sustaining the spell with their own health, ultimately leading to their death.”
“Losing the ability to cast spells,” at these words, the adept absentmindedly touched the metal band around his neck, “and exhaustion… An easy but terrifying death.”
“According to eyewitness accounts, many mages passed out during the process. Like you did. You could say they died in their sleep, unable to stop the spell’s effect. That’s how the fatal flaw was discovered, making the Deathwarden’s Shield popular among weaker mages. What awaited them in captivity was a far worse prospect,” the senior magister paused before adding, “But that’s history. You’re lucky we found you in time.” He glanced at Surtaz with a faint smirk. “Though you’ve added a few gray hairs to my head. By the way, when you were unconscious in the workshop, the shield was already gone. I only learned you intended to use it from your notes. So, did you manage to dispel it?”
“I don’t remember.”