Malfus’s past has finally caught up with him. He’s a renegade, an outlaw, a necromancer. Now he’s a prisoner.
He’s been captured by Inquisitor Deza, to be tried, tortured, and executed for his crimes. But they’re ambushed by half-hyena marauders, forcing them to take refuge with a heavily wounded battalion already under siege by the monsters.
Deza only cares about his mission. But another assault by the marauders would be a death sentence for the battalion. The only option remaining is to free Malfus and to raise an army of the dead.
But will the dead be enough to save the living?
Malfus’s past has finally caught up with him. He’s a renegade, an outlaw, a necromancer. Now he’s a prisoner.
He’s been captured by Inquisitor Deza, to be tried, tortured, and executed for his crimes. But they’re ambushed by half-hyena marauders, forcing them to take refuge with a heavily wounded battalion already under siege by the monsters.
Deza only cares about his mission. But another assault by the marauders would be a death sentence for the battalion. The only option remaining is to free Malfus and to raise an army of the dead.
But will the dead be enough to save the living?
“The world is dying. It is better to know this now, child. Though you live and breathe, love and hate, beneath your feet the world suffers a mortal wound—the Scar. We are but maggots writhing atop a corpse.” — ‘Mother’ Magrid, Orphan-Minder, DeGaullis
Malfus shouted in despair as the Inquisitor dragged him behind his mount, but the cloth gag reduced the sound to a muffled cough.
Neither horse nor rider paid Malfus any mind. The black horse pranced up the rocks of the canyon, pulling the rope taut. Before Malfus could protest further, the rope yanked his wrists, pulling his blistered feet free from the ground. He attempted to aim his fall, but the mud puddle beneath him offered few options.
He prayed for a hidden rock. One sharp rock was all it would take. He turned his head sideways. Come on—right to the temple.
Kill me now, before I take one more step with this sanctimonious bastard.
His face hit wet mud. A rock stabbed him, but not where he’d hoped. Instead, a fire erupted across his ribcage, making his lungs seize. Malfus gasped for air through the gag. But before he could breathe, the rope pulled taut again, dragging him by his metal cuffs.
The black-clothed Inquisitor turned in his saddle. His long-brimmed hat did little to hide his perpetual sneer.
“Come, necromancer,” he said in his Castillean accent. “We have much ground to cover today.” The Inquisitor gathered his reins, urging his steed down the narrow path. “I have no need to be slowed further by your theatrics.”
Theatrics! Malfus gritted his teeth. I’ll give you theatrics, you boot-licking toad!
He glared up at the Inquisitor, defiance burning in his eyes. But the pain of the rope extinguished it as his manacles dug into the sores lining his wrists. He pulled his knees up, then clambered to his feet, groaning.
His long black hair, wet with mud, plastered his back. The bags under his eyes made him look far older than his mid-twenties. His scanty rations since he’d been captured had done little to improve his gaunt figure.
He scurried up the rocky incline, managing it with the dignity of a three-legged lizard. The horse pawed at the ground as it waited, watching him slither on his belly. After years of enduring spurs from ungrateful riders, the horseshoe was finally on the other foot.
Malfus wheezed as he crested the incline. He could hardly breathe through the gag. He reached up with his hands to clear away the muck; he might as well have attempted moving an ocean with a bucket.
“Come,” said the Inquisitor, amused. “No time for that.”
The Inquisitor lifted the brim of his hat and leaned in his saddle, looking westward to the horizon. The Scar stretched in that direction as far as the eye could see: a massive blemish, like a black vein pulsating across the land. The land surrounding the Scar was gray and cracked like necrotic flesh—barren and lifeless. Black tendrils of smoke curled above it, writhing and dissipating. They obscured the sun, curling around it as it neared the horizon.
Malfus had never gotten this close to the Scar before. Only a madman would come here willingly.
The Inquisitor clicked his tongue and moved forward. Malfus ground his teeth and stumbled after him before the rope could bite. Each step sent jolts of pain down his side. The grit from his wet clothes began to chafe his neck and shoulders—the latest additions to his growing collection of discomforts.
With his hands tied, he couldn’t check if his rib was cracked. He couldn’t adjust his gag, and he certainly couldn’t cast any magic. But the gag and his bonds had less to do with that than the red-hued metal of his manacles—arcanull.
Only the Vesenian Inquisition knew the techniques to forge arcanull. It clouded the wearer’s mind, making concentration painful. But if that mind dared consider magic, the pain became absolute torture. Merely thinking about his bonds and restrictions made him blink his eyes; the throbbing behind them threatened to set his mind ablaze.
Malfus could have fallen asleep, standing. What I’d give for just five minutes to lean against a tree. The rope bit into his wrists as it jerked taut.
Had he stopped walking? He hadn’t even noticed.
“Come!” The Inquisitor yanked on the rope. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
Malfus howled, falling to his knees. Tears welled in his eyes, and he imagined all the things he would do to the Inquisitor if his chains were removed. The best he could manage was a growl.
“Now, now,” said the Inquisitor. “Hold your temper.” A smile crossed his thin lips as he pulled out a waterskin. The Inquisitor guzzled from it, a trickle of water spilling down his waxed goatee. Malfus instinctively licked his lips, but tasted mud.
The Inquisitor smirked as he strapped the waterskin back to the saddle. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We will stop for your turn soon.”
His turn? Malfus snarled. Bones take you and your damn water. Just let me go. Give back what you’ve taken from me.
Do that, and I might not parade your bloated corpse around as a warning for other Inquisitors.
He plodded forward, staving off the urge to collapse. He wasn’t sure how much further spite would carry him. What was the Inquisitor going to do? March Malfus all the way back to Castillea? That would take weeks, months. He glanced down at his boots, wondering how much longer they had left together. The boots had been brand new, a few weeks prior; now, they were little more than flapping strips of leather tied to his feet.
He sighed. At least boots were replaceable. After making a breakthrough in his research, Malfus had been captured, and his entire laboratory burned to the ground. Priceless necromantic scrolls from the Shal-Umbra Empire, gone forever. He glared at the Inquisitor.
This goon of the church, with his black cloak—black hat—black horse, even. Not even I wear that much black, and I’m the damn necromancer.
At least the Inquisitor wasn’t the type to preach. Self-righteous, certainly, but his jailor kept his sermons to himself; Malfus was grateful for that. His previous captor had been the opposite: lecturing him with Vesenian sermons so often that Malfus could still recite them.
He’d been able to escape his previous captor after a few days. But there had been no arcanull. This time around, escape wouldn’t be so easy. No, this captor was an actual bloody Inquisitor. The bastard never seemed to sleep. Hardly even blinked. Malfus would need to be patient. Wait for the right opportunity.
His feet counted each step, like grains of sand in an hourglass. Those steps added up to minutes, and the minutes to hours. The rocky path made each step taken in his ragged boots a painful reminder of the blisters he’d have to tend later. Bones take these damn blisters.
Malfus was so absorbed by his vast reserves of self-pity that he nearly collided with the horse, not realizing it had stopped. He would have taken a kick from it if he’d taken another step. He took a few measured steps back.
The Inquisitor looked around warily before dismounting. “We’ll stop here,” he said.
They were in a copse of cypress trees. A hill to their left blocked their view of the Scar. The trees here were bent, like old men leaning on their canes. It was the most vegetation Malfus seen in this dusty canyon, which usually offered no protection from the sun.
The Inquisitor grabbed the leather waterskin from his saddlebags and approached Malfus.
Malfus sagged. Water, finally. Give me a drink. End one of my sorrows—or drown me, and end them all.
His tongue quivered in anticipation; his mouth felt full of sawdust. The Inquisitor pulled the muddy gag down Malfus’s neck.
Malfus took a few ragged breaths, relieved. “That’s much bet—“
He sputtered as water poured down his throat. He struggled at first, then welcomed the stream as it drenched the desert his mouth had become. Malfus coughed as the Inquisitor lowered the waterskin. “More?” asked the Inquisitor.
Malfus gave something closer to a gurgle than an affirmation, but the Inquisitor got the gist. A few more precious gulps of warm water. It ran down his dry, cracked lips.
“That is enough,” snapped the Inquisitor. He stoppered the skin.
The water rekindled Malfus’s mind. He turned to the Inquisitor and smiled, ignoring a cut in his bottom lip. “Come, Inquisitor,” he said. “Why such animosity between us, hmm? We both have such matching sunny dispositions and penchants for dark clothing.” He’d expected a slap by this point, but none came, so he continued. “For me, it’s the way black makes me slimmer. Complementing, wouldn’t you agree? With so much in common, we should be friends. Our only real difference of opinion is which side of the ground corpses should occupy.”
The Inquisitor snorted. “Must you continue this? In the face of your coming trial, this sarcasm is—what is that word you Akkadians use…”
“Brave?”
“…puerile,” said the Inquisitor, turning his back to Malfus.
As the Inquisitor walked back to the horse, a high-pitched whine sounded, followed by a wet thwop. The waterskin in the Inquisitor’s hand burst, spraying droplets that glimmered in the sun. The Inquisitor yelled something, and his horse reared up, kicking its hooves.
A second whistling. Air brushed against Malfus’s cheek, and something plucked at a strand of his black hair. Dirt peppered his face.
A thin length of wood sprouted out from the ground next to him, still quivering. The Inquisitor shouted again.
Realization finally broke through the arcanull-induced haze—they were being ambushed.
“Get down!” yelled the Inquisitor, his words finally registering.
Get down? Where? I’m tied to your horse, you idiot. What do you want me to do, get behind it? Let it kick my teeth in? Malfus ducked as another arrow shot overhead, sticking into a nearby cypress tree and cutting a bald spot in the bark.
Strange sounds echoed from the surrounding hills. A shrill, high-pitched cacophony—one part howl, one part laughter. A drunken cackle. The type of sound Malfus imagined he might hear in some demonic inn on the edge of hell.
But as he listened, he recognized the noise.
Gnolls.
Half-human, half-hyena monsters. Malfus had never seen any before, but he’d read about them at his academy in Akkadia. When he was still an aspiring apprentice. Before my life went to shit. He tried to remember more, but failed. Malfus shook his throbbing head, trying to clear the arcanull fog creeping back into his mind.
Another arrow hit the dirt just a few strides away, looking like a small plant, growing feathers instead of leaves. Malfus laughed. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was how silly the arrow looked; perhaps it was the look on the Inquisitor’s face, or the realization that his doom had drawn closer. Laughter wasn’t an appropriate response, but Malfus couldn’t help himself.
Another arrow snapped against a rock nearby, closer than the last. The horse reared up again. Malfus could see the fear in its eyes and swallowed, feeling the same himself.
“Arms out!” said the Inquisitor.
Malfus glanced at him, puzzled. The Inquisitor loomed over him. The razor edge of his rapier glinted crimson in the dusk.
“Arms out! Now, dammit!”
Malfus tightened his jaw and held out his arms. The blade came down in a silver flash.
There was a ripping sound. Then the severed rope fell from his hands. The black horse bolted away as another arrow flew by, its hooves throwing up dust. The rope trailed behind it like a long tail, twisting madly against the rocks. Malfus imagined his body still attached, the stones dashing his skull to pieces.
The Inquisitor’s voice snapped Malfus back to the present. “Stay here! And stay low.“ He shoved Malfus to the ground. “Run, and I’ll chop off a foot. I’m sure you can stand trial with just one.”
The arcanull chains rattled as Malfus clapped. “Most clever, Inquisitor. Don’t you have some fighting to do?” He gestured at the nearby hillside as several hulking figures ran down it.
The first gnoll was covered in mottled tan fur, its armor a patchwork collection of strapped plate. Its canine snout curled into a snarl, baring long fangs. It howled as it ran down the hill, brandishing a fat sword overhead. The weapon looked large enough to chop a man in two.
It looked silly, waving an ungainly sword like that while running down the hill. Silly—and dangerous. I guess dangerous is the whole point, after all.
Malfus squirmed backward, realizing he had ducked behind a tree. As ever, he masked his cowardice with a healthy coat of sarcasm.
“Best of luck, Inquisitor,” he said. “Kill one for me? I’d hate to travel to Castillea for my trial all alone. Try to stay alive.”
“Count on it,” said the Inquisitor. He darted away, his long cloak in one hand, Castillean steel in the other. He ducked close to the ground as he ran, like a fox sprinting across a farmer’s field at midnight—with hunger in his eyes to match.
Malfus did not have an appetite for armed combat. He’d never developed a taste for it. Especially against a gnoll two feet taller than him. It always amazed Malfus how eagerly people would throw themselves into armed combat, with as little care as a drunken bet in a tavern.
I suppose it’s an effective form of population control. Two enter, but only one leaves. Even the winner seldom comes out unscathed—and death is so permanent.
At least, without a little necromancy.
No, Malfus decided. Leave combat to those of a baser nature. His was a more noble calling: to further the science of necromancy. Comforted, he crouched even lower behind his tree, contorting his narrow body to remain hidden. He watched the Inquisitor fight while keeping an eye out for more arrows.
He doubted he’d be spotted. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t be. His blistered feet were far too sore for him to run.
The Inquisitor moved from tree to tree until he reached the bottom of the hill, right as the first gnoll did. It swung its giant blade in a downward arc. Malfus winced at the shriek of steel clashing. Then he balked in surprise. So did the gnoll. The Inquisitor effortlessly parried its hefty cleaver with his slender blade. The size disparity between the two made it even more shocking. The gnoll stood at least two feet over the Inquisitor, its cleaver as wide as a man’s head.
The gnoll lashed out again. The Inquisitor sidestepped, then retaliated with a riposte. He stabbed into the gnoll’s thigh, then ripped the blade outward in a spray of blood. The gnoll yelped, leaping backward, slicing wildly as it lost balance.
The Inquisitor dodged, launching two more stabs of his own. The first sent the gnoll reeling backward on its injured leg; the second, the gnoll barely managed to bat away with its heavy sword.
But as skilled as the Inquisitor might have been in a solo duel, Malfus doubted the other two gnolls running down the hill would improve his odds.
Then a glint of light caught Malfus’s attention. The steel tip of an arrow danced in the sunlight as it reached the apex of its flight, then dropped downward in a lazy arc. It angled to fall right where the Inquisitor stood.
Time slowed as the arrow dropped. Malfus could have called out a warning. Instead, he focused on the arrow, pleading with it. Please, by all that is unholy, hit him right between the eyes—right between the shoulders—right between something, dammit!
He wasn’t excited about becoming a captive of the gnolls. But being a potential meal—or haggling for his freedom with these brutes—gave him better odds of escape than remaining with the Inquisitor. You can reason with an idiot, but not with a zealot.
Malfus licked his cracked lips in anticipation. The gnoll barked as it unleashed a flurry of savage blows, demanding the Inquisitor’s full attention to parry each strike.
But right before the arrow reached its target, the Inquisitor dropped low and spun in a tight circle. His cloak snapped out behind him like a banner, catching the arrow harmlessly in its folds. Malfus cursed and spat. Nice trick, Inquisitor—but you can only get it wrong once.
In a fluid movement, the Inquisitor snapped his cloak outward, covering his opponent’s face, then jabbed his sword forward in a measured strike.
The gnoll tottered backward as blood gushed from its throat, then collapsed.
The Inquisitor didn’t spare a moment as the remaining two gnolls closed in. One carried a spiked flail the size of a skull; the other bore two wicked battle axes it wielded like hatchets. The gnolls chittered at each other in their language, then the axe gnoll circled to flank the Inquisitor.
The flail gnoll growled and closed in, its weapon swinging wildly. The Inquisitor dodged left and right, timing the flail’s rotations. Its chain swung fast enough to whistle. But its song stopped on a flat note as the gnoll lashed out at the Inquisitor’s ribs. The Inquisitor ducked into a roll beneath it, landing beside the gnoll. He continued into a spin behind his opponent, twisting his blade into its side before kicking it in the rear. The gnoll yelped as its unwieldy weapon threw it off balance.
The axe gnoll sprang in, hacking at the Inquisitor. It forced him to parry backward, taking his attention away from its injured companion. The Inquisitor thrust at the axe gnoll, turning his back to the flail gnoll as it regained its feet.
The flail gnoll swung its weapon in an overhead windup, then brought it down in a diagonal arc to stop the nimble Inquisitor from ducking. The Inquisitor spun to dodge, but his cloak tangled around the head of the flail, jerking him off his feet. He landed hard on his shoulder, losing his hat as he rolled. The Inquisitor struggled to right himself, but the axe gnoll jumped on him, kicking at his ribs.
The Inquisitor rolled away, flicking his wrist. The gnoll’s head snapped back. Then it dropped an axe. It stumbled around for a few seconds before collapsing, a dagger protruding from its eye.
As much as Malfus might have hoped the Inquisitor would fail, the man was a sight to behold. Two dead gnolls lay at his feet, and he was close to having a third. His sword was crimson to the hilt, moving in a blur of feints, parries, and thrusts.
Malfus felt laughter bubbling up again. He giggled uncontrollably.
He plays judge, jury, and executioner for a handful of gnolls, but I have to be carted across the entire Empire to a trial where death is certain. Why not save us both the trouble? Kill me, and be done with it? He could even blame it on the gnolls.
Another gnoll snuck through the woods toward the Inquisitor, hefting a spear, while the flail gnoll kept him busy. Malfus crouched lower and looked around. Where has their archer gone? Malfus decided he wasn’t going to stick around and find out.
Behind him, on the other side of the path, the ground sloped downward into a grove of thicker, sturdier trees. They offered both the perfect hiding spot and cover from falling arrows. Malfus turned from the violence and sauntered away, keeping as close to the ground as he could manage. If the Inquisitor managed to win—he’d face those consequences later.
Then a twig snapped behind him.
He froze like the dead. He dared not move at all, waiting instead for another noise. All he could hear was his heart pounding in his throat. He could run, yell for the Inquisitor, or simply turn around—but the fear was too strong to do anything.
Another twig snapped behind him. This time it was unmistakable. Another crunch followed, accompanied by an eruption of pain in his side.
The unseen blow threw him forward. Malfus landed hard in a puddle of mud for the second time that day. He bit his tongue, ignoring the throbbing pain, and tasted salt. He spat blood and look up with tears in his eyes—but was kicked again, this time in his injured rib.
He rolled over on his back to curse, but instead howled out in the universal language of pain. The silhouette of a gnoll towered over him, blocking out the sun. Malfus would have pled for mercy, but all he managed was a painful moan.
The gnoll grabbed him by the throat and hoisted him into the air.
Malfus, a necromancer has been captured by a ruthless Inquisitor - a religious zealot from the Vesenian Church who have the power to march through the triple kingdoms of the Ossory Empire and deliver the Church's justice to heretics and law breakers. And, as Necromancy has been outlawed for half a millennia, anyone who practices it (or even holds a scant amount of knowledge of the arcane art) is arrested, tortured and then sentenced to a fiery death. Now, Malfus has been dragged behind the horse of his captor for a month; he's starving, dehydrated and in desperate need of new boots when they're ambushed by a strange species called gnolls. A half hyena, half human hybrid who simply want nothing more than to kill and destroy all humans. After a brief skirmish, the Inquisitor and Malfus manage to flee and come across a besieged fort. Can their timely arrival mean a change in the fortunes of the forts inhabitants?
Malfus: Necromancer Unchained is Sutton's first full length novel - and a follow on from his short story Greedy as a Ghoul which introduces us to the hapless necromancer. Malfus: Necromancer Unchained takes us into a world filled with strange creatures, magic and religious dictatorship in an action packed whirlwind. It's told from a third person omniscient point of view, delving into different characters perspective at different points within the book. Unusually, when Sutton deems it appropriate to meet these characters, it doesn't always necessarily mean that we will meet them again - as more than once, that character is killed off part way through their scene. It's definitely an interesting way to keep the reader engaged and on their toes, as they try to determine who will actually live until the end of the page - never mind the story. And that the entire story - barring the first few chapters, is one long fight filled with blood, gore and death - is certainly unusual in itself.
Malfus' world makes more sense in this full length novel. We learn more about his backstory and about those he loved while he was a student in the academy. Sutton doesn't overwhelm the reader with a large information dump in anyone place; instead he trickles information as we learn more about the characters in the story. The world building is much the same, with Sutton even giving the gnolls a reason for their burning hatred. Some information about the world is still frustratingly out of reach; why is the commander of the fort so afraid of the Inquisitor finding the Dwarven ballista? What is the Scar? Why does the Church and its goddess hate Necromancer's so much? It's as though Sutton touched on these themes and then, in a rush to get the battle moving, forgot to revisit them. Although, hopefully, as Malfus continues on his quest to revive Kiara, we'll discover much, much more.
S. A