Chapter 12: Death’s Bargain #12
Calixto, thinking he had done a decent job of masking his true thoughts, hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin in an attempt to appear pensive. "I think I may have seen something like—"
His sentence was abruptly cut short as he felt something cold and unyielding press against his throat. Eyes wide with shock, he glanced down to see the gleaming edge of Erik's straight sword, its tip resting dangerously close to his neck.
His mind reeled—he hadn't even seen Erik draw the blade, let alone move into striking distance. The speed had been otherworldly, leaving him frozen, helpless.
"W-What are you...?" Calixto stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
Erik's face remained a mask of eerie calm, his eyes cold and calculating. "I'm feeling charitable today," he said softly, almost as if discussing something trivial. "So let me do you a favor—resurrecting your sister is an impossible task."
Calixto's breath hitched. He wanted to protest, but before he could utter a word, Erik's eyes narrowed, his tone growing sharper.
"Whoever wrote those rituals in that necromancy tome you stumbled upon," Erik continued, "was either a fraud or someone with far darker intentions. They sold you a lie. At best, the ritual won't work. At worst... you'll unleash something far worse than you could imagine on the world."
Calixto's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. But Erik gave him no time to dwell on the implications. "Now, do yourself a favor and hand over the tome, along with Mannimarco's relic—the amulet," Erik said, his voice laced with quiet menace.
For a moment, the shopkeeper's face remained passive, but then something shifted. His expression hardened, and in a desperate burst of defiance, Calixto thrust his hand forward, his fingers crackling with magical energy. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he spat, his voice trembling with anger.
Erik's eyes flashed with deadly intent. In an instant, he tensed his grip, prepared to slice Calixto's throat clean, but the shopkeeper was faster than expected. A burst of flame erupted from Calixto's palm, forcing Erik to leap backward to avoid the searing heat.
The fire roared through the shop, scorching the floor where Erik had just stood. The acrid smell of burning wood filled the air. Erik landed gracefully, his boots skidding across the stone floor as he steadied himself. His sword remained drawn, gleaming ominously in the flickering firelight.
Calixto, emboldened by his brief success, began weaving another spell, his hands glowing with the telltale signs of more destruction magic. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and despite his bravado, there was a frantic look in his eyes.
Erik clicked his tongue, the sound one of pure annoyance. "I wanted to be civil since I didn't want to waste my time looking for the book and the amulet..." he said, his voice a low growl, "but you really do have a death wish."
The air around them thickened with tension, magic swirling in the room as Calixto's hands moved faster, conjuring another spell. Erik, however, remained calm, his gaze never leaving the man before him. He twirled his sword in his hand, the sharp edge slicing through the air with an audible hiss.
The moment stretched out, a heartbeat of silence before everything erupted once more. Calixto's spell took shape, a sharp ice spike hovering over his hand. Erik's lips curled into a smile, his body tensing for the inevitable clash.
Calixto wasted no time. With a sharp thrust of his hand, the ice spike he had conjured shot forward, whistling through the air as it hurtled toward Erik. But Erik didn't flinch, didn't even consider dodging. Instead, he charged straight ahead, his eyes locked on Calixto, his expression a mixture of confidence and disdain.
In his free hand, a shimmering Lesser Ward materialized with a simple flick of his wrist. He brought it up swiftly, and with a casual motion, slapped the incoming projectile aside. The ice shattered into glittering fragments, falling uselessly to the ground. Erik barely acknowledged the shards. He was already analyzing his opponent.
'Amateur,' Erik thought. Though Calixto's speed at conjuring spells was unnatural, it was clear his technique lacked refinement. His control over magicka was rushed, his incantations sloppy. He was clearly relying on some external means—perhaps desperation or borrowed power.
Before Erik could close the gap between them, Calixto's hands moved again, weaving another spell. This time, a Lightning Bolt. Erik could see it forming, the crackling energy coiling in his opponent's hand, the magic circle spinning faster and faster as it neared completion. He couldn't raise a ward in time, and dodging lightning at this distance would be impossible. But it didn't matter.
Erik smirked. He had already read Calixto's intent, every movement telegraphed by the man's frantic motions. A split second before the spell was unleashed, Erik shifted his torso, a subtle but precise movement. The bolt of lightning shot past his head, close enough for him to feel the heat of its energy, but it missed its mark.
Before Calixto could even react, Erik was upon him.
"Let me show you the proper use of an Ice Spike," Erik declared, his voice low and menacing, his tone implying just how outclassed Calixto was.
Without the need for an elaborate gesture, Erik simply opened his palm, and an ice spike materialized almost effortlessly. It was no ordinary conjuration. The spike shimmered unnaturally, the surface perfectly clear, with thin tendrils of frozen green liquid swirling inside. It was both beautiful and lethal.
And Erik wasn't done.
The spike split into dozens of razor-sharp, crystalline needles, each one glowing faintly as they floated around his outstretched hand. With a mere flick of his fingers, he sent them flying forward with the force of a shotgun blast.
The icy shards buried themselves into Calixto's body in a split second, puncturing flesh with sickening precision. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as his body jerked violently, blood staining the needles where they lodged deep in his skin. The frozen tendrils, glowing with sickly green light, snaked through the wounds, freezing his blood and numbing his limbs.
Calixto staggered backward, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, his eyes wide with shock and agony.
He tried to raise his hands, tried to summon another spell, but his body was betraying him. His legs gave out, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap.
Erik stood over him, his eyes cold and unfeeling. "Necromancy is the study of death..." he said, his voice calm but filled with quiet menace. "You'd have better luck dabbling in restoration if you want to revive your long dead sister... though you won't get the chance anymore...."
Calixto's lips trembled, but he couldn't form words. The pain and cold sapped the fight from him, leaving only regret.
Erik watched Calixto's final, shallow breaths escape him, the man's life seeping away like a candle flickering out. His cold gaze lingered on the lifeless body for only a moment before he knelt beside it, wasting no time.
Reaching for Calixto's neck, Erik's fingers moved swiftly, brushing against the soft fabric of the man's tunic until he felt the cool touch of metal.
He gripped it firmly and pulled free the amulet he had come for. As he held it up, the dim light of the shop glinted off the exquisite eight-sided amulet, its jade skull centerpiece gleaming with a sinister aura. A faint, dark energy radiated from the relic—a palpable sense of death, ancient wisdom, and necromantic power.
This was the Necromancer's Amulet. Erik had suspected it all along, deducing its presence based on Calixto's unnaturally fast spellcasting. The way the man had been able to fire off multiple spells in quick succession was far beyond his natural ability.
Erik knew from his own experiences that such feats required an immense amount of magicka—far more than a novice like Calixto could wield without some external aid.
'The amulet,' Erik mused, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the relic more closely. 'It's the only thing that explains it. The enchantments must have amplified his magicka to unnatural levels.'
The old necromancer had encountered similar relics and artifacts before, but few were as notorious as the Necromancer's Amulet. Its power came with a cost—something Calixto likely hadn't fully grasped until it was too late.
Without hesitation, Erik clasped the amulet around his own neck. The moment the metal touched his skin, he felt its effects surge through him. A strange, draining sensation took hold of his body, sapping his vigor almost instantly.
He could feel the slowing of his natural healing, the weight of fatigue already pressing down on his limbs. His stamina recovery had been reduced by threefold, and his body would take far longer to recover from wounds.
But Erik didn't care. He hadn't slept for more than a few hours every few days since leaving Snowhawk Fortress anyway, relying on stamina potions to keep himself going. The physical cost of wearing the amulet was a minor inconvenience compared to the rewards it offered.
More importantly, Erik felt the sudden rush of magicka flooding through him, filling reserves that had remained stagnant since his awakening.
He had attempted to expand his magicka pool using potions and ehcnantments to no avail, but for the first time in what felt like ages, his magical energy surged beyond the limits imposed by his broken soul.
He quickly assessed the increase, calculating that he could now cast adept-level spells with ease—something he hadn't been able to do without significant preparation.
'This alone makes all the effort worth it,' Erik thought with a satisfied smirk, his mind already racing with the possibilities. But he knew there was more to this amulet than just the magicka boost.
The Necromancer's Amulet was infamous for its layered enchantments—some of which would require careful study to fully understand. Dark magic always came with hidden costs, but it also offered untapped power for those bold enough to claim it.
Erik muttered under his breath, "For something created by that vile crook Mannimarco, it's surprisingly decent." The faint smile on his lips lingered as he turned to Geri, his demonic Corgi, who had been observing the fight from the sidelines.
Geri, now sporting a troll's skull like a makeshift helmet, barked in agreement, his tail wagging as he continued to curiously sniff around the cluttered shop.
Erik couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the sight. "You look ridiculous, you know that?" he said, shaking his head with amusement.
The Corgi tilted its head, the skull shifting slightly as if to say, Who, me?
With a sigh, Erik turned his attention back to the task at hand. "Now I just need to find the magic tome Calixto learned the ritual from," he mused, scanning the shop's shelves cluttered with oddities and relics. "Maybe then I can actually get some sleep for once..."
Erik's interest in the Necromancer's Amulet had always been purely practical—its boost to his magicka reserves was invaluable. But the necromancy tome Calixto had used to craft his twisted ritual? That piqued Erik's curiosity on an entirely different level.
Though he knew full well that resurrecting someone, especially with necromancy, was a fool's errand, something in him—a remnant of the ancient necromancer's thirst for forbidden knowledge—urged him to dig deeper.
In all his time walking the dark paths of necromancy, Erik had learned one absolute truth: once a soul passed into the hands of Arkay, it was gone. The god of life and death safeguarded souls with unyielding certainty, and no amount of manipulation, no twisted ritual, could truly bring someone back.
There were ways to use souls—trapping them, bending them to your will—but true resurrection? It was nothing more than a myth.
'But,' Erik mused, 'there are always exceptions.' If Calixto's sister's soul had been bound to an object or tethered to some relic after her death, that might allow for a semblance of resurrection.
A skilled necromancer could move a soul from one vessel to another, similar to how the old necromancer had transferred his soul from body to body to cheat death. But even that wasn't true resurrection. It was more akin to changing vessels, like slipping on a new set of robes.
Still, the thought nagged at him. In all his years, even with the vast knowledge he'd absorbed from the old necromancer's memories, he had never encountered a tome that claimed to offer the power of true resurrection.
Such claims were almost always tricks, elaborate deceptions designed to unleash horrors from the planes of Oblivion—Daedra, or worse, ancient evils forgotten by time. Yet, despite the obvious dangers, the lure of the unknown was irresistible.
Erik's hand drifted to the amulet resting beneath his robes. It was a relic of immense power, created by Mannimarco, the King of Worms himself—a figure who had delved deeper into the mysteries of necromancy than perhaps any mortal before him. Erik intended to delve even deeper into this dangerous path.
"I'll read through it if nothing else," he muttered to himself, already imagining the arcane secrets the tome might hold. The ancient necromancer's insatiable thirst for knowledge still coursed through his mind, an echo of a man long dead but not yet forgotten. It was one of the many things that had been etched into Erik's mind, burned into his psyche alongside the necromancer's memories.
As Geri continued to sniff around the shop, Erik began his search in earnest, his eyes scanning the shelves and corners of the room. He didn't doubt the tome would be hidden somewhere nearby—Calixto's judgment had been clouded by the notion of bringing his sister back to life. And once Erik had the tome in his hands, he would study it, piece by piece, and unlock whatever twisted knowledge it contained.
Knowledge was power. And in this dark, dangerous world, Erik had every intention of wielding both knowledge and power.
...
Night had settled over Windhelm, the cold winds howling outside the walls of the Coldhearth Inn. Inside, the warmth of the hearth and the lively din of the common room brought a stark contrast to the harsh weather outside. Laughter, drunken banter, and the sound of a bard strumming through "Ragnar the Red" echoed faintly through the walls. Yet, Erik paid it no mind.
He sat on the edge of the bed in his rented room, the flickering light of a lone candle illuminating his face. In his hands, an old tome rested—a weathered, dust-covered book that felt ancient in his grasp. Geri lay at the foot of the bed, his demonic Corgi form resting with his head on his paws, eyes half-lidded but alert, always watchful.
Erik's eyes narrowed as he carefully turned each brittle page of the book, the same one that had captivated Calixto's obsession with necromantic rituals. The further he read, the deeper his frown became. 'This is no simple sham,' he thought, 'not some fraud's attempt at necromancy.'
Though the tome had been crudely translated into the common tongue, Erik's discerning mind recognized its origins immediately. Ayleid, without a doubt—more specifically, it hailed from the daedra-worshipping Ayleids of the Merethic Era, who once dominated modern-day Cyrodiil.
He could tell by the language structure, the syntax, and, most importantly, the errors. The old necromancer's experience had granted Erik the ability to discern such details with ease.
To someone untrained, the mistakes would have gone unnoticed, but Erik recognized the flawed attempts to translate words that carried multiple meanings in Ayleidoon. The scribes who had tried their hand at this task had botched many of the finer details, and it showed.
Despite these translation errors, Erik could see the depth of the knowledge contained within. The rituals, even in their imperfect form, were profound—far more advanced than anything Calixto could have possibly understood. But what caught Erik's attention the most was the so-called resurrection ritual Calixto had been so fixated on.
Erik had expected a sham, some convoluted trick to lure in desperate souls like Calixto, promising the impossible. Yet, as he read, his expectations were shattered. This was no ordinary necromantic rite—it was, in fact, a resurrection ritual. And, unlike the typical false promises found in most necromantic tomes, this one seemed genuine.
But there was a catch. There's always a catch. Erik's eyes scanned the intricate details of the ritual, his frown deepening as the truth became clear. This resurrection spell wasn't designed to call a soul back from Arkay's embrace. No, this ritual was meant to summon souls from Coldharbour, the dreaded realm of Molag Bal.
"That fool had no idea," Erik muttered under his breath. Geri's ears twitched at the sound, but the Corgi remained still, listening quietly as Erik continued.
Of course, it wasn't stated where the soul would be called back from. The tome wasn't for study. It was a record simply that documented several rituals and how to perform without going into the finer details. Erik only managed to infer this much from his own knowledge, making the connection to Coldharbour due to the materials and methods used to perform the ritual.
As he read further, Erik realized the sinister brilliance behind the ritual and couldn't help but be impressed. A great number of the Ayleids, who had once ruled with an iron fist, were devout Daedra worshippers. They made countless bargains with the Daedric Princes, particularly Molag Bal, the Prince of Domination.
The Ayleids, in their lust for power, had used Molag Bal's influence to further their conquests, even going so far as to bind their own souls to him in exchange for victory.
When one of their own fell in battle, their souls didn't pass to Arkay—they were claimed by Molag Bal, taken to Coldharbour. But they had a contingency plan. With this ritual, their comrades could call them back, ripping them from Coldharbour and returning them to life.
Unfortunately, Molag Bal demanded a hefty price in exchange, and so the ritual wasn't widespread among the Ayleids. Otherwise, they would still be ruling Tamriel to this day.
Erik exhaled slowly, the implications settling in. While it was indeed a resurrection ritual, it was not one meant for the innocent or for those who had died natural deaths. It was specifically designed to call back souls bound to the Daedric Prince, and Calixto's sister… she would have never had the chance to make such a pact, even if she wanted to. Her soul had passed into Arkay's embrace, and no amount of desperate rituals would have brought her back.
Even if Calixto had somehow succeeded in performing the spell, the best he could have hoped for was to unleash something far worse than death. Molag Bal was known for his cruelty, and it was likely that the soul called forth wouldn't have been Calixto's sister at all, but something far more sinister.
A trick, a mockery, sent back from Coldharbour to torment those foolish enough to meddle in such matters. The King of Rape's cruelty knew no bounds, and nothing was beneath him, after all.
Erik closed the book, his fingers lingering on the cracked leather cover. "A resurrection ritual," he muttered to himself, a trace of disdain in his voice. "But only for the damned." His mind raced with thoughts, not only about the ritual's dark potential but also about the dangerous allure it might hold for others.
Geri, sensing Erik's shift in mood, let out a soft growl, his glowing red eyes lifting to meet Erik's gaze. Erik smirked. "Don't worry," he said. "I have no intention of meddling with Molag Bal's realm. Not yet, at least."
With that, Erik slid the tome into his pack. He had learned enough for one night. As much as the necromancer's thirst for knowledge gnawed at him, urging him to continue his research, Erik was exhausted. His body ached, and he hadn't slept properly in days. The amulet around his neck, while empowering his magicka, was sapping his strength with every passing hour. He could feel its toll weighing on him.
"I don't have any use for the resurrection spell nor the other rituals recorded in the tome," he muttered, lying back on the bed. "Still... you never know what might happen in the future..."
Geri let out a soft huff before curling up beside him, the warmth of the inn's hearth casting a soft glow over the room. Erik closed his eyes, the weight of the ancient knowledge lingering in his mind as sleep finally claimed him.
...
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