The Temple of Heart and Bone Read Online Free PDF

two great armies around Æostemark. He held up the ideals of pride,
hope, and, ultimately, religion to give the invaders a prize worth dying for.
He promised them life beyond death, and now, here, he had finally delivered.
    Rank after rank of the dead stood
before him. Some were mere bones, flesh stripped by creatures large or too
small to be seen by the eye. Others had some flesh still rotting from their
structure. These, he realized had died more recently, a bonus to his seven year
plan.
    The magic that bound the spirits
to these forms had been quite powerful, if costly. If only he’d had this power,
this knowledge, in the years he had served the Empire. He had known how to
encase spirits in their corporeal forms before his long slumber. He had used it
as threat and punishment against his Emperor’s enemies. He had even been able
to reanimate a body or two, though it had taken all his concentration. Never
before had he wielded this amount of power. Awakened seven hundred years after
the fall of his Emperor, he was shown the path by the visionary who had roused
him, the visionary who served him still, Poson. His only question was, “Why?”
    Poson had always been obsequious.
He was a fawning, bootlicking sycophant who had sworn his loyalty the moment
the awakening was complete. Why had he not used this power himself? Why had he
sought out the barely living husk of a thousand—and more—year old Imperial
Mage? True, as a mage with the knowledge of captivating souls he could more
readily cross into necromancy, but surely others had possessed this knowledge.
Why disturb the guilty slumber of a being who sought only to fade away?
    The Necromancer’s face flushed a
deep red at the thought. He felt guilt for the fall of the Empire. What use had
his power been when it couldn’t stop the flood of uneducated, ill-mannered,
bipedal vermin from trampling over what he had served for over three hundred
years of his life? A scowl crossed his face and his teeth bit into each other
accusingly. Anger welled into his eyes and he clenched his bloody fists. No
more, he thought, looking out again over the undead forms still gathering in
and around the square. He created now a new force, a new “Imperial Army.” This
army would not grow tired. This army would not flee the field before superior
numbers of inferior creatures. They would require neither food nor sleep, and
their victories would only swell their ranks.
    He looked out over the city of
Æostemark. “City,” he scoffed. Æostemark was a collection of hovels compared to
the majesty of the cities of the Empire. The Empire, he thought. The glory, he
remembered. The guilt, he felt accompanying those disjointed memories. He
raised his bloody hands to his head, knocking off his black mitre and streaking
his lank white hair with his own blood. He would wash away that guilt, yes, he
would, wash it clean. With what, he wondered to himself. He began to shake violently,
the emotions boiling inside him seeming to burst in his very muscles. He shook
and tore at his hair, maddened by the thought of his failure. Failure. Having
failed once, could he not fail again? His head began to rock back and forth
over his chest. His eyes darted left to right, looking for answers, pleading
for answers. Slowly, through his agitation, the blood from his hands ran though
his hair and down his forehead. Falling into his eyes, he became annoyed and
dashed it away.
    Blood. Of course, that was why he
was here. He would wash away the past with the blood of the present. He would
forge the future on the bodies of his enemies. He slowly brought himself under
control. He stopped his violent shaking and raised his head proudly. He looked
out into the gathered dead before him and selected some two hundred in his
mind. Closing his eyes, he issued an order to slay the living vermin hidden
away in the rubble of Æostemark, carefully excluding those who served him.
Everything, he thought, has its uses.
     
    Troseth and