by Stefon Mears
This truth was not strong enough to save him.
Cavan tried the truth of his task. A quest from no lesser being than the god of death itself. To solve the riddle of the slaughter. Trace its cause. Avenge the wrong. Set the restless spirits free.
But death was known well in this place where Cavan was trapped. Death was the endgame here, not the pathway out. He could plead his failure to Istanlos all too soon…
No!
This trap was an illusion. No matter how tightly it held him, it was a lie. Cavan merely needed a stronger truth to burn his way past it. Not a simple truth like love for his friends or his sense of responsibility or his own thirst to prove himself as both a wizard and a warrior.
The trap was too strong for those things. Ready for them. Those thoughts only bound the chains tighter. Fed Cavan’s efforts right back with a sense of doom, of inevitable failure. Cavan’s warmth bled away faster still.
A place deep within Cavan began to ache with deep, icy cold. Freezing him outward from the core of his being.
Cavan needed a deeper truth. Something powerful enough that he had trouble confronting it, even to himself.
Cavan’s only way through this would be to face something he did not want to face. A truth against which, remaining here to die might feel welcoming.
A truth that, even with Cavan in dire need, he did not enjoy bringing at last into his thoughts.
His mother.
The woman who abandoned him. The woman who would not admit to having bore him. As a child, Cavan had pestered Kent often for details about his mother. Anything his foster father would or could tell him.
Kent had refused all inquiries, saying only that Cavan’s mother had not chosen to surrender him. That she loved him, and one day, she would come to see him when she could.
But that day had never come.
Cavan had grown into a man. Traveled, adventured, made a name for himself, until even his father had admitted being proud of his bastard. Had claimed that Cavan was more like him than any of his trueborn children.
Even King Draven had made time to see the child who had been such a political burden that, until that incident at the Ice Dagger, even publicly speaking Cavan’s name would have carried dire consequences.
And still, Cavan had not yet seen even the least sign of his mother. Not so much as the slightest indication that she lived or had died, let alone that she might wish some role in Cavan’s life. To say nothing of any desire to see what had become of her … indiscretion with the king.
King Draven had denied Cavan because the queen’s family was too powerful to risk insulting. As a child, that had been difficult for Cavan, but as he’d grown and traveled, he had come to understand it.
He did not like it, and he had held it against the king for a long time. But he had come to understand it. He had even come to forgive Draven, to an extent at least.
But if Cavan’s mother had any such excuse, why had Cavan never heard it? Why were there no tales of her husband, or the political difficulties Cavan’s existence put her to? Or even tales of her fleeing the shame of Cavan’s birth, to take up some sort of ascetic life somewhere?
Even in Cavan’s childhood, during the worst days of the political consequences of his existence, he remembered a handful of secret visits to secluded parts of the royal castle, for a few minutes of time with the man whose seed had given Cavan life.
And yet where, in all of Cavan’s life was his mother?
Nowhere. Because she did not care. She did not merely give Cavan birth. She expelled him from her body, from her life, and from her thoughts.
And the truth that Cavan never faced all these years was a simple one.
He hated his mother.
It was not merely that she meant nothing to him, as he often tried to pretend. No. He hated her for abandoning him. For never sending so much as an inquiry about Cavan’s health that Kent could have pointed to, to show Cavan that she even cared whether he lived or died.
Cavan hated his mother.
A foul, bitter truth. A painful truth. But a truth that carried power. Power enough to burst through the illusion and carry Cavan all the way to his destination at the heart of that vermilion aura.
The clearing, now tinged with only hints of the vermilion that Cavan’s mind had traveled through. Even the mental projection of his own body, beneath him where Cavan stood, apparently still in the center of the clearing. Even he was tinged with vermilion, like the stars in the dark sky above him.
Dark sky. Not merely nighttime, then, here when the spell was cast. The dark of the moon.
It was said in Naresh, off to the west, that during nights of the dark moon, all the foul things of the world roamed freely to work their will. Angry spirits, wandering demons, murderous faeries.
An auspicious time for the darkest sorts of necromancy.
And all about Cavan, the stage was set for just such a working. The remains of a bloody slaughter.
All those knights, dead. All those raiders, dead. Even the horses, all dead.
Only one living thing stood within the clearing now.
The necromancer. Striding calmly into the center of the clearing, without regard for whether he stepped on dirt, blood, or bodies in those low boots that looked to have been fashioned from elk hide.
He didn’t look the type. Or at least, he showed none of the outward signs of necromancy favored by bards in their tales. His eyes were neither glowing red nor dead black, but hazel, and the pupils were normal, not shaped like skulls.
The necromancer stood about middling height, perhaps a head shorter than Cavan. The top of the man’s skull was tonsured, and what hair surrounded the tonsure was white and fluffy. Almost downy.
His skin had a ruddy hue to it, as though the age that had given the necromancer his many wrinkles had still left him glowing with life.
Or perhaps he kept that glow by stealing life from others.
No. That was speculation. Cavan was here to observe.
So Cavan noted the necromancer’s height, and that his build kept to the thin edge of life. His robes were black, with traceries of dark blues and purples, in symbols that Cavan knew had arcane significance, even if they were symbols he did not, himself, recognize.
Whatever else he was, though, the necromancer was clearly powerful. He had an aura of power as strong as anything Cavan had seen since his encounter with that amazing orc shaman, Iresk the Hawkspeaker.
Alas, though, Cavan could not tell as much about that aura, here within a projection of the remnants of a spell, as he could have were he standing so close to the necromancer in person.
The necromancer carried no staff. That surprised Cavan. Most wizards past a certain age carried staves, if only because they had so many uses in spellwork. Apart, of course, from helping to cover any difficulties an aged wizard might have in getting around.
The necromancer had no such difficulties. He looked almost spry as he moved about, chanting keywords here, dribbling bits of grave dirt, crumbled mold, and ground bone there. Setting the circle not by drawing a circle, but by marking the key points with iron nails, to form a forbidden seven-sided star.
And that, as much as anything else, suggested that this was a necromancer. The seven-sided star had only one true use: binding the will of another.
Most often, from what Cavan had been taught by Master Powys, wizards with more daring than sense would use that star in their attempts to bind demons.
However, those of a certain bent who delved deeper into the mysteries of the seven-sided star would use the shape to bind the dead.
And that was what Cavan was watching right now.
The necromancer pulled a wand from up his sleeve. It looked to have been carved from a human thigh bone, yellowed with age, and so powerful that even without trying, Cavan could feel its aura.
The necromancer worked his fell magics then. He chanted and moved about, touching each fallen body with the tip of his wand, then anointing it with blood from different c
orpse — blood that Cavan noted was still fresh, which meant the necromancer had indeed been waiting nearby — by touching that blood to his own lips first, then kissing the corpse on the forehead.
And all the while, the necromancer continued his steady line of chanting. Words that slipped away from Cavan’s ears as soon as he heard them. He could not so much as recognize a single verb of the spells, much less any of the nouns.
No, even watching the necromancer at work, Cavan had no idea of exactly how the man did what he did.
But somehow, even the part of Cavan that wanted to learn all of magic that he could was just fine missing out on this lesson.
Once the necromancer had bestowed his fell kiss on all of the dead bodies — including the horses — he returned to the center of the clearing.
There he took his wand and stabbed it at the night sky while crying out a single word. At least, Cavan was pretty sure the necromancer spoke only one word in time with that thrust. He had trouble being certain, because that word slammed into him with power.
Power that whisked through him, then came sweeping back, carrying with it a faint echo of the compulsion that made every single corpse, all around Cavan’s awareness, rise and serve that necromancer.
Fortunately for Cavan, the compulsion carried no weight. Did not compel him to join them.
Still, even that hint of the power these poor souls had been subjected to only fired Cavan’s anger at the abomination he was witnessing.
Cavan made himself turn to see every face, man, woman and horse. Make sure he knew exactly how many souls had been ensnared by this evil man’s spells.
Cavan would see to it that every one of these souls were released, to move on to whatever reward or punishment awaited it in the afterlife.
And Cavan would see to it that this necromancer never had a chance to perform a rite like this again. Not if he could help it.
Cavan itched to return to his friends. To tell them what he saw. To feel their indignation match his own, so that together they could see about righting this wrong.
But no, Cavan forced himself to remain. Forced himself to witness all he could before he left.
And it was a good thing he did.
For Cavan watched the dead not only rise to serve that necromancer, but rise and move with the same grace and ease they had carried in life. Even though their eyes and faces showed none of the vibrancy of life.
What Cavan witnessed proved the truth of what he had only suspected as he observed the ritual. These were not merely shambling corpses, but a higher form of undead. The necromancer had not merely animated their flesh and bones, but bound the spirits to their fallen bodies.
Cavan did not know the word for what these poor souls had become. But he did know that would be even more difficult to face, if they formed the army that stood between Cavan and that necromancer.
Cavan watched as the necromancer led his new soldiers away from the clearing, toward the northeast.
That had to be the direction they needed to go then.
It might be the direction of the necromancer’s abode, or it might be the enemy against which the necromancer wished to strike. But either way, something to the northeast would hold the clues Cavan and his friends would need to begin their quest.
He watched until the last of them passed from the clearing.
Then his spell was broken. And Cavan’s real work could begin.
5
The three orcs passed by, never suspecting how close they came to death.
Vastig lay among the tall, golden grasses of the hilltop. Concealed among nature as only a forest elf can be. Hardly worth thinking of as magic, though Vastig knew that the other races considered it so.
Vastig lay there, watching, as the three passed him by. He noted their arms: each carried a double-headed axe, but no bows. Slings, tied to their axe handles. The carried no bags nor pouches though, which meant if they wanted to use those slings, they’d have to scramble for rocks. Inefficient.
They wore togas made from the thick hide of some beast that never set foot in a forest, or Vastig would have known it. The hides looked thick enough to provide some semblance of armor.
Vastig made his mental notes as the orc scouts passed by. Never once did he so much as twitch. Stillness was a hunter’s stock and trade, and a forest elf hunter had to be the best of the best.
Vastig was better still. And he knew it.
Most would have kept their swords sheathed, to avoid even accidental exposure of a reflection to a passing eye.
Vastig preferred to keep his weapons ready. And he knew the perfect angle to lay his thin, twin blades along his thighs. Mere steel these days, instead of proper shaped and formed zil hardwood, but he had to work with what was available to him now.
The bow strapped to his back was an even more embarrassing example. Yes, it was double curved, and the finest gold could buy. Still it was inferior to the brilliance of a simple longbow made from zil.
But then, since his banishment, Vastig could at least pursue his interests in peace.
Vastig sniffed as the orcs passed, scenting not only the warm, midday dirt beneath him, nor the high wild grass his own people called lisath.
More important to smell those orcs.
They smelled like blood, of course. They always did. They cooked with it, blended it with their drinks. They smelled like rank sweat, and dirt as well, but that was their nature. That could not be helped.
More important to note the degree of sweat in their odor, and the quantity of dirt. From these things, Vastig knew that these three scouts had been on patrol for no more than half the time Vastig had been positioned here, and he had positioned himself just before the sunrise.
That meant that these three orcs were indeed the ones he’d seen in the distance, beginning their patrol. The timing matched.
Vastig now knew with certainty the rhythm of the patrols kept by the Red Blade tribe. He could give the scouts perhaps the time of a hawk’s circle up above to return and report.
And then Vastig would rise from his hiding place. Slip in past their picket lines. Find some important orc. A splinter, perhaps. A favored cook. Someone important to the chief.
A child if the chief had children. A child would be best.
Oh, if only Vastig could slip away with an orc babe today. He would not feast as well as he would on an adult, but the flesh would be tender. A pleasant change from the general stringy texture of orc flesh.
Vastig’s mouth was watering already.
He prepared to make his move.
And this was when he was interrupted.
“Vastig! The master commands!”
“Quiet, fool,” Vastig said, rolling to his feet and trotting down the hillside away from the orc encampment. He did not know yet which of his master’s servants had come to deliver orders, but whichever it was could damn well follow him to deliver them, rather than risk Vastig’s discovery.
After days setting up what Vastig liked to call his next larder, it would be a shame for him to be spotted now.
At the foot of the hillside, Vastig held up a hand to stay the servant’s report. First, he would sheathe his swords and clap the dust and loose grass from his clothes. The last proper forest elf clothes he might ever own.
They’d been beaten and shaped from tree bark, like most proper forest elf clothing. Vastig’s were deep shades of brown and burnt orange that went well with his dark, gray-brown skin, and short, nut-brown hair.
Finally, he turned to see which servant the master had sent. That little bit of information would tell Vastig his own current standing in the eyes of the necromancer.
A spirit. The sort likely not visible to the naked eye of the lesser races, but easily spotted by an elf. This spirit looked to be orcish, which Vastig took as an insult, but it was old at least. Vastig could tell by the shade of it.
Newer spirits looked a cloying shade of white to his eyes, while as they aged they seemed to gain first a sort of translucence, followed
by a yellowing. As though they were made from aged vellum, rather than the proper stuff of spirits.
This orcish spirit in front of Vastig now, it was more yellowed than white. So the necromancer was irritated with him for some reason, but still respectful.
Of course, that could also have been a show of superiority from the necromancer. A way to ensure Vastig felt the need to put forth his very best effort, to evade his master’s displeasure.
Only one way to find out.
“Very well,” Vastig said, giving the messenger the expected bow, if perfunctory. “You have my attention. What word from our master?”
“The master’s words…”
And then the voice of the spirit changed from its normal bass, orcish tones, to the high, clear, human voice of the necromancer.
“Some fool has disturbed my trap in the clearing at the Forest of Risen Knights, but managed to escape. You are to investigate this disturbance. If it looks to cause me trouble, kill the interloper and bring me his heart and skull. Dispose of the rest as you would.”
“And if it—”
“If the interloper flees, he is either too weak to be worth my time, or too craven for his spirit to be useful. In either case, you may deal with him in whatever manner you choose, so long as you silence him.”
Vastig gave his master, through his master’s representative, the sort of proper bow he would expect.
“I swear it shall be done, master.”
“I know you will not fail me.”
The spirit sailed off into the air then, without another word. But then, no more words were necessary. Failure would mean a change in the manner of Vastig’s service. He would be drained of his lifeforce, and then forced to serve beyond death.
Of course, if Vastig failed a task such as this one, then as far as he was concerned he deserved such a fate.
In the meantime, he hoped the interloper fled. That would be worth abandoning the work he’d done to prepare for the Red Blade tribe.
Yes, if the interloper fled, then Vastig’s real fun would begin.