by Stefon Mears
6
When Cavan found himself leaving the vermilion world of that necromantic spell’s history, at the end of his own investigatory working, he’d been more than ready to leap astride Dzint and set course at a gallop, yelling the details of what he’d learned to his friends as they rode off.
But as so often seemed to happen in Cavan’s life, his intentions did not quite live up to his expectations.
Cavan’s consciousness returned to his body, and slammed right into the reality of his situation.
First and foremost, the blinding headache given him by his working. The truth was that Cavan was insufficiently trained for the spell he’d performed. And though Cavan liked to pretend that all that stood between himself as he was and himself as a fully qualified wizard was time in a library with the right reading material, the fact was that he needed more than information to become a proper wizard.
A proper wizard underwent long series of exercises to prepare their minds for the lesser versions of what Cavan had just done. Cavan had experienced only the least of these exercises before Master Powys had sent him away, advising him to never again attempt even the things he had been training to do, to say nothing of anything beyond his meager training.
And so, the price that Cavan paid for attempting what he was unready to attempt was fiery pain throughout his skull, hazing the world in red so thick that Cavan could not tell which of his friends were running towards him as he fell to the dirt in the clearing.
He could not parse the sounds he heard then as words, let alone questions. He could not even tell Ehren’s baritone from Reesa’s high, sweet voice.
All Cavan could do was experience that horrible, all-consuming pain in his skull, until it would abate enough for him to begin applying what techniques he knew to rid himself of the rest.
There was little even an amazing healer such as Ehren could do for Cavan, as he lay there, writhing in pain. There were no true wounds to treat. Cavan was only dealing with spell fire: the aftereffects of channeling too much of the kinds of energies his mind was unprepared for.
But even as the eternity of blinding pain seemed to begin to abate — or perhaps Cavan had begun to acclimate to the pain, his warrior training had helped him do such things before — he noticed a secondary problem he was dealing with.
His body was shivering as though he’d been thrown naked into twelve feet of snow, and left out overnight.
So cold. So very, very cold. Except for his skull, which seemed to radiate fiery pain, Cavan was enduring a cold the like of which he’d never experienced before. Cold right down to his very…
…soul.
Oh. Yes. The trap.
The trap had been formed of illusions, yes, but it had also caused Cavan real harm. It could be no other way. The power of a necromancer lay in death, and every spell he worked carried a touch of death to it.
That was the power and the limitation of necromancy. A fact that Cavan was amazed he could recall while suffering such pain. But perhaps it was a statement about the life that Cavan lived that, even while enduring pains that would render unconscious — or even slay — a lesser man, Cavan was still capable of functioning on some level.
And Cavan kept his focus on necromancy. On what he could remember of it. The focus kept him sane through the seeming years or decades before the blinding pain in his skull settled down to an aching throb.
Color returned to his world then. Sound as well. Cavan was even able to begin to recognize the world about him.
He yet lay in that clearing, but he’d been covered over with a blanket — though the blanket did little good against the soul-deep chill his body tried to fight — and his head lay in Reesa’s lap.
Reesa. Beautiful, worried, Reesa, stroking Cavan’s sweaty brow and saying soft little nothings about how she was here, and how she would be here. That Cavan was all right. Everyone was here with him, and they would find a way to make it all right.
Finally, Cavan managed a shaky smile at her, and Reesa called out, “Ehren! He’s conscious.”
Ehren was there in a flash, with Amra and Qalas watching over his shoulders.
“Spell fire,” Ehren said, stroking Cavan’s forehead and checking his eyes. “Nod if I’m right.”
Cavan managed to direct his shaking in the vague shape of a nod.
“Thought so,” Ehren said, giving Cavan a rare frown. “You really must warn us when you’re about to do something you aren’t prepared for.”
“D-D-D-Don’t a-a-a-a-al—”
“You don’t always know,” Ehren said, grimacing now.
A frown and a grimace. Must have been really bad.
“All the same,” Ehren continued, “you must warn us before you attempt anything you think might be too much for you. I really don’t relish seeing you suffer this way.”
Cavan tried to nod again.
“The cold is different, isn’t it?” Amra said, her voice comfortingly matter-of-fact. “He isn’t usually so shaky.”
“Yes,” Ehren said, then began passing his hands in the air above Cavan. “If you can add anything here, it would be appreciated.”
“T-T-T-T-T-r-r-r-r—”
“Trap?” Amra asked, and Cavan shook through another nod.
“Great,” Ehren said flatly, then blanched. Given how pale the priest usually was, the blanch was an impressive sight. He got nearly as white as his clothes. “Necromancy. Something drained your soul?”
Cavan tried to shrug, but it didn’t work. “M-M-M-May—”
“Can’t be sure, I know,” Ehren said, then turned and dug through his backpack.
“The first rays of the sun would be best for this,” he said, and hearing him say “sun” without saying something like “Zatafa’s glory” just made Cavan worry about what shape he really was in.
“But,” Ehren continued, “this sort of problem is not unknown to me. It’s rare, even for us — and I’d like to keep it that way, you understand — but there is a treatment.”
Cavan had to close his eyes then. The sun was high overhead, and its brightness was painful. And to be honest, all of his bones were aching from the cold he endured. It was all he could do to keep his teeth from clattering and risk them breaking.
So Cavan tried to focus on his shuddering breaths. Tried to find a way to gather himself, despite the suffering he endured. A true warrior would be able to do it. A true wizard would have done it as soon as he’d returned to his body.
But this was too much. Cavan had no focus. He could barely even keep his attention on the sight of Reesa’s pretty gray eyes and the worried way her brow drew together.
But Ehren was praying in rapid Penthix. And Cavan, he didn’t smell smoke, quite, but he did smell flame. He tried to sit up, but Ehren held him down with strong hands, and all the while praying.
Then, Cavan felt the queerest sensation of his life. Even stranger than the cold that seemed to radiate from the very core of his self.
Within that core, Cavan felt a flicker. Light. Heat.
Whatever it was didn’t catch. It faded.
But then it came again. And again. And each time it came back stronger. Each time, Ehren’s voice got louder. Clearer.
Cavan would have even sworn that Ehren’s words seemed to echo inside him.
Finally, the spark caught. Then, within the frozen region deep inside Cavan, it was as though a tiny stream of flame worked its way up and down, up and down. From down past the soles of his feet to up past his head.
Swift now, slow now, but always moving. And each pass made the flame a little brighter. A little warmer. A little wider.
Sooner than Cavan dared dream, the heat replaced the cold, and he once again felt enough like himself to reach up and kiss Reesa.
Reesa made a small sound of surprise, but gave herself to the kiss, holding Cavan to herself every bit as tight as Cavan held her.
“All right, all right,” Amra said after a moment. “I presume you discovered something more than the need for a kiss?”
Cavan broke the kiss and gave a smile that included all of them, and a nod of thanks for Ehren, who would not have willingly listened to more gratitude than that as he gathered up the candles he’d lit and placed, one by Cavan’s feet and the other by his head.
Reesa was smiling back, which just made Cavan feel all the better as he stood, then held her hand as she rose from her kneeling position.
“Oh, I’ve learned quite a bit. And we need to get moving.”
Despite the urgency Cavan felt to get riding, he had one more spell to cast before he could leave the clearing.
The trap he had encountered was sprung and gone. Nothing remained of it. However. That horrific rite he’d witnessed, that had been a powerful spell. Powerful enough that its echoes had reverberated into the very surroundings.
If Cavan could gather the proper remnants of that spell, he could link those remnants to their caster, no matter how much time had passed since that fateful night.
Not a strong link, true, but enough for what he needed.
First, Cavan went to the largest of the trees that formed the innermost ring around the clearing.
He placed both hands upon that tree. Whispered softly, hoping that he had the words right. He spoke little of the language of the walking trees, but had been assured that all trees understood it.
“I have need,” he whispered, or intended, at the least. “To undo a horrible wrong done in this place. A wrong we both witnessed, though only one of us was there at the time. A wrong worse than fire among saplings. Would you aid me with a twig?”
A small branch fell from above to land at Cavan’s feet. Cavan had only been hoping for a twig. Perhaps something as thick as a finger and long as his hand. What he got was as thick as his wrist and long as his forearm, with smaller twigs still full of needles.
“Thank you,” Cavan said, confident that he had those words right, at least.
Cavan stripped away the smaller twigs and needles, and left them at the foot of the donating tree.
Then, trusting to what his wizard sight had told him earlier, he stepped across the clearing to the spot where the vermilion aura was strongest. Yes, he could have seen it again, had he chosen, but having fallen into one trap today, Cavan had no desire to discover that he’d overlooked another only to stumble into it.
At that spot, he dug in the dirt for a small stone. Tied it to the end of the branch with a strip of leather. Then rubbed the stone and leather with dirt from the same spot.
“Rass ka, neel ne atacha,” Cavan intoned the incantation while flaring the right amount of power across the end of the branch.
Pain followed the flare of power, but that would be true every time Cavan used magic between now and … likely sunset. Possibly the next sunrise. Pain that was the price of overreaching himself earlier, and one Cavan was more than willing to pay right then.
Violet, heatless flame sprang up from the end of the branch. Flame that immediately leaned toward the northeast, confirming what Cavan had concluded earlier.
“The flame will point the way to the necromancer,” Cavan said, smiling through the ache in his head. “And now, it is time to ride.”
Riding felt glorious after all Cavan had been through that day. To have Dzint beneath him, open land stretching out before him, and his friends all around him, riding to right a wrong.
Truly, one of the best feelings Cavan knew.
Alas, he did not get to savor it quite so much as he would have wished. He had tales to tell and questions to answer.
Three times, in fact, Cavan had to repeat the tale of what he had witnessed during his spell. Three times, as he and his friends rode slowly northeast out of the woods and across rolling hills of goldenrod in the afternoon sunshine.
Each time, though Cavan’s report was essentially the same, someone had different questions that required going through it all again, in detail.
And each time, they asked about things Cavan considered less important than what he had observed about the necromancer himself.
Amra had asked questions about the risen dead. How they moved. What order they moved in. If there seemed to be any traces of their past selves in their mannerisms.
Cavan, of course, could not have spoken to such traces, as he had known none of these men and women in life. But he repeated what he had seen, because facts were clearer to Amra than even half a wizard’s conclusions.
Cavan felt certain that the spirits had been bound with the bodies. Ehren, at least, understood what that meant to the same degree that Cavan did, albeit likely along different lines.
Cavan, of course, considered the magical implications of that fact. Ehren, no doubt, took a religious angle.
And always Amra stayed on the military side of the street. Oh, it was true she’d grown more philosophical over the past year, but not so much that it deviated her from concerns over planning and tactics.
Either way, Cavan’s observations meant that Amra should count on those “traces” of personality remaining. Which, as she explained, meant the knights would retain a sense of tactics, and ability to coordinate their fighting. Something to guard against.
She would have had Cavan go through several more recitations, had he let her, in order to ensure he had missed nothing. And under normal circumstances, that would have been a good idea.
Usually, describing what he saw to his friends brought questions that made Cavan realize he’d seen even more of what he’d observed than he would have believed beforehand.
But this time Cavan’s observations had come through a spell. And the nature of observation through magic was such that it followed attention.
Details missed the first time were not witnessed and present to be recovered through memory. They were simply missed. However much Amra refused to believe that.
Ehren, of course, had wanted more details on the seven-pointed star, and everything Cavan could recall about the mannerisms of the rising corpses. Though what Ehren would conclude from this information, Cavan could not begin to guess.
Qalas’ questions, at least, had not required another recitation. But then, Qalas had been more focused on the archer, and Cavan had seen no signs of the archer. Not even so much as the shadow of anyone alive near the clearing, save the necromancer, nor any sign of the archer among the risen dead.
Qalas concluded that Cavan’s not seeing the archer meant the archer was indeed working for the necromancer. Otherwise, the necromancer would likely have killed the archer, and raised him along with the others.
A valid point, in Cavan’s opinion, and one he considered unusual. What would a necromancer want with a living servant? Why would anyone with life in their veins choose to serve a necromancer?
At least this was a topic for speculation that carried the conversation away from forcing Cavan to relive what he had witnessed.
Still, Cavan felt good again, after the horrible pains and cold he’d experienced. And he was riding his blue roan hobby again, with his friends around him and a task before him.
Yes, they were riding into the hazard. And yes, Reesa was untried in anything more than a duel, so far as Cavan knew.
But he had to take his pleasures in life where he could find them. And right there, right then, riding in good company as he was.
Life was good.
The Forest of Risen Knights. Leave it to a necromancer to name a forest after his own work.
But what did Vastig care about the name of any forest? No forest welcomed him. Not anymore.
Even this tiny speck of woods. This copse. This grove. This nothing compared to the mighty Wailing Woods that he had known in his youth, his glory, and his shame.
Even these neelach trees dared grumble at Vastig as he strode between them, heading for the clearing he needed. Little reminders that, no matter how small the grove, no trees would aid him ever again.
For most forest elves, banishment meant death. But, as Vastig had learned, death need not be the end.
The clearing looked much as h
e remembered it, though he had not been here since the night that gave these woods their name.
How long ago was that now? Five years? Ten? Who bothered keeping count?
The trees themselves, of course, had aged in ways he could not help but notice. They grew, and they spread their roots and seeds, so that, given enough time and food, this little bit of a copse might become impressive.
Vastig was tempted to burn it down, rather than see that happen.
But no. The necromancer would not stand for it. Anyplace he renamed for his deeds had to stand in eternal tribute to his work.
Someone, however, had disturbed this tribute. Vastig could see that even as he entered the clearing.
There had been a fire here, just this very morning. An encampment. Human, to judge not only by the lingering smell — fainter than Vastig expected for traveling humans — and experienced at covering their tracks.
Poor humans. Little did they likely realize they did not need to hide their movements from one of their own kind, but from a forest elf. And even a disgraced forest elf knew more of hunting than a human could learn in a dozen lifetimes.
And this particular forest elf, disgraced though he might be, had learned even more about hunting humanoids over the last several decades.
So Vastig had no trouble determining that five humans had camped here overnight. They’d had some sort of disturbance — no doubt whatever they did to trigger the master’s trap — and yet had seen the night through, and not left with the first rays of dawn.
Why would that be? Were any of them injured? Did they have healers?
Interesting.
Vastig went over and over the clearing. Once upon a time, he could have asked the trees about those who had camped here. At the time, he considered this a wondrous gift.
Now, he knew it for the crutch it was. Vastig needed no trees to tell him what he could gather from his senses.
Five humans, with horses. Three hobbies, a rouncey, and a courser. The hobbies moved as though they had been raised together, trained together.
Then three of them were companions. Likely escorting the other two.