by Stefon Mears
Ehren raised one eyebrow in that way he had. As though he was asking a question without asking it. Rendering judgment without judging. That one eyebrow made Cavan twist with guilt at having made Ehren spend so valuable a resource on him.
“What I am saying,” Ehren said, his tone gentler now, “is that am now out of that incense. There is no more of it, even in my backpack. And I would very much appreciate it” — Ehren looked straight at Cavan as he said that — “if I do not find myself needing more of it anytime soon.”
“I’ll do my best,” Cavan said. Amra and Qalas said something similar, which he appreciated, since he was pretty sure Ehren’s warning was mainly for him.
“That’s all I can ask,” Ehren said, smiling once more as he mounted Highsun. “Now, let us see about ghouls, traps, and a quest from the god of death.”
As they rode back toward the ruined monastery, Cavan watched the world once more through his wizard sight. And he was glad to see that the necromantic influence was already beginning to pale.
Oh, on its own it would take months, perhaps years, to fade entirely. But no more active waves of death magic issued forth from the source.
Cavan still intended to inform a temple of the Green Lord of what had happened here. No doubt they would send a priest to speed the recovery.
As things now stood, those flora and fauna that were undead suffered under the light of day without fresh influxes of necromantic power to reinforce them.
The undead grasses, trees, and bushes would not last long, but the animals could take shelter. Survive longer, if they could find another source of sustenance by preying on living creatures. Likely they would have to spread out from this area to do so.
All the more reason to call for a priest of the Green Lord.
In the meantime, though, the air was breathable again. Cavan had handed his feather to Reesa as they rode, just to test, and sure enough, the air was all fresh and clean once more. Restored by the winds, without more death magic to eat away at it.
Ehren even recovered his voice enough to start singing on the ride, which was a mixed blessing, as ever.
Once they arrived at the ruins, Cavan gathered up the feathers, thanked the elementals, and released them to return whence they came.
The trapped door in the stone floor near the back of the monastery wasn’t trapped anymore. Must have had only a magical trap set on it, and that trap did not outlive the necromancer.
Cavan pretended to disable a physical trap all the same, just to avoid getting teased by Amra.
In the catacombs beneath the ruined monastery, only the ghouls remained to pose any kind of threat. The rest of the necromancer’s undead had fallen to raw bones the moment he died.
And the ghouls, well, they were disorganized without a leader, and few enough that Cavan and his friends dispatched them easily. Even Reesa held up her end of the skirmishes. She’d come a good way in a short time, so she either had a knack for it or had gotten more tutelage from Amra than Cavan had noticed.
The sun was down, but the moon not yet risen when Cavan and his friends emerged once more from the catacombs into the night air.
Gathered within Ehren’s pack they had the remains of all risen dead they could gather from the necromancer’s lair. They felt confident that they’d found the bones of all the raiders they’d seen in the ghostly battle, but to be safe they gathered as well the bones of every other fallen former member of the necromancer’s retinue.
In fact, the only remains they did not gather were those of the necromancer himself, and the forest elf who served him.
“Seems unfair,” Reesa said, as they mounted their horses once more.
“What does?” Cavan asked, expecting something about the poor souls whose remains had been abused for the necromancer’s fell purposes.
“We hunted a necromancer down in his lair. Slew him and his right hand man. To hear the bards tell it, there should have been treasure. Piles of gold. Fantastical objects. Wonders.”
Cavan laughed. He couldn’t help himself. And he wasn’t alone. The others all laughed with him, and soon Reesa was laughing herself.
“Never does work out the way it does in the stories of the bards,” Cavan said.
“We did find some coins,” Qalas said. “Though probably no more than the dead were buried with.”
“Besides,” Amra said, ever practical, “what would a necromancer want with gold? The guy basically lived in a crypt.”
“If you can all it living,” Qalas added.
“And the few enchanted things he did have,” Cavan said quickly, “were not ones you would want. Believe me.”
“Is that why you broke that mirror with that bone cup?” Reesa asked.
Cavan nodded. “And you don’t want to know what they were used for.”
Reesa swallowed. Nodded.
“Didn’t stop you from taking his spellbook,” Qalas said.
“I didn’t want to leave it there for someone to stumble on,” Cavan said. “And that second volume was a journal. Never know what that might hold.”
“He has that adventure look in his eye again,” Qalas said to Reesa.
“Can we find a psychopomp first?” Amra asked. “I can’t believe I’m the one reminding you that a god will strike us down if we don’t.”
And then, Cavan and his friends were riding once more, determined to make their camp on fresh, entirely living grass before they slept that night.
11
Cavan and his friends returned to the main road through Holfast — Reesa confirmed Cavan’s recollection that this country was Holfast — and continued west, seeking a temple of Istanlos.
They rode past farms and a couple of small towns that were little help except to say that the capital had temples to most of the gods, and that Cavan and his friends should continue westward.
The waning moon seemed narrower each night above their encampments, which did little to encourage Cavan. And it was a statement about their urgency that not one of them — not even Reesa, the least used to sleeping on hard ground — suggested staying in an inn instead of sleeping beside the road.
They all agreed that covering as much ground as they could each day was more important than a little extra comfort.
On the third day along that road, near the point where the river Holrush began to widen, Cavan and his friends finally found Fieldsend, the capital city of Holfast.
Like the river, the city widened on its way south.
Toward the northern end, past the main road, it began as the fields and farms on either side tapered away. At the southernmost point, where the city was widest, lay the royal castle, where Queen Sarina kept her court.
The castle looked tall and formidable, even from the road, with several towers and visible catapults and scorpions on the stone walls. Walls that extended all the way around the city, and stood tall enough that even an ogre would have to stand on the shoulders of another ogre to reach the parapets.
There were, in fact, more farms to the south. Why was the city called—
“They have a lot of trouble with their neighbors?” Qalas asked, staring at the great iron gate in the wall ahead of them.
“Holfast is matrilineal,” Reesa answered. “And—”
Amra snorted. “Let me guess. Their neighbors had to learn the hard way that yes, women can lead in wartime.”
“Yes, that is true,” Reesa said, hesitantly, and flushed slightly as she continued. “But the castle and walls were reinforced by Queen Heffria, who rightly guessed that her eldest daughter had no head for strategy. Holfast used to extend about another week’s ride to the west. As it stands, only the strength of the castle keeps the western border where it is, about two days from here.”
Amra started to say something about that, but Ehren smiled and said, “I believe someone mentioned that we have some urgency to what we’re doing?”
Amra didn’t even look embarrassed. Just whistled the advance, and led them on through the gates — open at midday �
� and on into Fieldsend itself.
Dirt roads in Fieldsend, and buildings made mostly of wood, standing one, two or three stories tall. Like most cities Cavan had been to, this one smelled of cooked food, sweaty populace, and dung of various types.
No order to the city layout that Cavan could see, but Amra must have spotted something he missed, because she’d never been here so far as he knew, but she seemed to have a purpose to her direction.
Maybe one street later, Cavan realized why. And the answer came in two parts.
Much of the traffic that involved carts, wheelbarrows and trade moved north and south through the town. Likely a farmer’s market toward the north end, and the tradesmen clustering as close to the castle as they could in the south.
The east, the direction Cavan and company rode from, held barracks and at least some portion of what looked like a royal army, as well as the city watch.
That made the west the most likely location for any temple not dedicated to Zatafa. Temples to Zatafa, of course, were always as far east in a town or city as they could be, to be closest to the rising sun.
The second part of that realization came from the building designs themselves. The inns and houses, shops and workshops and such mainly had the rectangular designs that humans favored, and the vast majority of this city’s populace was human.
But ahead, Cavan could see at least one dome. And he thought he could make out the curving walls that might indicate a temple to Ulsina, the Lady of Ways.
Two blocks later, Cavan was sure of it. That stone structure had the curves and arches of a temple to Ulsina. And that would be the start of the temple district.
From there, Ehren took the lead. The gods had a pecking order of their own, and that manifested in the way temple districts organized, modified sometimes by how revered a god was in a region.
Sare, god of war, always had His temples set as close as possible to the nearest battlefield — west, in this case — with His highest rites performed during the blood red of sunset.
Istanlos was the exception. Cavan could never tell the logic or hierarchical rules that led to the locations of the god of death’s temples.
Ehren, however, had no such troubles. He navigated through the busy streets as though he’d been to Fieldsend every summer since he came of age.
The temple of Istanlos in Fieldsend lay at the northwest edge of the city, right in the shadow of the wall. To get there, they had to ride through narrow streets between poorly maintained buildings. Mismatched wood, patchy roofs. The housing of the poor. Beggars filled those narrow streets, and Amra spat a curse when she saw that some of them were missing limbs. Likely former soldiers, discarded when they could no longer fight, a fact she confirmed quickly enough with gestures from the common battle sign language in this part of the world.
What coins Cavan and his friends had found in the catacombs — and the majority of what other coins they carried — they gave to those in need, with Amra making sure that every old soldier got at least enough for a meal.
At last, though, they arrived at the temple of Istanlos.
Most of the temples in Fieldsend were large, grand affairs. Two- to four-story tall stone structures — large enough to host their rituals indoor or out — with ornate sculptures, fine engravings, and the like.
None of this was true of the temple of Istanlos. The god of death tolerated no frivolity. Simplicity was key. Cavan had never been inside a temple of Istanlos, but he understood that much about His worship.
The temple had only the one story, and didn’t look big enough to hold more than four rooms total. From the outside, all of the stone used to build it looked rough and irregular, as though taken from cast-off chunks of stone used to build other buildings.
No windows. No glass. And only the one engraving: a single human skull, the symbol of Istanlos, above the open doorway on the left hand side, as they approached.
A temple of Istanlos was always to be entered from the left, and exited to the right. Cavan didn’t know why, only that it was so.
No hitching post for horses. Cavan was about to mention that when Reesa spoke, her voice subdued.
“If none of you mind, I would rather not go in. I lost a cousin no more than a season past. We … we were like sisters. I am not ready—”
“That’s fine,” Ehren said, managing to sooth without condescension in that way he had. Something about being a priest, Cavan guessed. “You stay with the horses. We’ll return soon.”
The doorway was narrow, only allowing passage for one at a time. Amra led the way inside, followed by Cavan, Qalas, and then Ehren.
Inside, the room was lit only dimly, by black tallow candles in sconces on the wall. The interior looked as rough and cast off as the exterior. Unmatched benches of hardwood lined the edges of the small room.
Cavan expected the temple to smell like a tomb. Musty, perhaps. But it did not. It smelled like lilies, the flower sacred to the god of death, even though none of them were in evidence.
No one awaited them. No greeter, or acolyte standing ready to minister to those in need.
That seemed odd to Cavan, but before he could say anything he heard a soft gong echo somewhere ahead.
Moments later, he could hear the soft scuffle of shoes on stone.
Finally, a young woman entered the room. No older than Reesa, with the tawny skin of a southerner, though not as dark as Qalas. Her head was shaved bald, and her robes were simple, of undyed roughspun and bound with a length of cord. Around her neck, only a small skull carved from bone — no larger than the last joint of Cavan’s thumb — on a leather thong.
“Welcome,” she said. “Are you in need?”
“After a fashion,” Amra said, her voice more subdued and respectful than Cavan expected. Sufficiently so that Ehren’s eyes rounded wide in surprise. Amra continued, but was quickly interrupted.
“We—”
“You are Amra, Cavan, Ehren, and Qalas. I do not see Reesa.”
“She lost someone recently,” Ehren said, “and wished to remain outside.”
“A moment,” the woman said, and stepped past them to the doorway, where she looked outside and nodded. “I had to confirm her participation.”
“Of course,” Ehren said. “We expected nothing less.”
Cavan chose not to point out that he hadn’t expected that at all. Though perhaps he would have, had he thought about it. He liked to think so.
“You have brought the remains?” the woman asked.
“We have the remains of those killed in that battle, and more besides,” Ehren said, patting his backpack. “Every corpse forced to rise and serve that necromancer.”
“The ones we could find in his catacombs, at least,” Cavan said. Then, when everyone looked at him, he continued, “It’s likely he sent some out on missions that never returned. There’s no way to track them all down.”
Cavan frowned. “Well, at least there is no way to do it before the dark of the moon.”
“Of course,” the woman said. “I shall fetch the psychopomp.”
“You are not a psychopomp?” Ehren asked, sounding surprised.
“Not until the darkest night of the year will I face my final trial and be confirmed. At this moment, I am only an acolyte.”
The acolyte turned and left the room, her sandals scuffling softly on the stone.
“She feels like a priest,” Ehren whispered. “This might be a—”
But Ehren’s words halted midsentence when they heard the sound of boots approaching. The click of hard heels on stone.
A man strode into the room then. He looked even older than the necromancer, with the many winkles scattered across his pale, pale face. His scalp so bald it almost looked like a skull itself.
But he dressed in the same manner as his acolyte, save for his footwear.
He, too, looked far sprier and more energetic than Cavan expected for a man of his obvious advanced age. Perhaps there was something in the waters around here?
�
�Be welcome,” the psychopomp said in stentorian tones. “Please present the remains.”
“They aren’t well organized, I fear,” Ehren said, taking off his backpack. “I’ve done what I can, but—”
“Istanlos can pick out every individual in a mass grave, even if it has seen constant use since the days of the Dunaians,” the psychopomp said. “Dump them on the floor, if you like. The dead do not stand on ceremony.”
“You don’t consider that disrespectful?” Qalas asked.
“When done by those who faced down a powerful necromancer to retrieve those remains and bring them here?”
“But—”
The psychopomp scoffed. “The dead care only what happens to their spirits once they’re gone, not their bodies.”
“But isn’t raising the dead—” Cavan started, but didn’t get to finish.
“Abusing those remains offends Istanlos,” the psychopomp said harshly. But then he smiled. “But whether or not a few bones jumble together does not. And as for the spirits attached to these bones” — the psychopomp shook his head — “it’s the abuse they’ve suffered that matters most.”
Ehren nodded with a somber expression, and began pouring bones out of his backpack.
It was a sight to see, the way those bones just kept coming out of that leather backpack. Some still attached, like the bones of an arm and hand to a rib cage here. Some all on their own, like the stream of fingerbones that came out at one point.
By the time he was finished, the pile stood half of Cavan’s height, and spread out almost the reach of his arms.
All of those bones coming out of that normal-looking backpack. Under another circumstance, it might have been comical.
And yet, the psychopomp said not one word about the backpack.
When the last bone joined the pile — and how Ehren could be so certain that all the bones were out was only one of the mysteries of that backpack — Ehren slung the backpack back onto one shoulder and spoke.