by AC Cobble
“Don’t let him frighten you,” said the dark woman, her bronze armor rustling like a snake in the grass as she took the ranger’s side.
Rew let himself jump as if in surprise, but he’d seen her approaching out of the corner of his eye.
“Ambrose commands the souls of the departed,” continued the woman, stepping closer, her voice oozing through the noise of the crowd like blood dripping onto a floor. “He has little interest in the living.”
“King’s Sake,” muttered Anne, coming to stand on the other side of Rew. “How many of them are there?”
“A few less every time we stumble across one, it seems,” responded Rew dryly.
The dark woman blinked at them.
“We’ve encountered, what, four or five necromancers in the last few months?” Rew asked Anne. He gave the brass-armored woman a tight smile. “Just as many of them are dead.”
“It is unusual, isn’t it?” mused Anne, tapping her chin with a single finger. “They’re crowding the roads in the Eastern Province like farmers headed to market. It’s been years since I’ve seen a capable necromancer, but as you say, we can’t seem to avoid them now. Like rats rushing out of a burning barn. Or rushing into one?”
The dark woman turned to eye them seriously. “You’ve run into four or five necromancers? What is it that you’ve been doing?”
Rew snorted and did not respond.
The woman studied him for a long moment before offering, “We’re meant to work together, are we not? Let us be friends. They are here because necromancers are drawn to the ancient spirits of this region. Before us, there was another race. They were close enough to our kind that the high magicians can still call to them, still command them, but they’re old enough that they’ve grown powerful. I’m told they have peculiarities that are attractive to those who can control them, advantages over the spirits of our kind. Ambrose, others, they are attracted to such power like bees to a petal, particularly in times like these.”
Rew grunted. “Ah, of course. Did Ambrose join you recently? Was he in the barrowlands before?”
“In the barrowlands? No, I don’t think so. Who are you?” asked the woman. “What do you know of the barrowlands? What are you doing here in Stanton?”
“That’s a lot of questions. Let’s start with the first. My name is Rew, and who are you?”
“I have no name,” claimed the woman.
Rew put his hands on his hips and tilted his head at the woman. “What do you mean, no name?”
The woman drew herself up and winked. “I had a name, once, but I no longer do. That sounds rather dramatic, I know, but it’s true.”
“I bet you don’t make many friends when you will not tell people your name.”
The woman bowed her head as if to acknowledge the truth of what he’d said.
“What should we call you, then?” asked Anne.
“You need not call me anything.”
“What do they call you?” questioned Rew, gesturing to the woman’s companions.
“I see how you feel, Rew. That’s a lot of questions, but you’ve answered none of mine.”
“I told you my name.”
The woman smiled but did not respond. She walked off toward Borace, rolling her hips saucily as she did to keep Rew’s gaze on her. She seemed to be encouraging the big man to gather the rest of their band and prepare to leave, but instead, the brute glared back toward Rew.
“That was rude,” said Rew, rubbing the top of his head.
“She reminds me of you,” claimed Anne.
He turned to glare at the empath, but she looked away, and he couldn’t tell if she was being serious or if she was jesting.
Evidently noticing the adventurers were preparing to leave, the children clustered close. Rew told them, “This group has been in Stanton and south of here, so most of them should have no idea who we are, but Cinda, I worry the necromancer may be able to guess your identity. I think you should avoid—“
“He already recognized me,” replied Cinda. Rew blinked at her. Cinda continued, “He worked for my father. He was one of the ones trying to harvest wraiths in the barrowlands. I don’t know if he knew my face or if he could sense my talent, but he approached me. Don’t worry, though. He won’t tell the others who we are.”
“Aye, that woman thought he’d come from somewhere else. Did he give any indication why he’s being secretive?”
“I’m not sure, but the man is hiding something deeper than his failure in the barrowlands. For what it’s worth, I’m confident he’s no more interested in his secrets being shared than we are in our secrets coming out.”
“King’s Sake,” growled Rew. “Secrets? Half of them know who we are already.”
“Fredrick and Ambrose won’t talk,” said Anne, watching the mercenaries huddle together with the nobleman peering over their shoulders. “Those men are ruled by their fears.”
“Fears and ambitions,” retorted the ranger. “Fredrick would trade us the moment he felt he had a good bargain, and Ambrose will be as loyal as a scorpion.”
“Then you need to make sure their fear of you is more powerful than any reward they could expect by giving you away,” said Anne, smiling at him. She winked. “Just like that. Every time they look at you, show them that expression.”
Sighing, Rew adjusted his pack and prepared to depart Stanton.
The walk out of the city felt like they were rowing away from a burning ship with the lone rowboat while the rest of the passengers were still wondering just how bad the fire was going to be. The people of Stanton paid them little regard. Their eyes were searching for men and women in Baron Appleby’s service, though there were some who seemed to recognize the adventurers. Rew supposed the mercenaries had been in the city for some time, and they’d left and returned before. All the same, each time he met the gaze of a citizen of the town, Rew felt raw. No one knew when the Dark Kind might strike, so there was no guarantee he and the others would make it to Carff in time. Even if they did, there was no guarantee that Prince Valchon would act. Logically, Rew knew that rushing south was the only way to save the city and that he was the most suitable candidate to do it, but in his heart, it was difficult to watch the city’s children scampering in and out of the alleyways playing. He knew they’d have no chance if he failed.
He tried to absorb as much of Stanton as he could, purposefully memorizing scenes and faces. A mother laughed and tossed a knotted ball of rags to half a dozen children who took it and ran gleefully into a park. A blacksmith’s face was lit by the fires of his forge. A group of young men in an open tavern lifted mugs of wine and winked at a group of young women who were walking by. The adults on the streets wore forced smiles and tried to ignore the cloak of worry that hung on their shoulders. The younger people, who hadn’t been alive during the war with the Dark Kind or the last Investiture, beamed with life. Stanton, when not surrounded by narjags, was a prosperous city if not rich like the capitals, and life must have been good for many of the citizens. Rew wondered if it would be good again.
These people were going to suffer because of something they did not understand, something that most of them would never have heard of. The Investiture was a game of the nobility, and while plenty of those nobles would fall during it, it was the innocent citizens of Vaeldon who Rew felt sorry for. Like horses in a cavalry charge, they were spurred and whipped, rushing toward a danger they could not comprehend and spoils they would never enjoy.
It was a relief when the group finally cleared the last buildings of the city and moved down the highway into open land—a relief and a torment. Rew felt guilty that they weren’t doing more, though he didn’t know what else they could do. It was the same way he’d felt ten years prior, when he’d first fled to Eastwatch. It’d been cowardice then, to turn his back on the knowledge he had, even when he knew there was nothing he could do. He was having difficulty convincing himself it wasn’t the same cowardice now.
“Do you think the prince will come?” ask
ed a dry voice, like a snake slithering across fallen leaves.
Rew looked at Ambrose, the necromancer, out of the corner of his eye. The rest of the man’s companions were walking ahead. It seemed they’d taken Ambrose on for his high magic and not for his company. Rew felt the same.
Ambrose raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response. It was creepy, as the man had no hair there.
Hoping it’d get rid of the necromancer, Rew told him, “These are the prince’s people.”
Ambrose snorted.
“You don’t think he’ll come?”
Shaking his bald head, the necromancer responded in an affected lilt that Rew supposed was meant to make him seem wise. “The prince has other concerns. You know that as well as I.”
“What other concerns?”
Scoffing, Ambrose leaned closer and whispered, “The Investiture, Ranger. Yes, that’s right. I know who you are. When I realized who the lass was, it was no great leap to guess your identity as well. I know all about your little group, and I know all about the grand game the nobles are playing. Nobles like your friends, eh, and their father?”
“Yes, and I know about you as well. You were in the barrowlands doing Fedgley’s bidding when Falvar was attacked,” said Rew, only half guessing. He was suddenly struck by an idea. “You don’t know why Fedgley was taken and then killed, do you? Any noble you might hire yourself to could be a part of the plot, and they may not be finished. That’s why you haven’t told your companions who you are and who you were working for. That was probably wise. Borace looks like he wouldn’t demand more than enough coin for a good night’s drinking to sell your secret. You should know, necromancer, that I do know who killed Baron Fedgley and why, and you were right to think that they are not finished. I think it best if we keep each other secrets, don’t you?”
The necromancer granted Rew a thin-lipped smile and shrugged as if to acknowledge they were both in the same boat.
Rew kept walking, trying to ignore the man. It was annoying, but Ambrose was right. They both had their secrets from Borace and the rest of the mercenary band, and they both had their reasons for maintaining those secrets. He was certain the necromancer would not do anything to reveal who they were, but Rew hated equating himself with such a person.
Ambrose’s grin grew, as if guessing Rew’s thoughts.
His face twisted in a sour grimace, Rew kept walking. In his experience with those who had magical talent but no title, the one thing they held sacred above all was their own safety. Rew was confident of that, if nothing else. And since he was not worried the man would talk to the others, Rew had nothing else to say to Ambrose, and didn’t think anything good would come of getting to know him. Very rarely did anything good come of becoming friends with a necromancer.
Evidently, Ambrose didn’t feel the same way. He kept walking beside Rew. He warned, “Do you think the prince will protect the children? He won’t, Ranger. It’s not the way it works in Vaeldon. He may be their liege, but that only means he has expectations. Valchon, like his brothers, cares about those who are useful to him—and only those who are useful. You’d best keep that in mind. I told Lord Fredrick as well, but he’s a fool. He thinks his low magic, his glamours and his trickery, will earn him the prince’s favor. Pfah. The prince has as much need of Fredrick as I do a barber.”
Ambrose rubbed a thin-fingered hand over his bald pate. Rew forced his own hand to still, to not mimic the man and feel the stubble on his own scalp.
“Fredrick means to offer the prince his services? What services are those?”
Unblinking, Ambrose gave Rew a smirk. “You must suspect how Worgon managed to put himself in such a precarious position. I heard enough while I was still in the territory to make my own conclusions.”
Rew grunted, looking to where Lord Fredrick walked at the head of the mercenaries, speaking closely to Borace.
“The nobles, the prince foremost amongst them, see us as no more than a means to an end. They’ll use us, Ranger, and then discard us. My advice? Look at them the same way. Get what you can from Prince Valchon, but don’t expect a single copper coin more. The only currency the prince uses is betrayal.”
“You know the prince well, then?”
Ambrose giggled and replied, “No better than you.”
Rew wasn’t sure what that meant or how much Ambrose knew about him, so he didn’t respond.
Several moments later, his voice pitched slightly higher and bordering on a squeak, the necromancer blabbered, “Wait, do you know the prince? How would you… You met him in Mordenhold when you were training to become a ranger?”
Not answering, Rew looked out over the rolling hills that lay south of Stanton. Unremarkable landscape that would quickly become boring, if it wasn’t that those hills could be hiding hundreds of Dark Kind behind them. Rew frowned, wondering if the Dark Kind were attempting to form a perimeter around the city to prevent flight or if they were merely amassing nearby. Narjags didn’t have the discipline to do either, but valaan…
“Ah, you were lying, then,” accused Ambrose, apparently trying to interpret Rew’s silence and his frown. “You don’t know the prince. Take my advice, Ranger. I mean it as—“
“I did not answer you.”
“So you’re claiming you do know Prince Valchon! You’ve met him, at least? Tell me, Ranger, so that we can be open with each other. We can work together and… You’re tricking me, trying to make me think you’re more knowledgeable about all of this than you are. You’ve never met him, have you!”
Rolling his shoulders, Rew kept walking, wishing the necromancer would go bother someone else. He had hoped that by not answering, Ambrose would get frustrated and leave, but it seemed the necromancer was using Rew’s silence to twist more and more intricate suspicions. Still, Rew had no interest in getting to know the man, so he remained silent.
“I have ways of learning what I want to know, Ranger. Save us the time, and just tell me.”
Rew ignored him.
“Ambrose!” barked Borace from the front of the line. “Come. I need your council.”
The necromancer scurried ahead, and Rew watched him, shaking his head. He couldn’t help but think the man was going to keep trying from there until Carff. Rew was not looking forward to that.
“I overheard. Trouble, do you think?” wondered Cinda, coming to walk beside him, watching Borace gesticulate and flail, evidently physically compensating for keeping his voice low enough they could not all hear it.
“Not from Ambrose,” said Rew. “That man is frightened of his own shadow. Whatever he guesses, the truth or complete fiction, there’s no way he’ll risk speaking to the others about it. I’ve no doubt he’ll keep prying to try and learn more from us, though. We just have to set ourselves to ignore him.”
“What of his own secrets?”
Rew snorted. “He has none that I care to learn.”
“We’re safe, then?” wondered Cinda.
“Not safe,” responded Rew, shaking his head. “Never safe, but for the moment, our bigger concern is the Dark Kind. The valaan will be holding them half a day from Stanton, if not more. Much closer and the scent of man would be too strong, and even a valaan would have difficulty keeping the narjags from rampaging. Valaan are cunning, but narjags are brutes. They’re ruled between their appetites and their fear, and with the smell of food, eventually those appetites would rule the fear.”
“Food. You mean us?”
Rew nodded.
“How far do you think we can trust Ambrose?”
Rew stumbled, looking at Cinda from the corner of his eye. “I don’t think we can…”
“With only Anne to teach me, do you think I can learn what I need to know?”
Sighing, the ranger replied, “There’d be a great risk, asking for that man’s help. He’d want something in return, for one. Maybe we could accommodate him. Maybe we could not. What I really worry about is what he’d do with knowledge of your talent. If he’s teaching you, you can’t help
but show him your strength. He won’t tell Borace, Lord Fredrick, or the others, but who would he tell in Carff? He survived the barrowlands, so he has at least some cunning. I think he’ll avoid as much risk to himself as he can, but what would the prince give to learn it is you and not Kallie who has a talent for necromancy? King’s Sake, I need to talk to Fredrick again. Or maybe I shouldn’t. Pfah, we can’t let that man know how interested Valchon might be in your talent.”
“Ambrose recognized me, Ranger. He has to know I inherited some of my father’s abilities. He knows enough of our secret that he poses a risk, so don’t you think it better we keep the man close rather than distant?”
Rew muttered a curse under his breath and kept walking, his eyes scanning the hills around them.
“Someone has to teach me,” insisted Cinda quietly. “Do you think we’ll soon find another more trustworthy necromancer?”
“I’ll talk to him,” conceded Rew.
He found himself gripping the bone hilt of his hunting knife, and he forced himself to release it. He wouldn’t trust Ambrose as far as he could throw the man, but Cinda was right. They weren’t going to find any necromancers he trusted more. Ambrose was there, and they had some leverage over him. Perhaps those were the only qualifications that mattered.
For another half hour, they walked together, both of them looking at the group ahead, lost in their thoughts. Cinda startled Rew when she asked, “That woman, the one who won’t give her name, she’s quite beautiful, isn’t she? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like her.”
Rew blinked at the noblewoman. “You, ah, you fancy her?”
Cinda laughed. “Of course not.”
Rew shrugged.
“Do you?”
“Of course not,” he said, grinning at her. “I thought, well…”
“You thought I’d make Zaine jealous?”
Rew stumbled, nearly falling onto his face.
Cinda caught his arm and leaned close. She whispered, “I see her looks. I know what she wants… That is to say, I think I do. I’ve no experience with such things, Ranger. I don’t think she does, either. Maybe if the circumstances were different, we could… Ah, but they are not, are they? If I was back in Yarrow or in Falvar, I’d steal wine with my friends in the keep and we’d gossip and laugh about it. It seems ages ago, but it was just months. That’s a life we’ve left, Ranger, a life I’ll never have.”