by Paul Barrett
And the exact type of thing her father would do. She mentally snarled at herself. Could she sink to the depth of using a boy’s naivety to scheme her way out of town? Could she promise something she wouldn’t deliver to escape this backwoods village?
She knew the answer and hated herself for it.
“Best you avoid that boy,” Beatru said, and Elissia sensed the woman’s disapproving stare bore into her back. “There may be some good hidden in him, but he’s tainted, and the evil will take him someday, just like it did his parents.”
Happy for someone to lash against, Elissia whirled on Beatru. “Leave me alone. If I want to hear Fathen’s lies echoed in my ears, I’ll buy a parrot.”
Elissia ignored her aunt’s gasp and stormed across the main room. She pushed aside the thin, brown curtain that hid her bedroom. Metal rings rattled against the rod as she flung the flimsy material across the opening, wishing it were a proper door she could slam. She had a proper door when she lived in the warrens back home.
As Elissia sat herself down on her thin, hard bed, the curtain slid open, and Beatru filled the doorway. “You ungrateful witch. You’ll not talk to me like that anymore. I’ve put up with your impertinence long enough. You’ll learn proper ways if I have to beat them into you. I’ll be damned if you’ll end up like-”
Elissia ground her fists into the homespun blanket. “Like what? Like Father? At least he’s done something with his life.”
Beatru snorted. “Yes, we should all be proud of what he’s become. I thank Caros I got your uncle away in time.”
“Got away?” Elissia asked with a bitter laugh. “Dragged away was more like it. He should have married my mother; they’re both alike, docile as titmice in temple.”
“Your uncle isn’t docile, only respectful, something you know nothing about. You could learn from him.”
“Learn what? How to be meek, a pushover, a-”
Beatru took two steps forward. Elissia brought up her arms to ward off a blow, but Beatru said quietly, “A person who cared enough to take in a young girl when no one else wanted her.”
Elissia brought her hands down and stared at her aunt’s jowly face. She wanted to offer a cutting retort, but couldn’t. Beatru was right. Elissia slumped back against the wall.
Her aunt sidled over to the wooden chair in Elissia’s room. As she settled her weight on it, it groaned like a creature seeking escape from misery. “I’ve no wish to fight with you. I tell you only what I feel. I know this boy fascinates you because he is different from the others, but what can he offer you?”
A way out of here, Elissia thought. “Something better than this. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Of course, because I was never a young girl.” Despite Beatru’s gentle tone, the sting of the words pierced Elissia. “Yes, he has land and a fine manor. Perhaps he has wealth too. So what? The only thing he will offer you, in the end, is misery. And these are my words, not the priest’s. I feel it in my heart. He deals with death, and it surrounds him like a stench. Stay away from him.”
“And if I don’t?”
Beatru shrugged, and the chair groaned. “I can hardly stop you, but he’s not welcome here.”
Beatru stood and left. Elissia slumped farther down on the bed, exhausted. Was her aunt right? Would Erick bring death to the town? Hadn’t his family already? If so, then the sooner Elissia convinced him to leave, the better. Then both she and Beatru would get their wish.
But what if she overestimated her ability to convince Erick? He was tied to the land, after all, she realized with mounting despair. Maybe even more than most. He had three hundred acres, had lived here all his life, and had watched his parents die here. What if, no matter how much he cared for her, he wouldn’t leave his home?
“Please, Denech,” she said, offering a rare prayer to the God of Destiny. “Help me persuade Erick. Help me change my fate.” She had to convince him somehow. Staying much longer on this island was going to kill her.
7
“I saw the sky turn blood red; the mighty mountain laid low.
When the Ten faced the Three, the world shook
With each astounding blow.
I saw boulders fly like birds, and dust to make the land disappear
When the Ten faced the Three, Twr Krinnik fell
And the world was freed of fear.
-Tarin Flos, Poet, “When the Ten Faced the Three”
Erick ran toward the manor, filled with exuberance he hadn’t experienced since before his parents’ death. Elissia seemed to honestly like him. The aftermath of her hug still tingled, and warmth that had nothing to do with the mid-morning sun ran through him.
Halfway up the hill, he slowed his pace as weakness stole over him. His breath came ragged, and heaviness filled his limbs. His neck throbbed and he cursed his stupidity. He didn’t have the best stamina uninjured. What made him think he could run a half-mile uphill four days after being drained by a vampire?
Do you need any help? Blink asked.
No, I’m okay, Erick thought as he walked up the hill, pulling in huge breaths. It will just take me a moment.
He reached the fence to find Blink sitting there with a pewter cup filled with milk. Erick drank it down in long swallows.
“You know,” Erick said, after he caught his breath, “there may only be two people in the town worth saving, but I’m glad we saved them.”
“I’m sure there are others.” Blink scratched his large ear with a talon. “You just haven’t had a chance to meet them.”
Erick nodded. It didn’t matter. Corby and Elissia were two friends he never expected to have, and for now he needed nothing more. Especially with the hope that Elissia might become more than a friend.
“As soon as you’re done swooning, there’s still a manor to run,” Blink said. “And we’re down four quana.”
“The vampire took out four?”
Blink nodded, and Erick sighed. He would have to replace them. The manor used just enough workers to run smoothly. Being down four would soon result in tasks undone and upkeep problems.
“You might want to make some vohquana, too,” Blink said. “In case the vampire was just the start.”
That sent a shiver through Erick. “What I need to do is look through the tomes and see if there’s a chapter on what to do if the Inconnu return.” He could only assume his father would have instructed him eventually, but now he would have to figure it out himself.
“Don’t be too hard on him about that,” Blink said. “Really, after a thousand years, how remote were the chances?”
“Maybe not remote enough,” Erick said. His inability to examine the vampire gave him nothing to prove or disprove the Inconnu presence. The lack of certainty put him in a constant state of unease. “One problem at a time.”
If more undead were to come, he would need fighters that could protect him. Vohquana were the warrior class of quana, faster and able to wield weapons, but they took longer to create and required considerable amounts of blood and herbs.
“I’ll make some fighters. Do we at least have any gobbets left from the fight?”
“No,” Blink answered, as Erick feared. “They were too deteriorated by the time I woke up and found them.”
The day that had started out so promising turned bleak. Not having full corpses, since they kept no family graveyard, Erick would need to unbind another quana and use strips of its flesh as the primer for the new creations. That would put them down five for a few days. “I think we may have to learn how to milk cows,” Erick said.
“I’ll do that if you shovel the manure,” Blink said with a grin.
Erick smiled back. “Let’s go see if I have enough ingredients or if I need to harvest some more.”
They entered the laboratory from the outside, opening the angled cellar doors and walking down a short flight of stone steps into the chilly basement.
He had not cleaned up the clutter left from the hasty vampire preparations. The dead rat still lay on t
he table, the bloated body the only sign- of decay in the basement’s cool air. “Blink, will you get rid of the rat?”
“Certainly.” Blink waddled to the table, grabbed the creature by the tail, and flew out of the laboratory.
Erick cleaned up the table and gathered the herbs that would serve as the binding and growing agents for three vohquana and two priquana. He set the plants on the worktable, dividing them according to their function and place in the ritual: To his left a vial of dark green comfrey root oil and a two-inch twig of brown gravelroot--elements for the growth of bone and cartilage.
Beside them sat shards of willow bark and a pot of fine black cohosh powder, herbs to excite the slabs of cold muscle extracted from the donor body. These would grow into shapeless forms and transfigure into the body and appearance of whatever souls offered themselves from the Heaven of Caros during the binding ritual.
In the middle lay the elements to stimulate the flow of blood: the gray-brown bark of the prickly ash and a handful of dried hawthorn berries, red as the life fluid they created.
On his right, Erick placed the jar of bitter chamomile and the chopped root bark of the black haw vine. They would supply the quana their nervous system, giving them the power to react to their surroundings and obey Erick’s commands.
Last on the table came the herbs that would give his new creations flesh: deep yellow, dried marigold petals that still held their pungent smell, and two handfuls of kelp, removed from their vat of salt water. To the side, Erick placed two additional ingredients: three thin stalks of damiana and a pot of powdered yellow ginseng. These would give the vohquana the strength and stamina of warriors.
“At least that worked out,” Erick said as Blink flew back into the lab. “I have all the herbs.”
Erick wandered toward the rack where his father kept thirty vials of blood stored. He did a quick calculation; the vohquana required seven pints each and the priquana three, leaving him six full pints. With no other family member to give a weekly donation, Erick would need half a year to refill the supply, assuming no other losses. The day kept getting worse.
He reached the wooden rack and froze. “Blink, where’s all the blood?”
Blink trundled next to Erick. Except for two containers on the bottom shelf, all the vials on the stand were empty. “I don’t know. Do you think the vampire was down here before you fought him?” Blink asked.
“I... guess,” Erick said, “but why would it drink old blood when it could get fresh?”
Blink shrugged as he examined the area. “Look.” He extended a taloned finger.
A small puddle of dried blood lay spattered on the gray flagstones; Erick spotted two drops several inches away. Moving along the floor revealed several more drops, as if someone walked away bleeding.
Or carrying a dripping vial, Erick thought.
The flecks led him across the lab until they stopped with three splatters on a section of stone wall between an herb cabinet and bookshelf. Chewing on his index finger, Erick studied the area to see if the drops led in some other direction, but they ended against the wall. He knelt and touched the spots. They flaked away as he scratched at them, leaving brown residue on his fingers. Erick stared at the wall, and a chill washed through him. “You don’t think?”
“Couldn’t be,” Blink answered as he jumped onto a side table. “Your father would have told you...wouldn’t he?”
“Four days ago, I would have said yes. Now, I don’t know.” He placed his hands against the bare section of wall, feeling for any way to move the stone. Only now did the peculiarity of having this area of wall naked strike him. Shelves, cases, or equipment covered the rest of the walls from top to bottom, but he never thought to question why nothing occupied this space; it had been that way ever since his father allowed him down here.
No obvious method to move the seemingly solid granite revealed itself, and Erick wondered if he sought to create something from nothing. He thought about the adventure stories his mother gave him to read; some of them had secret doors. He tried to remember the ways to access such portals. Most involved a lever or mechanical device, usually concealed by an innocent-looking piece of equipment, like a candlestick. But Erick had cleaned the lab often enough to know it contained nothing more mechanical than an herb grinder.
Did the wall itself hold a trigger? He studied the gray stone, staring as he willed the secret to reveal itself. The wall gave nothing, as solid in appearance here as elsewhere.
Except.
Closer study revealed a line of mortar darker than the rest, as if freshly applied and not yet dry. He stepped back to get a better perspective. A rectangular outline composed of the mismatched cement resolved itself. The subtle difference could easily be missed under casual inspection.
Erick frowned as an unexpected sadness hit him. “Looks like father did have another secret.” He returned to the wall. Despite the discoloration, Erick knew the mortar could not have remained wet so long.
He touched it to be sure and, to his surprise, his finger pressed easily into the material. It wasn’t mortar, but an imitation. He scraped at the fake cement with his finger. It peeled away and dropped to the floor with a wet plop. Erick stood on tiptoes to reach the top, and within two minutes he exposed the thin outline of a doorframe.
Erick’s heart thumped as he stood back. A secret door existed in the lab, a dismaying revelation. What other things had his parents hidden from him?
He pressed against the center of the newly revealed portal. It did not swing open but gave a soft click. Erick removed his hand, and the wall made an almost imperceptible outward movement.
A surge of dread went through him. Considering his father’s fate, he feared nothing good lay beyond this wall. He contemplated turning away and letting his father take this last mystery to his grave, but he couldn’t.
Erick moved to the right edge of the false wall, which extended just beyond the stone lip, allowing the barest grip. He took hold with his fingertips and pulled outward; the revealed door swung open.
The stench of decay struck him. He had long ago grown accustomed to the onion-like scent of Elonsha, but this was entirely different. This was the corruption of the poorly sealed coffin, the reek of a sun-bloated animal whose body has ruptured from within. Erick gagged, and his knees nearly buckled; Blink almost fell off his perch. He flailed his wings, sending two glass beakers crashing to the floor.
“Holy Caros, what is that?” Blink asked.
“I don’t know.” Erick ran to the other side of the room, near the open doors, where he drew in warm, fresh air, though it hurt his throat to do so. Even this refuge didn’t last long as the fetid smell drifted across the chamber.
Time and proximity eventually allowed him to endure the noxious odor, and he moved toward the open door, curiosity overcoming his revulsion.
Erick stood in the doorway and found splashes of dried blood against walls and floor, a slab of decayed flesh and bone on a table, and a large book atop a wooden podium. Another shiver of foreboding ran through him. Whatever occurred in this room had nothing in common with the Necromancy he had learned.
“Blink,” he said in a shaky voice. “Light a lantern and bring it over here.”
Using a flint and spark plate—no easy task with his taloned hands—Blink lit one of the metal and glass lights and hopped to the entryway. As the yellow light drew near and more of the room revealed itself, Erick’s fear grew. The blood was not random splatter, but ancient glyphs drawn in intricate patterns around the podium. Erick recognized but could not read them.
The slab of desiccated flesh had been a man, wrists slit and heart removed from his split-open chest. A long sacrificial knife, its triangular blade dark with rust-colored blood, lay beside the dead man’s head, a head stripped of both flesh and eyes.
Blink gasped at the ritualistic carnage. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Erick whispered, wiping sweat from his clammy forehead. Whose mutilated body lay on the slab? And
why?
On the pedestal, the tome lay open, the spidery writing visible but unreadable from Erick’s position. As he stared at the book and watched its shadow play in the flickering lantern light, an irresistible curiosity to see the inscriptions on its pages came over him. The tome spoke to him, its voice a seductive whisper. Come to me, it murmured. Learn my secrets.
Erick stepped forward and leaned over to read the book. The letters and language were an old form of Lonsh, the language of the Inconnu. Erick could translate few of the words, but as he stared at the symbols, comprehension came to him in a voice soft and raspy as dry leaves blown across tile. It told him what he must do to bring forth Eligos, the Master of Shadows, and give him life.
I will give you the power to do all you wish, the book said, the letters growing faint as dark mist covered his eyes. He stood above Draymed. The people fled in terror as he sent forth wave after wave of undead to crush the town and destroy all within, revenge on those who isolated him so long.
The fog grew darker, and this time he sat upon a throne of gold, dressed in bright raiment of silk and fur, a crown of glimmering platinum upon his head. Below him, the people of Draymed cowered and begged for mercy. He laughed at their pleas and sent them into the fields and shops to toil for his amusement and wealth. At his feet sat the beautiful Elissia.
His empire spread. With the power the book offered, his reign extended to the whole of Keystone Island. In every village, from Spire in the north to Jungledeep in the south, people abased themselves before him, bowing to his every whim as they offered anything he wished.
I don’t want this, Erick screamed in a tiny voice.
But you do, the voice insisted. The cloud of darkness blew away, sending a chill through Erick’s soul. The voice knew the truth.
As a Necromancer, Erick faced the seduction of Elonsha every time he created a gateloah, an undead creature. Even when his gifts remained unused, the whispery voice spoke to him, ever in the back of his mind, seeking to corrupt him. But those entreaties were like drops of water compared to the torrent of power that poured from this book.