Through the Black Veil

by Steve Vera

  And then Skip got it. “He said, ‘I’m told that you are the slayer of the Necromancer,’” he said by way of translation while wiggling the gold-leafed ring around his ring finger. It was funny how quickly a person could get used to things—like smart phones and the internet.

  Donovan remained silent.

  “We are indebted to you, Sir Donovan,” Goldenboy continued and then bowed stiffly.

  “He is no knight,” Gavin said. The silence got even more awkward. After nobody said anything, Skip translated reluctantly. How’d I end up as translator?

  It was a strange scene—an immense cavern deep in the land of the dead, strewn with glittering treasure, decomposing piles of armor and scattered bones from countless corpses.

  “Tell our new guests, Walkins, that I will hold them to their word.” He then turned to Amanda and held out his hand. She tightened her lips and blinked rapidly before handing him his sunglasses. Donovan held them up to the firelight burning from the tongues of flame around their assembly, took out a soiled cloth out of his shirt, shined both lenses, pocketed the cloth and then slid his sunglasses onto his face. “I intend to collect.”

  Chapter 29

  There was nothing like rummaging through six thousand years of treasure to take the edge off of tension. Even the new guys sparked up, though last night’s lamentations had left their mark.

  Contrary to what she might have believed about herself, Amanda was strangely more drawn to the ancient weapons that littered the football-field-sized chamber than the sparkly, extravagant jewelry and coins that seemed to tinkle from everywhere. Never had she even imagined such craftsmanship. It made Tiffany’s seem like a dollar store.

  “What do you think?” Skip said, brandishing an ax with a wriggly golden blade, eyes wide as he did a scarily credible impression of Jack Nicolson in The Shining. “Think it goes with my teeth?”

  Amanda giggled. “Magnifique!” she said and kissed the tips of her fingertips. “Gold is your color.”

  “Or how ’bout this one?” Skip said and hefted a gigantic ball and chain with black spikes and bands of iron ringed around the handle.

  “Definitely not. It looks like something a serial killer might use to smash kittens.”

  Skip tossed it down, and it clanked loudly against pile of old, faded coins. “I agree. Or how ’bout this one...”

  There was just so much stuff, so much treasure—she felt like she’d taken a few puffs on Dwensolt’s pipe—that there was a constant tingle of wonder buzzing through her head. She picked through a large fluted bow etched with white gold or platinum—she couldn’t tell which—a gigantic double-headed axe with a thick, white-wooden haft engraved with liquid ruby moving inside the wood, spears and lances with tattered, faded pennants, broken arrows, a breastplate here, a long, curved, rectangle shield there... Unfortunately, Amanda had not really focused much on medieval weapons as a third-year astronomy student at Trinity. No time like the present, right, Amanda?

  Now that their party consisted of eleven point three members, the yawning treasure chamber didn’t seem so lonely and forgotten, the inside of the mountain not so oppressive. Still, even though Almitra was dead, her presence seemed to leech from the walls like the ubiquitous smell of smoke after a fire.

  “I’m sorry, Noah, but we don’t have a choice.” It was Gavin and his voice had a peculiar ring to it. “They must be destroyed.”

  “You can’t be serious, Stavengre. There is six millennium’s worth of lost knowledge here. To destroy it would be a crime against humanity and beyond.”

  Amanda and Skip exchanged glances and of one mind edged their way closer, smiling like two kids eavesdropping on a parent fight.

  “Maybe so, but we have no idea what sort of abominations are lurking within the pages—this was the Necromancer’s personal library. I’d be willing to bet Tarsidion’s left testicle that there may be some cataclysmic mischief waiting to be discovered.”

  “Hey,” Tarsidion said. He and Cirena were also watching the exchange with interest.

  “We’ll contain it.”

  “Not good enough. Once it’s discovered that the Necromancer is dead, it’s going to be a free for all. There will be adventurers, treasure-seekers and desperate wanderers coming from every corner of the world. And there will be Wizards.” Gavin shook his head. “Wizards are bad enough the way they are.”

  Noah let out an undignified sigh. “There must be a way.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Aww, Amanda knew that look—reasonable, disarming but already decided.

  Noah knew it too evidently because she stared long and hard at Gavin. Her nostrils flared every two seconds or so. “Nobody has to know.”

  “And how do you propose we explain them?” Gavin said, pointing to Sir Taksony and his men, who were eagerly pilfering through the mountains of treasure. Every once in a while one of them would hold up some newly discovered weapon with a happy sound. Knights and treasure. Like women and shoes. Well, some women at least.

  “Dammit, Stavengre, we can’t just burn all this. What if we destroy a sacred work that could help win the war?”

  “And what if we open up a black hole?”

  “Then I will identify and destroy that which is evil. I am a perfectly good judge.”

  “Maybe so but—” Gavin motioned at the labyrinth of shelves and bookcases brimming with tasseled scrolls, sheaves of parchment, skin-bound tomes with engravings in bone and a thousand other different types of writing. Ten thousand. A hundred thousand. “That would take weeks. Months. You have two hours, Noah. We still have a world to warn and an army to raise.”

  Noah stared at him in calm dismay. “This is terrible,” she croaked and turned away from him. “Terrible, terrible, terrible...” Her words faded as she disappeared back into the labyrinth.

  “Two hours, Noah.” Gavin called after her. She did not respond.

  “An army to raise?” Skip asked. Amanda and Skip had joined them.

  “Yes,” Gavin said. He studied the double-headed halberd Skip was holding with a skeptical nod. “Are you trained with that type of weapon?”

  “Sure, learned it in gym class.”

  Tarsidion chuckled.

  “Why don’t you try this one instead? It’s right up your alley,” Gavin suggested, leaned over and picked up a jumbo-sized magnificent-looking crossbow that Poseidon himself might have once possessed.

  “What the—now that’s what I’m talking about,” Skip breathed, tossing the halberd to the side to accept the gift with a boyish smile. His joy was infectious, made Amanda feel almost normal. Skip inspected it with hungry eyes. “Where’s the ammo?”

  Gavin grinned. “Just pull back that crank right there and see what happens.”

  Eyes dancing with anticipation, Skip gripped a simple-looking handle and pulled back like he was ratcheting a bolt-action rifle. The bowstring glimmered and right before all of their curious eyes, the silhouette of a glowing arrow materialized, growing stronger the farther he pulled the crank toward the trigger. When he got to the end there was a click and to Skip’s unabashed delight, a golden arrow made of light hummed on the track. Just waiting to be fired.

  “I want one!” Amanda said. “Is it heavy?”

  “Not really. Here.”

  Amanda accepted the weapon eagerly and fell in love with it the instant it touched her hands. The wood was smooth yet grainy, just heavy enough to make her feel powerful without giving her a hernia. She looked at Skip and then at Gavin. “I. Love. This.”

  “It’s yours,” Skip said. “I already got me a Bronto-killer.”

  “Really?” She flashed a demure glance at Skip and then at Gavin, who seemed endearingly amused. “Can I fire it?”

  He laughed. It was nice to see him a smidge more like himself. “Sure. Let’s s
ee...” He looked around and searched for a suitable target.

  In the meantime, she studied the glowing arrow with curious eyes, devouring every detail. She wanted to touch it. What would happen if she did?

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Cirena said to her. What was this? Cirena addressing little old Amanda?

  “What would happen?” Amanda asked, suddenly feeling rebellious.

  Cirena shrugged. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps you’d lose your hand.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t touch it either, Amanda,” Skip chimed in. “I got a rule about messing with glowing arrows.”

  “It’s a quarrel, Everett,” Cirena said. “Not an arrow.”

  “Just testing you.”

  Amanda smiled again and studied the crossbow some more. The wood was worn and burnished with tight grain and had some kind of letters or glyphs carved into it, the same way a luthier might sign a collector’s edition guitar they were particularly proud of.

  She then turned it over and found two points of light toward the bottom, one on each side of the stock, but before she could ask Gavin about it, there was commotion among the new guys.

  “Come, Sur Stavengre!” Taksony suddenly yelled. “You must see this!”

  All heads turned in his direction.

  “I’ll be right back, baby,” he said with a quick kiss on her lips. “See if there’s anything else you like.” And then he was starting toward Sir Taksony. In three seconds she was alone, holding her treasure but somehow feeling dejected. Even Pyrk was gone. I didn’t even get to fire it.

  Then she noticed Donovan staring down at her.

  Chapter 30

  Skulls screamed silently. Some of them had arms covering their faces, as if whatever had killed them had been too horrible to behold. Others were cracked by age or the jaws of whatever had taken their life. One thing was certain; a lot of people had tried to cross to the other side. There were countless rusted helmets and breastplates, rotted leather quivers, bracers, pitted spears with splintered hafts—death was everywhere.

  “To think yesterday we were an army,” Sir Taksony murmured as he led them through the lifeless pass with pain-filled, determined eyes. To him, it had only been a day, not five hundred years. Nobody spoke. The crunch of their boots on unavoidable fibulas and vertebras was ear-jarringly loud. Every once in a while, a boot would kick a shield and its squeal would pierce right through Gavin’s calm. Their new friends were dead quiet.

  Oh, how Gavin could relate.

  He glanced backward. There, like the remnants of a bad dream, was Donovan following as rearguard. His steps were measured and slow, his sunglasses on despite the gloom, and beside him was Amanda. His servant. Gavin’s fiancée.

  “You shouldn’t be walking,” he heard her whisper to him. “You shouldn’t be doing anything.”

  “Once again you dazzle me with your insight.” His tone was sharp, but Amanda hardly flinched.

  “At least let me carry your rifle,” she continued.

  With his usual charm he ignored her. The bandages around his torso were bloodstained at ten points up his ribcage and stomach. He hadn’t bothered buttoning his black military tactical shirt as if even that much pressure would hurt, though both of the nylon straps of his pistol holsters were visible over the bandages. Complete with guns. He sort of looked like a mummy. His face was pale. Sickly.

  That’s what happens when you choke the Lord of Death.

  Now that there was time to think, Gavin found Donovan dominating his thoughts. Who would have thought it possible for a mere mortal to not only try and stab Almitra with some legendary enchanted weapon or unleash a spell crafted by a platoon of Wizards, but to just...choke her? With his bare hands? Sure, they’d helped finish her off, but that wasn’t the point. His fingers, hands and arms should have turned to bloody ice and shattered. Who was Donovan? What was he? And why couldn’t he be healed?

  Why did magic not effect him?

  It was a conversation that had to happen but away from Donovan’s prying ears.

  Gavin glanced back.

  The two of them had stopped. In a smooth, albeit ginger motion, Donovan removed the German scoped sniper rifle off his shoulder. He handed it to her. “Keep the safety on. You may not use it unless I give you permission.”

  Amanda nodded and slid it over her shoulder.

  I don’t like that one bit.

  Gavin bumped into a wall. It was Tarsidion’s back. The big man turned around and gave him a puzzled, disapproving look and then pointed ahead with his chin. Sir Taksony’s mailed fist had gone up.

  Whoever had been in the center of bones had long since been dragged off, but the futile band of warriors who had closed ranks around him still lay where they’d fallen. Enclosed in the dead, skeletal fingers of one of the perished warriors was the rotting haft of a pole. Attached to the top was an ancient, tattered banner—a golden sun against a faded emerald backdrop comprised of eight sword blades pointed inwards, each hilt projecting out as a sunbeam.

  The colors of the Southern March.

  Sir Taksony approached with the reverence of a high priest entering a tabernacle. He dropped to one knee and began to pray. In unspoken agreement, the other two, Arnaut and Aluvion, joined Taksony, first touching the armor of his shoulders before kneeling beside their leader and knight while bowing their heads. With a wooden hollow scrape, Sir Taksony, with the help of his comrades, lifted the banner off the cold floor with a whisper of cloth on stone, and an image of Iwo Jima flashed in Gavin’s mind.

  Pale, haunted but with grim resolve, the trio of men looked out. Thin glimmers of reflected Quaranai light shined in trails from Sir Taksony’s cheeks.

  The knight of old cleared his throat and spoke with a voice thick with emotion, eyes pristine in their lucidity. His men swelled their chests around him. “This banner will once again fly over the Southern March.”

  * * *

  “It’s funny,” Cirena said, surprising them all. “Sir Taksony looks exactly as I imagined he would when I read about him.”

  “I agree,” Gavin said. “If we were back home—” he cleared his throat, “—I mean back on Earth, I bet he could be a lead role actor. Look at that jaw. I’d cast him.”

  Nobody had missed his faux pax but his point remained. Sir Taksony was hard not to be aware of. Aside from his aesthetic splendor, the Captain’s eyes were always working, observing, and though he was always polite and gracious, Gavin sensed he was watching them far more closely than he was letting on.

  He sort of reminded Gavin of Lucian.

  The pass led them through a gaping crevasse into yet another patch of cloudy, moonless night between mountain faces. In the open, the rumbling drone of the Valley of Chaos was still quite audible, a continual bombardment of the air that ebbed and flowed in the distance like the ocean tide.

  “Are you still mad, Noah?” Gavin asked, dropping back beside his uncharacteristically sullen friend. She didn’t even look at him.

  “Mad doesn’t quite do it, Stavengre.”

  The end of a six-foot pole was balanced on her left shoulder while the other end was balanced on Dwensolt’s left shoulder. In between them was a hastily constructed litter stuffed and brimming with ancient books, scrolls and tomes. The pole sagged, and that was in addition to an entire magical “dumpling” (Gavin rather liked Skip’s terminology) filled with books, which was also attached to Noah’s belt.

  The last dumpling had been allocated for the finest arsenal ever collected. Swords, battle-axes, shields, bows. When the Second Army was formed, Gavin intended to form a Cadre of the best fighters in the world and then dole out the best weapons ever made. In addition, they’d been sure to load up on good old-fashioned regular coin so if the need arose...they could literally buy an army. The Cavaliers had expressed their dismay that an entire dumpling
should be wasted on worthless books when two arsenals could have been carried, but one withering look from a severely agitated Noah had shut them up real fast.

  In addition, Noah had another dozen scrolls and tassels sticking out from beneath her cloak, as well as four large tomes cradled in the crook of her right arm. She’d even enlisted Skip’s less-than-eager help.

  “C’mon, Noah, no need to be that way.”

  “I can be any way I choose,” she grumped in High Common, refusing even to address him in English.

  “Since when are you a grudge holder?”

  “Since I was forced to watch a sacred library of untold mysteries burned to useless cinders.”

  Gavin thought she might spit.

  Cirena leaned close to his ear. “Don’t instigate, Stavengre.”

  Pyrk, who had said little during the whole ordeal, fluttered over to Noah and settled on her shoulder. “Do not be cross, fair knight, your malcontent with Sur Stavengre darkens the contours of the lines of your most generous and heart-shaped mouth.”

  “Hear that, Gavin? My malcontent is darkening my contours,” Noah finally said in English. “Sleep with one eye open.”

  Pyrk spun around on Noah’s shoulder, steady in the motion of her strides as a captain on a ship and caught Gavin’s attention with a disconcertingly deep gaze. “We are going to prevail, Sur Stavengre.”

  He said it with such conviction that for a second...Gavin believed him. Had to believe him. “You seem so certain.”

  “I am. It is not oft that the quality of people such as this is summoned, and never has the need been greater.” The tiny, gold-dusted man with spikey short hair glanced at Donovan. “Even the dark warrior shall play his part.”

  Gavin sucked his teeth. Something tells me you’re right, he thought.

  * * *

  An unspoken agreement to forego sleep for as long as possible was in effect. The sooner they left the claustrophobic confines of the formerly haunted Pass of Almitra, the better.