Necromancer's Gambit (The Flesh & Bone Trilogy Book 1)

by A J Dalton

  The animee continued to stand stock still in the middle of the kitchen. What to do? He should force Mordius to remove his magic and let him rest in peace. If Mordius couldn’t remove the magic, he could kill him to achieve his rest. The only other option seemed to be helping Mordius retrieve the Heart of Harpedon. That way, he would have his life back. But what was that life?

  He’d been in a battle. Who had been fighting? And what had they been fighting over? Who was this “Saltar” person? Was he a nobody? Mordius had called him a hero. Was he famous then, a celebrated hero? Would someone recognise him? Did he really have a wife and children?

  He experienced a mental jolt as images he did not recognise or understand assailed him again. He’d been having attacks like this since… the beginning. They only seemed to be increasing in frequency, and kept jumbling and rearranging his thoughts. He desperately tried to hold onto images and ideas, bits of information that might let everything settle and stabilise.

  All he knew came from Mordius. While Saltar had been speaking to the man, his soldier’s training had prompted him to try to get a measure of the man. Voluminous robes had done little to conceal the slight stature of the necromancer. Yet although Mordius was no obvious physical threat, Saltar instinctively knew that such a man could still be dangerous and far from trustworthy. Indeed, the fact that Mordius had stolen his body from the battlefield suggested that the necromancer was sly, dishonest and dishonourable. And then there were the darting, black eyes that were never still and did not like to hold Saltar’s gaze.

  He looked around the kitchen of Mordius’s small cottage. It didn’t offer any obvious answers to his questions. It was surprising just how unremarkable it was, given it was a necromancer’s kitchen. He moved over to the dozen or so books that sat on a shelf and pulled one down. It was full of drawings of the human body and strange patterns. There were some words, but none of them were familiar. He put the book back and turned away. No, there were no answers here.

  He went to the main door and stepped outside. There was snow all around. It crunched under his boots. Presumably, the weather was cold, but his body didn’t really seem to feel temperature anymore. He exhaled, to see if he could see his breath, only to realise his body was no longer capable of warm breath.

  Through some distant trees, he could just pick out a light. He was drawn towards it and its promise of warmth. His gait was stiff and ungainly, as if his body had forgotten even its basic functions. He tried to run and fell into a jarring lope. He’d been running for quite some time before it struck him that he felt no fatigue. He wasn’t even breathless. Of course! The magic kept his dead body animated. He no longer had to burn food as fuel, to create the energy to run.

  What a soldier that would make him! No need to sleep, rest or eat. And presumably capable of fighting on despite wounds that would be fatal to the living. Why did he not feel exhilarated then? Why did he not feel anything? Because it was meaningless without a cause, without something to protect, without knowing who you were.

  He reached the light and found it was an inn called the Legless Soldier. There was a leering picture above the entrance of a war veteran with amputated legs holding a flagon of ale. It had been painted face on so that the veteran’s mocking eyes saw you no matter where you stood. Saltar turned away and ducked into the inn’s main room.

  There was a large, merry fire in the hearth. Local farmers sat in groups talking loudly. The chatter died as he entered. People looked at him, only to shudder and look away quickly. Neighbours started talking to each other again but almost desperately this time. They spoke of the sun, of joy, of laughter, of jokes they all knew and loved. One farmer struck up a bawdy song and sang it for all he was worth.

  Saltar went and sat at a broken table on the side of the room furthest from the fire and the farming folk. He sat in partial shadow. The innkeep approached, squared his shoulders, tried a smile and then settled for a neutral, non-threatening manner.

  ‘Cold out. You look chilled, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been through a lot. A warming drink.’

  ‘Ale, spirit?’

  ‘A bottle of spirit.’

  ‘That’s a lot, and I’ve only got the two bottles in stock, sir. The locals tend to like the swilling stuff.’

  ‘As you might have noticed, I’m not local.’

  ‘No, General. You’re a fair ways from the battle. You must have a horse needs stabling.’

  General? What was a horse? Of course! ‘Er… no. It got me most of the way here, but then up and died on me. I walked the rest of the way.’

  ‘How-how fared the battle? But you don’t have to talk about it, sir, obviously,’ the innkeep rushed.

  Saltar smiled tolerantly. This was the easiest lie he’d had to craft so far. ‘We won, of course!’ and slapped the table. ‘The enemy won’t be giving you any trouble round these parts.’

  The innkeep smiled with relief. ‘A bottle of spirit it is then, General.’

  ‘Good man. I’ll write you a letter and can charge whatever you like to the palace.’ What palace? ‘Say, ten golds?’

  ‘Oh, thank you, General! You must have some food. It’s simple but wholesome fare we serve.’

  Saltar remembered Mordius’s warning from before. ‘Just the spirit will be fine, innkeep.’

  ‘I’ll send Tula over with it,’ the innkeep said with a smile. ‘She can give your uniform a clean if you care to have a room for the night.’ He winked and moved away before Saltar had a chance to protest.

  Tula was a large, comely woman. Her dress had not been cut to display her to her best advantage; rather, it struggled to contain her. She put the bottle and two glasses down on the table.

  ‘My feet be killing me. On ‘em all day. Not minding if I sit awhile, are ye?’

  Saltar nodded to the stool and she lowered herself with a genuine enough groan. Saltar poured them a measure each and had downed his before she’d even reached out her hand for a glass. He was gratified to feel a slight tingle in his stomach as the liquid splashed down from his throat. He couldn’t exactly taste it, but he could feel the passage of it. It was something at least.

  ‘You be a man of urgent needs, I see,’ Tula grinned. ‘A general must know what he wants. I like that in a man and uniform. They be much the same thing, less I be a judge of nothing.’

  Saltar smiled to himself. Unusual to have such roundabout talk in a rural inn. Still, if the inn was on an important trade route, that might explain why they were used to negotiation with outsiders of a different class or culture. He poured himself another measure and then tilted it at Tula in invitation, forcing her to down most of her glass so that she was ready to receive more of the expensive liquor.

  ‘You’re right, Tula. And my uniform is in desperate need of attention.’

  She returned his smile and licked her ripe lips. ‘I’ll go draw you a bath, General. The room to the right at the back.’

  ‘I would be in your debt, Tula. Come, let me repay you,’ and he poured her another drink.

  ‘And now I be in your debt, good General. I must repay you. Let me take your uniform off you. I’ll have it washed and dry for the morning. I’ll scrub your back too.’

  This woman was good company. He mourned his current state. ‘I tell you what, leave me some bandages by the bath. Let me bathe and dress my wound in private and then we will pick up our conversation where we left off.’

  ‘If you can manage alone, General. But you may be having more wounds upon you by the morning.’ She winked and rolled away into the corridor that led off the main room.

  He picked up his bottle and followed her some time later. He found the room and the waiting bath. It steamed gently. His reflection in the water caught him. Was this him? He only vaguely remembered his own features: the dark and heavy brows; the severe mouth that had a permanent quirk; and the well-boned jaw. The eyes were flat and lifeless, and he did not recognise them. He demanded answers of his mind but it remained as blank as the gaze of his refle
ction. He dashed the water to give himself some reprieve and began to strip.

  Tula had remembered the bandages, thankfully. He contemplated the rag of cloth Mordius had stuffed into the hole in his chest. There was no blood in evidence. Animees didn’t bleed much apparently. He wrapped the bandages around his torso and covered the hole from sight. Perhaps he’d never have to look at it again. He hoped he might even forget about it completely. It was then that he realised he hadn’t bathed yet. The bandages would get wet. But without the bandages, would water pour into him through the hole? He contemplated just washing himself down without getting in, but he craved the warmth of the water and a full immersion.

  Cursing, he got in and ducked all the way under. For brief moments, he almost felt fully alive. Almost. And then it was time to stand up and stop the water from filling his corpse through the chest. Sighing, he soaped himself down, to remove the detritus of battle and death from his body.

  There was a peremptory knock at the door and Tula squeezed herself into the room. Saltar promptly sat down again – strange that he still felt some modesty. Her hair shone like new bronze in the candlelight. A wicked smile danced upon her lips.

  ‘I be coming to collect the General’s uniform or scrub his back. And if your wound stops you reaching other parts, well then I can give them a going over too.’

  She came straight over to the bath and put her hand in the water. She fondled him, but his loins refused to stir to life. Of course, the dead would be seedless. He had not anticipated that.

  ‘Tula!’ he said quickly. ‘Why not join me on the bed? A massage, perhaps. And, please, call me Saltar, now it seems we are to know each other a bit better.’

  His suggestion pleased her. She went to the bed and let her dress drop to the floor. She got under the sheets but made sure not to cover her oversized breasts. He pondered them dispassionately. They were probably heavy and no doubt she got backache.

  Saltar almost shouted out loud at himself. Was this what he was reduced to? Pondering whether a woman had backache when she was offering him one of humanity’s greatest natural pleasures? But that was the point, wasn’t it? He was no longer a part of humanity. He was unnatural. He was less than human.

  His dark thoughts were interrupted by Tula: ‘Come, General. Leave off your troubled looks. Your worries can wait till morning. For now, come feel how hot I am.’

  Yes, the warmth of her embrace would be welcome. He went to her, sitting on the bed. Sighing, he said, ‘Tula, you are a generous and kind woman. I miss my wife too much. I will not misuse you.’ She made to protest, but he stopped her. ‘I would be happy just to hold you. Is that an unusual request?’

  Tula smiled indulgently. ‘It be a common enough human request. So come here. My but you’re cold, General!’

  ‘Indeed I am, Tula, indeed I am.’

  Her hand strayed to his loins once during the night.

  ‘You will have no joy there, Tula,’ he murmured.

  She grunted and was soon snoring gently. He slipped from the sheets and gathered up the uniform that had not been washed in the end. He contemplated it by the light of a guttering candle and then dunked it in the cold water of the bath. He clad himself in the dripping clothes, perversely disappointed that he experienced no sensation despite their frigid state.

  The inn was quiet, bar the odd snore from a customer who was obviously on friendly enough terms with the innkeep to be afforded the main room for sleep, and the comfort of its banked hearth. Saltar slipped out into the dead of night and began the trudge back to Mordius’s dwelling place.

  He was decided. Even in death he craved life. Everything he saw and heard reminded him of what he’d lost. It was like a constant pain, except his body didn’t feel much pain anymore. He could not forgive Mordius for what he’d done, but the necromancer might atone for his outrage somewhat by returning Saltar to full life. He did not want to be in his current state a second longer than could be avoided.

  The sun was peeping over the horizon, as if checking to see it was safe to come out, as Saltar got home. He strode up to the door to Mordius’s chamber and hammered on it.

  ‘It’s morning, Mordius! Time we departed.’

  There was the sound of movement behind the door. ‘What’s the time? We haven’t packed the things we’ll need for travel yet.’

  ‘Up! I don’t need anything and I’m ready to go.’

  Mordius scrubbed at his face with his hands. ‘Alright, alright! By Shakri’s holy mercy, you make enough noise to wake the… the…’

  ‘The dead, Mordius? It would be better to say the living in this case, wouldn’t it? Come, we should be leaving. The sooner we find this Heart, the sooner I’ll be done with you. While you ready your things, you can tell me more of what you know of this Harpedon and his Heart. And then you should convince me why I should trust you. After all, all I know so far is that you are an unholy magician, body snatcher, blackmailer and thief.’

  Mordius adopted a sour expression. Interesting, Saltar thought, the man was vain too. At least the necromancer could be trusted to betray what he was thinking; if he had kept his face blank and his eyes hooded, then Saltar would have feared he was a master deceiver. A demon with whom he was bartering for his soul.

  ‘Very well,’ Mordius conceded with bad grace, ‘I will tell you what I can. The story goes that Harpedon lived five hundred years but then wearied of life. They say he tried to kill himself again and again, but that he was always trapped by his own immortality. I imagine he must have gone mad at some point. Still, the solution finally came to him and he took on six apprentices. Once they had become masters of the necromatic art, Harpedon no longer had absolute sway over Death and he was free of his immortality. He asked his acolytes to end his life, and this they duly did, but they used their power to keep his heart alive. They knew whoever held the heart would be close to immortal themselves, despite the existence of other necromancers.’

  Something about the story didn’t ring true with Saltar. ‘There are clear paradoxes in that tale.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mordius agreed. ‘It is an old story and has probably changed in the telling over time. However, a necromancer’s strongest magicks are built on the harnessing or reconciling of paradoxes. Certainly, the magic eventually unravels, torn apart by the very paradox that created it, but that can take centuries to happen.’

  ‘I am a paradox then, Mordius. Will I not unravel?’

  ‘Y-yes, I suppose so,’ the necromancer answered uncomfortably. ‘But life and death are full of paradoxes, and neither the realms of Shakri or Lacrimos unravel themselves. I hope we will have found the Heart before the magic that sustains you fails.’

  ‘Why me? Surely you can create whole armies of the dead for yourself, Mordius.’

  ‘Yes, and no. Each necromancer’s power is limited to a similar amount. Some spread theirs thinly and sustain a whole host of old, mindless shells. These shells are to be feared in great numbers, but individually they are nothing, worthless. Other necromancers focus their power into a few animees that still have their minds unrotted and are consequently much more capable. I have put all of mine into keeping a hero like you alive.’

  ‘I see. Then the only thing that can really be gleaned from the story of Harpedon and his acolytes is that necromancers are not to be trusted. They will always seek to betray each other in their constant struggle to win sole sway over Death. Essentially, they wish to see all others dead. Their every word and action is designed to trick their rivals to their deaths, ultimately to rule over them. So let’s start again, Mordius, and tell me why I should trust you!’

  Mordius sighed. ‘Let me break my fast first, Saltar. I usually think better on a full stomach.’

  Saltar stared at his magical creator. Finally, he said: ‘Very well. But make it quick. I do not wish to remain in this state a second longer than I have to.’

  ***

  CHAPTER 2: We are gathered here today

  Young Strap found that he couldn’t contain hi
s boredom anymore. ‘Is this it? We just sit here for hours on end? I thought there was more to being a King’s Guardian than this!’

  ‘Quiet!’ the Old Hound growled, resisting the desire to cuff the youngster.

  ‘Nothing’s happening!’

  The Old Hound sighed. What was it with youth? Maybe it was just because they were so full of life, so “quick”. ‘Do you question your duty? Do you question your King’s orders?’

  Young Strap smiled, knowing the Old Hound was trying to catch him out. ‘But of course not! I simply seek to understand my King’s orders better so that I might better carry them out. There is no treason in my heart.’

  The Old Hound laughed despite himself. Nodding, he said: ‘There is some hope for you then. I know I will get no measure of peace until you’ve been taught your place. So, listen to me now. No, no stupid questions. Just be attentive and get yourself some learning.’ The Old Hound cleared his throat. ‘First we watch the field, then we read it closely, and finally we make it safe for the living. Before you ask!’

  Young Strap closed his mouth.

  ‘I’ll explain what is meant by watching, reading and making a place safe for the living. To watch a battlefield is to guard it for some period of time, long enough to be sure that there is no one around seeking to steal anything from the field.’

  ‘Steal?’ Young Strap asked, forgetting himself.

  The Old Hound frowned at the youth. ‘Yes, steal. What is so hard to understand about that? Look around you. There is much here for the taking. But it all belongs to our King, for he won the battle. Tell me what you see that others would take if we did not guard against it.’

  Young Strap looked out across the hillside that had seen the lion-share of the recent battle. The bodies had been left where they’d fallen, as was the custom. Many were half-buried in the churned up mud, as if they were slowly being consumed by the earth, returned to the clay from which they had originally been fashioned by Shakri. Lost limbs stuck up from the ground at odd angles, the pale flesh conjuring visions of giant maggots in the mind of Young Strap. Then he had the horrible, fleeting impression that the dead were trying to pull themselves back to the surface before they were completely overtaken by rot and decay.