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

by A J Dalton

They were catching up to the first person on the road. He was a bedraggled, sorry-looking fellow, wearing little more than rags. As they moved past him, Saltar gave him a cursory glance and adjudged him no threat. There were dark rings around his eyes, but he had some flesh on him, so must have been eating well enough up until recently. The vagabond’s eyes drifted towards them, and Saltar thought he heard something ugly muttered. They began to move away from him.

  ‘I can’t explain it,’ Mordius tried again.

  ‘What?’ Saltar asked distractedly.

  ‘The Heart. It might be calling to me somehow.’

  ‘You hearing voices now?’

  ‘I mean it. It’s pulling at me or something. I feel this need or urgency that’s not entirely my own.’

  They moved up to a pair of men ahead of them. The two were dressed in a similar purple colour to each other, as if in some sort of uniform. One of them had a battered looking sword without a scabbard pushed through his belt. They dragged their feet tiredly and stared down at the road.

  Mordius said something else, but Saltar wasn’t listening anymore. He was too busy sizing up the next two men on the road ahead of them. They too wore purple. As Saltar and Mordius moved past them, one of them glared at Saltar with baleful eyes.

  ‘It’s him!’ the grizzled looking man spat and reached for an object inside his jerkin, no doubt a knife or some weapon.

  ‘Mordius!’ Saltar warned. ‘We’ve got trouble! Ride!’

  ‘Eh?’ asked the necromancer, who had been busy deliberating upon the possibility of the gods and other supernatural agents playing out their will through the thoughts and deeds of men, whether that meant there was no free will and what the point to life then was; a line of argument that had resulted in his getting himself into a metaphysical quandary and being completely unprepared for his animee’s sudden and indelicate interruption.

  With a shout, Saltar slapped the rump of Mordius’s cantankerous horse, which for once behaved as it should and bolted down the road, Mordius barely managing to keep his saddle. Saltar was already moving.

  A knife thrust towards him and he swayed out of its path. He chopped downwards with a straight hand and smartly struck the extended wrist of his assailant. The knife clattered onto the paving stones and span lazily like a needle on a compass. Saltar looked on emotionlessly as the others they’d passed on the road came hobbling up. He met the eyes of each of the five in turn and was gratified to see the men shift nervously. Between them they had one sword and a few thick branches.

  ‘It would sadden me to kill you,’ Saltar said without inflection. ‘I take it you are soldiers from Accritania.’

  ‘You know damn well we are!’ grated the back-stabbing member of the band, who rubbed his wrist. ‘And you know who you are. If we rush you, you will have no chance.’

  ‘If you believed that, you would have done it already. But tell me who you think I am and I may let you live. I have lost my memory, you see.’

  ‘You cannot claim that you do not remember the bloody crimes of which you are guilty. Such slaughter would stay with anyone, even one as soulless as you!’

  Saltar felt the chill of the void creeping over him. He tried to push it away but he was becoming numb and finding it difficult to move. ‘Mordius?’ He began to topple backwards, and it was only that that made the flashing sword miss him. They leapt on him and started kicking and punching him. One bit his leg like a dog.

  Movement suddenly returned to his limbs and he lashed out. He levered himself up and they fell off him. He grabbed the throat of the nearest one of them and tore it out, drenching himself in a fountain of blood. The sword was back at him like an angry bee. He swatted it away but it kept coming back.

  Finally, he trapped the sword and turned it back into the bowels of its owner. He stepped towards the remaining three and took a branch on his forearm. He felt nothing.

  ‘You will all die!’ Saltar promised matter-of-factly.

  One of the soldiers began to back away down the road. Saltar crouched swiftly and took the sword from the limp grip of the disembowelled man. Noise crowded his mind and memory as he touched the weapon. There were screams everywhere, screams of encouragement, screams of death and screams of human terror. It battered at him and he struck out with elemental rage, fear and hatred. Was that his laughing or someone else? He was on a red battlefield that stretched out as far as he could see in every direction. He’d spent what felt like an entire existence fighting here.

  As quickly as the images and impressions had come, so they disappeared. Saltar shook his head to dislodge any phantasm that might still linger and tried to make sense of where he was. He sat straddling the body of a man lying face down, who clawed weakly at the road’s surface. Saltar’s sword stuck out of his victim’s lower back and had clearly severed the man’s spine because his legs weren’t even twitching. Saltar recognised him as the solider who had been backing away down the road.

  The other two, who had been alive before he’d been blinded or gone somewhere else, were in pieces on the road behind them. They’d clearly been killed in a frenzied attack: their bodies had been hacked and mutilated and one of them had been decapitated. The paving stones glistened and winked with gore.

  A part of his mind told him he was sickened by it all, but he felt no physical reaction: no increase in pulse rate; no pounding heartbeat; no nausea; no rising gorge. Was this what he was? He’d meant to keep one of them alive, hadn’t he, to ask questions?

  He leaned forwards to whisper in the ear of the rapidly fading soldier: ‘Who am I?’

  ‘A m-monster!’ croaked the soldier.

  ‘Tell me!’ Saltar pleaded.

  ‘You are…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘… damned!’ came the final sigh.

  It sounded like a pronouncement of doom, but wasn’t he already dead? How much worse could it get in this world? He supposed he’d find out. He did feel a certain sadness, but whether it was for himself or the soldier before him, he couldn’t tell. Perhaps for both of then. Perhaps for more than just both of them.

  He left the sword where it was, shying away from it as if it was a cursed thing. And perhaps it was, because it had seemed to take possession of him, turning him into an unthinking berserker only interested in killing. He had lost control and forfeited the chance to find out more about himself.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, that won’t solve anything, he remonstrated with himself. It was your own fault – you could have done more to make sure you didn’t even get into such situations. If you’d been thinking, you wouldn’t have set out on this journey in a general’s uniform, especially so soon after a major battle’s taken place. You wouldn’t have let that idiot Mordius lead you openly down a well-travelled road. Speaking of Mordius…

  Saltar looked around. The wagon on the horizon had pulled to the side of the road and various occupants stood surveying a wood that started not far away and ran along the road. He sensed that that was where Mordius had gone.

  ‘At least he’s got that much sense.’

  He stripped one of the corpses of its bloody, purple shirt. It was already beginning to stiffen but he shrugged it on over his general’s jacket anyway. He broke into the characteristic lope of an animee and made for the woods. There were a few shouts from the road, but he ignored them.

  The wood was gloomy and damp. Fungi grew in profusion on slowly rotting wood. Some of them were brightly coloured, either seeking to attract or warn off those that might come by. Mosquitoes the size of his hand winged past but showed no interest in his dead flesh. There were banks of emerald green moss but otherwise very little undergrowth. Cobwebs were strung out between the trees and he ripped through them as he moved deeper into the wood. He bisected a path where the cobwebs had already been torn away, and surmised that this was the route the necromancer had taken. He followed it for some five minutes or so and suddenly came across Mordius resting on a trunk that had fallen across the way. The horse was tethered up not far a
way and glaring evilly at Mordius as if being brought to this place could be considered ill-treatment.

  ‘Ah! There you are, Saltar,’ Mordius said with false bravado. ‘I felt you getting closer. You couldn’t help me with tying this knot, could you?’

  Saltar walked silently over to him and saw that the necromancer had contrived to get himself a flesh wound. It looked as if an arrow had passed through his robe and nicked his arm.

  ‘The people in the wagon?’ Saltar grunted.

  ‘Yes. They were wounded Accritanians. They saw we were having trouble with their comrades on foot and decided to shoot first and ask questions later,’ Mordius explained and began to shake. Saltar could tell the small man was in shock. ‘My, you’re in a bit of a state yourself, Saltar.’

  ‘No thanks to you!’

  ‘Yes, I panicked a bit when they shot at me. I’m af-f-fraid I lost my grip on the magic that sustains you. But only for a f-few seconds. No harm done, I t-trust?’ Mordius’s teeth were now chattering.

  Saltar sighed. ‘Your timing could have been better, but I guess I’m still in one piece. We need to get a fire started to warm you up, but I don’t think anything will burn round here. The water level seems to have risen so high that it’s killed most of the trees. Maybe if we find higher ground we’ll find firewood. Do you know this place?’

  ‘Not well. We’re in the Weeping Woods. The locals don’t come in here because they think it’s haunted.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘We sh-should be safe if we don’t go too deep and just parallel the road. The woods don’t go on forever and we’ll make the foothills of the Accritanian Mountains in a few days.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s move on, for this is no place to rest,’ Saltar said as he reached for the horse, which tried to bite him. He rapped it on the nose and jerked its head round by the bit so it was eyeball to eyeball with him.

  ‘Bad horse! Now listen, we’re going to be together quite some time, you and I, so we’d better come to some sort of understanding, hadn’t we?’

  The horse whinnied in fear and flared its nostrils. Then it nodded its head and refused to make eye contact anymore.

  ‘Fine. You ignore me and I’ll ignore you. Come on, Mordius, the horse and I are ready.’

  ‘Yes, Saltar,’ Mordius said defeatedly. He’d given up trying to be the one to give orders. He wasn’t very good at it anyway and always felt vaguely ridiculous. ‘I’m sorry, Saltar!’

  Saltar pulled up short. ‘What?’

  ‘That would have been the end of us if it weren’t for you. I don’t think I’m really cut out for this. Perhaps we should go back.’

  ‘Ha! If only it were that simple. Mordius, it’s too late, because I will not go back. I will not rest until this is ended one way or another. You can try and return me to the grave if you wish but I will not go willingly. And I will take you down with me if necessary. You owe me, Mordius.’

  This was not the warrior he’d spoken to the night before. Something more than a simple desire for life now seemed to drive him. What had happened on the road? ‘The Heart wouldn’t let me rest anyway if I tried to go back,’ Mordius said miserably. ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘That’s more like it, Mordius,’ Saltar said, almost sounding jovial. ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve had some hot food. And tomorrow I’ll teach you to defend yourself, so that you won’t have to panic next time you’re attacked.’

  ‘Oh, joy!’

  ‘This is becoming fun, Mordius!’

  ***

  CHAPTER 4: Of one known to us all

  The ache deep in his bones presaged rain. It also told him he wasn’t getting any younger and was probably developing mild rheumatism, none of which put him in a good mood. He glowered at his painfully vigorous companion.

  ‘About time we were on the road. You took an inordinately long time shaving this morning!’

  ‘A man needs to look after himself, Old Hound, as you must be aware,’ the youth replied robustly.

  Wretch. ‘Funny, you didn’t spend so long at you toilet yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ he said, colouring slightly.

  ‘Of course, yesterday, we weren’t close to Corinus and all its pretty girls. Got someone waiting for you?’

  ‘I thought I should be presentable if we are to report to the King.’

  The Old Hound sighed. ‘Best not to attract the attention of the King, lad, believe me. Once we are in the palace, let me do all the talking, hear? And don’t be asking lots of your questions around cos the palace isn’t answerable to the likes of us and you’re likely to find yourself in trouble of the worst kind.’

  Young Strap absorbed this information in uncharacteristic silence for several seconds. Then, ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘There you go, all curious and all! Weren’t you listening to me just now?’ the Old Hound snapped. Then he relented somewhat: ‘I guess you won’t be satisfied until I’ve told you at least something, however. Perhaps it’s best you’re properly forewarned. What’s he like? Well, any description of a person falls short cos words aren’t the same as a person, are they, which means I risk treason with what I tell you now? I need your oath that you won’t repeat what I say… and that you’ll keep quiet in the palace!’

  ‘You have it, as Shakri has my faith.’

  The Old Hound nodded. ‘Good enough, I suppose. So, he has eyes and hair as black as the walls of Corinus and skin as white as his palace. Those granted an audience will be humbled before his royal might, to the point of fearing him. His voice shakes the firmament when he is displeased. Be wary, for we but live at his sufferance. Always remember that he is more than a man. He is King Voltar of Dur Memnos.’

  Young Strap stared with eager, wide eyes at the Old Hound, but the Old Hound refused to say any more. The lad had enough for his imagination to work with, and hopefully enough to keep him in awed silence when they did meet the power that was only surpassed by the gods.

  ***

  They rode until midday and crested a rise that allowed them to look out across a wide valley. At the end of the valley was a low, expansive hill, on which crouched the city of Corinus. Its buildings of black granite covered most of the top and spread down to the lower slopes along roads running straight down, making it look like some sort of giant spider.

  The building that stood out at the summit was the palace, clad in rare, white marble. It formed the markings for the black spider’s back.

  ‘Home!’ Young Strap said melodramatically, unconsciously pushing his horse on a bit faster.

  ‘I take it you’re an indweller then?’ the Old Hound said sourly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘An indweller. Your family lives inside the city walls. Those who live here, outside the walls, call the privileged indwellers.’

  ‘Privileged?’ Young Strap protested, aghast. ‘My family has never been privileged. My father used to make candles out of tallow, and my mother… well, let’s not talk about what my mother had to do.’

  ‘But you had a roof over your heads within the city walls.’

  ‘So what? There was never enough food on the table. I was an extra mouth they could barely afford to feed. I had to make my own way in the world from the age of twelve. How can you say we were privileged? It’s not like we kept our place at the expense of others’ suffering.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up!’ the Old Hound said gruffly, refusing to look at the youth. ‘It’s not for me to judge.’

  Young Strap frowned. It wasn’t like the old curmudgeon to back away from something. He’d never hesitated to speak directly before, if not be downright rude. And why do I feel the need to defend myself to him? ‘Tell me what you mean!’ he demanded.

  ‘I have made you angry.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  Always the same urgency with this youth. What was it that drove him anyway? ‘Very well, if you insist. But on your word that your anger is not directed at me.’

  ‘Stop with your deals, Old Hound!’<
br />
  The Old Hound’s head snapped up and, momentarily, his eyes blazed as intensely as an inferno. Young Strap rocked back in his saddle, but refused to back down.

  ‘Very well! You seem to think you are man enough for such things, and maybe I am doing neither of us any favours in trying to protect you from them: it threatens to make me soft and it prevents you from understanding the world in which you must fight to keep a place. If you are to be a King’s Guardian then perforce I must treat you as a King’s Guardian.’

  Several obvious, sarcastic responses occurred to Young Strap, but he managed to bite them back, tempting though they were. He simply nodded mutely, maintaining eye-contact all the while.

  ‘I make no criticism of your family, understand that first. I hope you can, anyway. So, if your father was to make enough money making tallow candles in the city then he would have been having to sell a particular type of tallow candle to the temples.’

  Young Strap was confused. ‘I-I think he sold some candles to the temples. What of it?’

  ‘When temples use tallow candles, they insist on human tallow, rendered, human fat. Such candles aid the priests in the use of holy magicks. What you said about not keeping your place at the expense of others’ suffering is likely to be inaccurate. Look at the gibbets along the road.’

  All the way to the city, there was a pair of gibbets every hundred paces at each side of the road. They were meant to be a warning to any potential criminals thinking of entering Corinus. Young Strap forced himself to look up at the nearest posts, where metal cages hung with their grisly contents.

  ‘They’re criminals. They broke the King’s law. As a King’s Guardian, Old Hound, you know the need to punish the guilty and protect the innocent. And what’s this got to do with my father?’

  ‘Most of these bodies aren’t more than a week old. As far as you recall, lad, do the judges really sentence this many to death every week?’

  Young Strap was, needless to say, finding this conversation highly disturbing, but there was a grim fascination to it that made him wonder where it ultimately led. It was like sitting round a fire listening to someone telling a horrifying ghost story – you didn’t want to listen but equally didn’t wish to interrupt the story. It was as if a terrible secret was being revealed to you, knowledge of which might just save you when you found yourself in an unthinkable situation. ‘No. But where do these bodies come from then? Are you saying they aren’t actually criminals? If they’re not then… then…’