by A J Dalton
It was the gambit that only necromancers had the courage to take. It set them apart, in that they lived on when others did not. But that survival always came at a terrible price. They were always damaged. They always lost a part of themselves. Experience taught them to fear their every step. What was that glinting beneath the leaves ahead of them?
The trapper was so powerful and had such dreadful weapons, it was best to hide or flee whenever he was around. Unless, unless... Was there some way? Might the trapper take a misstep and fall into one of his own traps? Might he be caught unawares? If a forest animal of sufficient size and strength could get close enough, could they put an end to him with tusk, tooth or claw? Could they gore, rend or tear him until there was nothing left? Think what the forest would be like with him gone!
Many of the animees before him had the exaggerated sway of the long since dead, corpses who had rotted too far before they had been found and raised. Yet a few stood firm and lifted their faces up towards him. They were his lieutenants and still had the spark in their brains that allowed them some intimation or dim understanding of who and what he was. They were his brother necromancers. Yes, he had killed them, or had them murdered, but each of them could not help but understand why. They knew the gambit they all played. They knew that Savantus worked to make himself strong and get close to the trapper. They shared his insight that he had to become a predator as deadly as the trapper if there was to be any chance of defeating the foe. Just think what the forest would be like afterwards!
'There are so many of them!' breathed a voice next to him.
Caught unawares, Savantus snapped his head around. 'Oh, it's you. And your animee, of course.'
Mordius gazed out on the dawn assembly. 'I thought it would only be some few thousand of them. This... this is a whole population. How many, Savantus? Can you feel them all?'
Savantus looked weary to the marrow. The bags under his eyes, the lack of dilation in his pupils, the painful bow of his shoulders, his matted hair; all made him an ache that any person in his proximity experienced physically. He was weary like a wild creature that had been hunted to the point of exhaustion. But like any creature injured, brought to bay or cornered, he was also at his most dangerous then. There was a crazed aspect to his manner, a manic intensity that said life and death hung in the balance with every passing second. The air around him trembled with it, created a buzzing in the temples that made the whole skull hurt and resonate with it. He clung so tightly to the unique value and poignant beauty of “now” that he all but throttled the life from it. He crushed it to his chest as a mother would a child she had just punished. In some ways, he was more alive than anyone Mordius had ever met, in other ways he was so distracted and paranoid that he was entirely lost to the living. The younger necromancer sighed and hoped he would never become like the older. 'Savantus, do you feel them all?'
'Yes,' he said quietly. 'I feel them as when a man enters a room and knows that someone is concealed therein or that someone has recently vacated the place. I feel them as an unseen presence. But I feel them most when they are gone, when they are taken from me. Loneliness is always felt more strongly and keenly than companionship. I think you know this already, Mordius. If I lose my connection to just one of them, even one amongst so many, I lose a part of myself. It is agony. If I had never been connected to them, I would never know the difference. Tell me you understand that.'
Mordius glanced involuntarily at Saltar. He realised he could not hate Savantus as much as he might wish to. Pity was all he felt. 'Yes, I understand. And I understand why you have chosen to gather so many unto you. You do not seek to dominate them; you simply wish to have them close. Is it enough, though, Savantus? Does it give you what you need? Does it fill the void?'
A small smile found Savantus's lips. 'You know it does not. But I keep hoping that one day it may. I have spent centuries adding to their number, Mordius. I think the entire kingdom of Accritania will march forth with us. A nation of the dead.'
'Centuries. I cannot think what that they would be like. Does the void get smaller in that time or ever larger? Did Harpedon finally fall into his own void? Had it become so wide that it consumed him?'
Savantus laughed sadly. 'It always comes back to him, doesn't it? I suppose I have always known it would. Harpedon was the man who had everything and nothing. Immortality was his, but now I realise that he suffered because there was still something missing, something beyond his grasp. He'd achieved everything, more than any other mortal before him. Even the gods bowed to him. Yet something was still missing. I am not sure what it was, but ultimately it caused him to seek his own destruction.'
'Maybe it was something he had lost and could never recover,' Mordius whispered in a voice that did not sound like his own, an ancient whisper from the grave.
Savantus was silent. There could only be silence after such words.
Mordius felt a moment's awkwardness. Surely there was some comfort he could offer this troubled man. 'My old master, Dualor, believed it could all be put right if the Heart was in the right hands.'
'Your master, Dualor,' Savantus said slowly and then began to laugh. Harder and harder he laughed. 'Your old master, Dualor!' Tears coursed down the ambiguous face of the necromancer. Were they tears of joy, despair or insanity?
Mordius began to fear the high lord would have a conniption. 'What is it, Savantus?' he shouted, but the Head Necromancer could not get control of himself. 'Saltar, what should we do?'
Saltar shrugged with practised eloquence but otherwise had nothing to say.
Savantus howled at the setting moon. 'Dualor! Dualor was one of us, Mordius! I see it all now. You are his machine. It was his will that set you in motion, that brought you to this balcony right here and now.'
'What are you saying?' a stunned Mordius asked.
'Dualor was one of the six, you idiot! Did you have no inkling? He was the only one of us who could come close to Voltar in cunning. Where Voltar had the daring to steal the Heart for his immediate gratification, perhaps Dualor had the vision to plan for a longer-term victory.'
'But he's dead!' Mordius protested.
'For now, yes. But you and I both know death does not have to be forever. If you claim the Heart, I take it you will feel obliged to resurrect your old master, him whom you owe so much?'
'I-I-I...' but words failed him.
Savantus nodded. 'I thought as much. Do you not see how you have been played?'
Mordius fled the words of the Head Necromancer. It could not be! Saltar looked on and wondered why Mordius had never really mentioned Dualor to him before. The distrust he'd felt towards Mordius when first raised began to insinuate itself into his thoughts once more. It was clear that it was the will of older and more powerful beings that had steered Mordius's actions all along. Be it Shakri or the ghost of Dualor that was responsible, Saltar knew that he was facing a greater battle than he had ever known before. If he could not adequately protect Mordius, then Saltar himself would end up as an expendable pawn, a pawn whose demise was all but guaranteed.
'Savantus.'
The Head Necromancer showed some surprise. 'It speaks at last!'
'What would you do with the Heart?'
'I've tried not to think about that. For hundreds of years I've tried not to think about it, for fear it would drive me mad.'
'But the thought has always been there, hasn't it, just like that unseen presence you described to Mordius?'
'You are curiously insightful for one of the dead.'
'Being dead provides its own insights, but you couldn't know that.'
'For example?'
'I know what Harpedon lost, what he was unable to recover. I can understand why he sought his own destruction.'
'Tell me!' Savantus demanded savagely.
'Tell me what you would do with the Heart.'
Savantus chewed furiously at his bottom lip. 'I daren't. You are Mordius's creature.'
'If you cannot tell me before the end then I wil
l have to kill you, for we are reaching a time when we must dare everything.'
The Head Necromancer giggled like a lunatic. 'We'll get closer to the trapper at last. Yes, let's dare it all. Think what the forest will be like afterwards!'
***
The Scourge opened his eyes and stared up at the silk canopy of the bed above him. He slid out from between the sheets and planted his feet on the floor. He winced as his bones popped and cracked. Then he put his hands to his lower back to try and alleviate its soreness as he straightened up and stretched.
'I'm getting too old for this!' he grimaced. 'Serves me right for sleeping amongst soft pillows.'
The Scourge had always had the strange idea that sleeping on hard ground made a man hard; and sleeping on a soft mattress made him unnaturally soft. He couldn't rationalise the idea, but similarly he couldn't understand how the sumptuous bed had managed to seduce him the night before. There was something wanton about it. He'd succumbed to the temptation of self-indulgence, a behaviour that only made him weaker and more vulnerable. Why had he done it then? Did he have dark appetites that had gotten the better of him because he was tired? Or did he have a self-destructive streak?
It was funny how he didn't know himself anymore. Ever since he'd decided to betray Voltar, he'd been without a frame of reference for his duty, values and self. By Shakri's leaking teats, he couldn't even sleep in a bed without finding himself teetering on the edge of a philosophical precipice! He'd become ridiculous. That, or his mind was wandering because he was finally entering his dotage.
He shivered in the cold air of dawn and thought about pulling on some clothes to protect his goose-pimpling skin. He realised he needed to urinate and decided to piss on the thick carpet of the stately bedchamber. As the golden, steaming liquid splashed onto the rich pile, he felt unaccountably better about himself. It was the sort of act of defiance he realised had always been typical of the Scourge. Even though he had always been loyal to the throne of Dur Memnos, there was a part of him that had always suspected he was allowing himself to be seduced by something that weakened him. He'd been tempted into the royal bed like a naive, wide-eyed maid. He'd been despoiled. He was dirty now, and that was why he hated himself.
Yet he had not submitted totally. He'd always driven Voltar to the point of rage with his insolent tongue. Now, he had turned on his King. In the same way, he refused to abase himself before the gods. Why did he do it? Why couldn't he submit? Was he so proud, so selfish? Why were there no words that spoke positively about being concerned about the self? Why was there only negative connotation in terms like “selfish”, “self-interested”, “self-centred”, “self-obsessed” and so on? Why was it so much better to be better without a self: “selfless”, “self-sacrificing”, “self-effacing”, etcetera?
Surely, he was a sinner, and an unrepentant one at that. He was defiant. He infected others with his attitude, just as Phyrax the demon did. The Scourge realised he was a demon himself. He was certainly feared everywhere he went. His name was used in stories to scare children. Every inn he went into, the most grizzled of warriors would avoid his eyes. When had he become such a monster? How had he let Voltar turn him into such a monster?
He shook his head like a bear being bothered by a bee whose honey had been stolen. He moved away from the dark stain spreading on the carpet and went towards his clothes. He caught his reflection in a priceless piece of silvered glass and paused. A haunted face looked back at him in disturbing detail. He'd never been able to see himself so clearly before, usually having to settle for the watery ghost looking back at him from a streamside pool when doing his ablutions on the road.
There was something feral in his look. It wasn't just the unkempt hair and the pointed, ratty nose; it was something in the eye. A glint of madness? He stared at his own eye, the eye staring back at itself with equal intensity and madness. They said the eyes were the window to the soul. If so, then by the looks of things his soul was a rabid, foaming creature and would be better off without it.
Nihilistically satisfied with such an opinion, he moved on to his clothing. The leather had once been a uniform brown, but now it was a patchwork of burgundies, yellows and blacks; dirt, sweat, blood, urine, excrement and more blood. A fancy took him: it was as if he swathed himself in the pallet of autumn, just as he was in the autumn of his years. The armour was slowly getting darker with time, however, and winter was not far off. The blackened patches were becoming larger and more numerous, like a cancer.
The leather stank as well. He knew he should wash it, to reduce his scent when stalking or being stalked, but there was something reassuringly honest about the smell. It was human, it was mortal, it was angry, it was defiant. Let them stalk him, let them find him. It would be a relief in some way, for then he could fully unleash himself against them. Oh, to be able to release all his rage finally. How sweet it would be! No more apology or self-constraint, just the simple, cleansing fire of his rage and life. The spark of life fanned into an inferno! Was that not why Shakri gifted mortals with the divine spark? Did she not ignite humanity herself? Perhaps he wasn't just a demon. There was another side to him, a side that was in constant conflict with the demon. The demon tried to seduce whereas the human avatar raised weapons.
The Scourge buckled on his sword and checked his daggers. His weapons were the only items in the room that meant anything to him. Yes, the crystal inkwell and gold pen on the oak desk under the window would buy him a life of luxury in any city on the continent, but they were simply self-indulgent items that tried to tempt him into weakness. They were ultimately meaningless things to him. He would not let them define him. He was not a man because of the number of possessions he had. He was a man because of the things he said and did. His weapons were enough. If he were to lose them, he would take up whatever was to hand and then move on.
He left the bedchamber with a smile on his lips. Closing the door behind him, he knew he would never return to this room. Let it fester, rot away and be forgotten with the passing of years.
He marched down the empty corridors and into the entrance hall of the palace, where the portly Constantus was already waiting despite the hour. There were dark rings around the big general's eyes – he had been up all night searching for what little remained of the Accritanian army in Accros. Despite the fatigue writ large on the Accritanian's face, however, there was an energy and excitement in his eye and he quickly came to his feet at the Scourge's approach.
'Well met, General! How do we stand?'
'Eighty-nine.'
The Scourge nodded. 'It will be enough.'
'I could double that if I had but another half a day.'
'Another five hundred would make little difference where we are going, General. We only need enough of the living to protect ourselves and the Head Necromancer from any small and sudden ambush. As long as Savantus lives, we will have the innumerable dead as the main body of our army.'
'Remind me why the dead cannot take on the risk involved in protecting that unspeakable worm then.'
'Inevitably, the living will travel faster than most of the dead. From what I understand, a lot of the older bodies won't be able to manage more than a stumbling walk. Added to that, their lieutenants need to remain within a certain distance of them to keep them animated. They just won't be able to keep up during daylight hours. Obviously, they'll rejoin us when we stop for the night and they keep on walking.'
Constantus smiled. 'Yes, I can see how we will quickly outstrip them on the road, and to my mind that's no bad thing. I, for one, do not wish to travel amongst the dead, and nor do my men. It would destroy what little morale is left to them. Very well, my men will protect him, but only until this march of ours is done. Then I will waste no time in putting an end to that carrion-feeder!' Constantus challenged the Scourge.
Feeling a sympathetic mixture of anger and concern, the Scourge could only stare back at the man.
'That is my price, Guardian!'
'Of course, Constantus
! We're assuming we get as far as the palace of Dur Memnos first though. Just make sure he suffers before he dies, would you?'
The General's smile became a wide grin. 'It will be my pleasure. Now, is there anything with which to break my fast round here? I hate marching on an empty stomach.'
'Brandy?'
'Perfect!'
***
Not long after, Constantus, the three Guardians, the two necromancers and Saltar gathered outside the palace. Except for Saltar, they all mounted horses while trying to ignore the silent host standing around them. Even Savantus looked a bit uncomfortable, though Kate knew better than to treat anything about the Head Necromancer as genuine. He was quite capable of dissimulating so as to build an emotional trust between himself and others, a trust that he could betray for advantage in the future.
They all now knew that Savantus had been one of the six, one of the scheming acolytes of Harpedon. He was hundreds of years old and had generations of dead Accritanians at his command. They all suspected that he had somehow had a hand in the murder of the entire kingdom; that he had been complicit in turning Orastes into a wretched puppet of Lacrimos. Savantus had to be kept under constant watch, to which end Saltar had stood vigil in a corner of the necromancer's room night after night.
To think that her love had been kept from her side by this duplicitous, Accritanian parasite! She had half a mind to strangle the loathsome creature and have done with it, but they still needed it if they were to retrieve the Heart and return Saltar to full life. She glared at Savantus and then, sickened by the mere sight of him, pulled her eyes away. Her gaze landed on the watching dead and she felt herself shrinking inwardly.
A one-eyed woman stared back at her, a dead child suckling emptily at her withered, corrupted bosom. Was there no limit to the nightmarish abominations of which Savantus was capable? How was it that King's Guardians who had sworn to see an end to all necromancers now rode side by side with the worst of the necromancers? How had they managed to betray themselves? And how was it that she had actually allowed herself to fall in love with the creation of a necromancer? What was this life Shakri had given them?