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

by A J Dalton

  Panicking like this a few nights before, he’d almost shaken Kate back to consciousness to demand that she hold him, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to it. After hard days in the saddle with the harrowing army of the dead right behind them, she needed as much respite as she could get. She somehow looked younger when she was asleep too, happier almost. Kept deprived of sleep himself, he knew its value all the more and had decided it would be cruel to steal it from her. Instead, he’d stumbled out of their tent and into the night to seek company amongst the dead standing swaying beneath the pearl-like moon. They’d stared at him in pitiless incomprehension. They’d had nothing to offer him and he’d fled their presence as well. Finally, he’d spent the night alone on the other side of a lifeless, stone hill.

  Tonight, he was bereft. What to do? What would save his mind from turning in on itself completely? He picked up Kate’s heavy leather armour and searched for the secret pocket he knew to be within. He found it and pulled out the small, valuable looking glass Kate used when she thought no one else was looking. He smiled affectionately at Kate’s recumbent form through the darkness. As hard as she tried to be the toughened, emotionless warrior, as hard as she tried to eradicate all weakness, as hard as she sought to suppress all self-betraying feeling, for all her deadly weaponry, dehumanising armour and practised killing skills, she was still Kate, still aware of what she did, still a thinking being who had beliefs and values, still someone who valued life with a passion still a self-possessed woman who loved fiercely, still a self-conscious woman who understood vanity, still a vulnerable woman who carried a small mirror inside her armour just over the breast where her heart beat so strongly. She was the essence of being, the essence of being alive that was the only meaning he knew. She was his whole existence, his whole realm, his pantheon of the gods, his very doom. She was his love.

  He took the mirror out of the dark tent, took a seat by the fire and stirred the embers back to life so that he would have enough light to see by. He cautiously bent his gaze on his reflection and pondered the stranger he saw there. It was not a remarkable face really, not what you’d expect of a monster. There was nothing to recognise in it. The angles and expanses of its planes were utterly average. It was a bland face, lifeless. A death mask. He realised then what it was he perceived. He saw his own absence. It appalled him. It was horrifying, truly monstrous. Stricken by grief, he placed the brutal mirror away from him and buried his head in his hands. What hope was there? Either he came fully back to himself and relived the countless murders he’d committed, or he stayed as this miserable, empty shell. What could he ever hope to offer someone like Kate, a being of light who would only be diminished by the shadows of his realm?

  A gentle sigh came from nearby and Saltar looked up startled. He had not heard anyone approach, and yet an old man in a grey, hooded cloak now sat across the fire from him. The newcomer had a large, snowy beard that suggested great age, but his spare face was surprisingly unlined, which made his expression hard to read. Somehow, the compass of his frame was hidden in the shadows of his cloak and the fire failed to illuminate the hollows around his eyes. Saltar tried looking askance as the old father but could catch no gleam of the fire reflecting from his eyes: he was either completely sightless or all-seeing. Perturbed, Saltar looked for any other sign by which to read this unexpected visitor and his gaze lit on his guest’s soft, delicate hands. This was either a great lord or a scholar unused to physical labour.

  ‘May I share your fire?’ rumbled the whitebeard in a mellow voice.

  ‘For the price of your name.’

  ‘That is no high price. Had you known who I am, you might have asked for more. I am Cognis, and you are known as Saltar. You have had other names, of course, but most are lost to you.’

  So this was Cognis, the god of knowledge and wisdom! Saltar bowed his head to show some measure of respect. ‘You are welcome here. Other than some simple food, I have little else to offer by way of gift or trade.'

  Cognis smiled humourlessly. ‘Indeed. Food is of little interest to me, and I possess all the knowledge that is, has been lost, and will be. I know you have nothing to offer me now. But in the future, if there is to be a future, you will gift me everything. I can predict and foresee all eventualities, but I cannot dictate which one comes about. It is a matter of balance, you see, for beings such as I.’

  Saltar felt a moment’s irritation at the riddles in which Cognis spoke, but managed to put it aside. Cognis was literally a know-it-all, and would always be of frustration to others. ‘What can you tell me that will help me then, holy Cognis? Why are you here?’

  ‘It is incredible that I have managed to come here at all, but for once Shakri and Lacrimos are in accord! Never has such a thing occurred, and it disturbs me greatly. However, they both bid me come to you, which permitted me to do so without upsetting the balance. Usually, I would not have the chance to speak to any mortal because of the consequences that would be put in motion, but given how things currently stand there might never be any consequences again. I find it all quite liberating, in a way.’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly call the apocalypse liberating,’ Saltar dared to presume. ‘But then, you know best.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I know a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I know that ignorance is bliss. But I also know that ignorance can be a torture beyond endurance. The latter is true for you. You do not know who you are but fear the knowledge of who you are. You are trapped quite prettily. But think on what I have just said, mortal, and tell me what it is that traps you.’

  ‘Is this a riddle?’

  ‘It is the nature of life, Saltar. If that is a riddle as most mortal philosophers insist, then yes I am asking you as riddle. At the same time, however, I have told you the answer. Question and answer are the same thing, you see. So give me your answer, which is the question I gave you.’

  ‘Not having the knowledge of who I am traps me,’ Saltar hazarded.

  Cognis’s face didn’t change, but he suddenly looked angry. ‘No! You have two more chances.’

  ‘Two more chances before what? What if I can’t find the answer?’

  ‘That is your second answer, your second chance gone. You have one more chance!’ Cognis shouted in rage, his spittle hissing in the fire.’

  Saltar suddenly realised this was a trial for his life. That was why Shakri and Lacrimos had sent Cognis! He racked his brains. The question was the same as the answer? He couldn’t remember what the question had been. He was suddenly terribly afraid. He didn’t dare speak. If he said the wrong thing, he would lose everything, and then the apocalypse would be assured. His self, all he knew, his life, all the realms and then gods hung on a mere few words. How could that be? Could he choose not to answer? No, for then there would have to be no question; there would be nothing but the void.

  He stared desperately at the darkness where Cognis’s eyes should be. He would find nothing in the holy seer’s face to tell him what he should say. Why did he have to do this now? He’d been sat harmlessly by the fire deep in contemplation. Was that a coincidence? Perhaps not, for he’d been torturing himself and had been at the edge of the abyss of abject despair. Hatred of self both known and unknown had been about to undo him. Was the answer hatred then? He wasn’t sure. Again, his voice failed him. If he were fully alive, he knew he’d be trembling violently right now, paralysed by fear, prostrate, inert, unable to rise and meet the challenge. Fear would lift its blade to slay him and he wouldn’t have the strength to stay its hand. It was fear that stood between him and that self-actualisation he knew that was required if he was ever to become fully resurrected.

  ‘F-fear!’ came his jittery whisper.

  The shadows within the hood of Cognis’s cloak deepened until nothing could be seen of his face. The figure loomed towards Saltar causing him to lean away reflexively. Cognis turned and walked away into the darkness. Sparks blew up from the fire and temporarily blinded Saltar. He knew the god would be totally lost from sight by
the time his vision cleared.

  ‘Did I answer correctly?’ he called, but already knew the answer to the question.

  He retrieved the discarded looking glass and peered into it again. His face was still there, but it no longer struck him as monstrous. And there was something about it that was no longer average, bland or missing. There was something whole about it.

  ***

  Saltar’s army crested a slight rise and looked out over the plains beneath the royal city of Corinus. It was a bright, crisp morning, like glass. It was all hard edges and sparkles, but could easily be shattered. Scudding clouds played tricks with the light and created unusual shadows and reflections in the lens of the eye.

  ‘The scouts were right then. They knew we were coming!’ the Scourge rasped.

  General Constantus nodded as Saltar’s command group surveyed the organised units of the Memnosian army at the foot of the mount on which the city stood. Horns blew faintly in the distance as the enemy mustered its formation.

  ‘What flags do you see?’ Saltar asked. ‘Strap, you have the best eyes.’

  ‘Oh, of course, I forget others don’t see as well as I do. The royal flag is the big one, white lightning on a black background. But I see no other evidence that the King is in the field. And beneath it is the smaller flag of a King’s hero – red fist on white.’

  ‘Vidius,’ Kate confirmed. ‘No doubt that coward Voltar is hiding in the bowels of his palace.’

  ‘Who is this Vidius?’ Captain Vallus queried.

  ‘He is one like Balthagar,’ the Scourge said without taking his eyes from the enemy. ‘Voltar has probably raised him time and again. He’ll have been waging war for countless generations. None should go near him in the fighting except Saltar, agreed?’

  They all nodded.

  Saltar asked: ‘Do we all know the strategy then if Voltar is not in the field? You each have your role.’ They turned to regard him with solemn, determined looks. ‘The dead will march forward in the centre. I will march in their third rank amongst the lieutenants. And Strap will be at my side to carry my banner and send up the signal at the right moment. Strap, may the gods guard you.’ The group nodded and the young Guardian flushed proudly. ‘The Scourge will lead a thousand mercenary cavalry on our right flank. You will ride down their archers should they give us trouble and harry their lines. Scourge, you alone champion mortal kind. You have prevented the gods from destroying both us and their own divinity. I bow to you.’ The group looked at the Scourge and bowed respectfully. The Scourge shrugged but did not frown. ‘Kate, my love, you will lead the other thousand on our left flank. You will mirror the Scourge and keep the entrances to the catacombs beneath the city clear. As the Scourge is defiant and righteous, so you are fearless and affecting.’ Saltar touched her on the shoulder and the rest of the group touched her on arms and wrists. Kate blinked hard to keep her eyes clear. ‘Constantus, you will hold sixty-nine mounted men with you behind the dead. You will escort Mordius while you wait for the signal from Strap. I put the care of my dearest friend in your care and thank you for it.’ Saltar shook the General’s hand and the rest of the group took their turn. The General wore a feral grin but his handshake was controlled. Mordius, who stood just behind the Accritanian, smiled bravely and bobbed his head. ‘Captain Vallus, you are foremost amongst us. You will guard Savantus with only twenty men, men who must hold to the last if we are to have any hope of holding this army and breaking into the home of the man who would usurp Shakri’s kingdom. I am humbled by the sacrifice you are prepared to make and embrace you as my chest would a beating heart.’ Saltar clasped the soldier to him and the rest hugged him in turn. Vallus accepted their approach but did not work hard to return it. He was preparing himself for the worst and screwing his courage to an untouchable place, a place free from threat or the risk of compromise. Savantus remained on a pallet nearby, unconscious because of the drugs the group had regularly administered to him. ‘Finally, all of you know what is at stake here – everything. My life, your lives, the lives of everyone you have known, the lives of those you have not known, the fabric of this place, the gods themselves, and hope. There is no doubt left, no fear, no hesitation. We give our all, for there is nothing else. Should we fail, then we know we do so having strained, fought and gloried in what we are. We have been all we can be and we die without regret or sadness. We have worked and striven side by side with the gods. They have looked to us for salvation as much as we have to them. We have a place, for this moment, amongst the gods themselves. We take it with pride, but not with arrogance. We take it with joy, but not with abandon. We take it with will, and snarl, and tooth, and nail and sinew, blood and pain, and suffering and remorselessness; and never with sadness, nor tear, nor defeat. Death is no defeat, for it stands shoulder to shoulder with us and finally defends what we are, were and can be! Now go to your commands and forge them into the weapons of man! I honour you all. I will see you soon, in the heat of battle and the furore of hell.’

  The command group went their separate ways with purpose and fire, all except the Scourge, who lingered to something meant for Saltar alone. ‘A fine speech, Battle-leader,’ he said, no cynicism obvious in his tone for once. ‘It had words to move the spirit, bolster the timid and inspire the tired. They were not thoughts and words I’d ever thought to hear from an animee. It shows I have misjudged both you and Mordius. I am sorry for that and would tell you that I am proud to know you.’

  ‘Thank you, Guardian. That means a great deal me. I hope to see you on the other side.’

  The Scourge nodded, nothing left to say. He saluted and then turned smartly on his heel. Saltar watched the Scourge stalk away and tried what he felt about this angry but principled man. Defeated by it, he waited for the command group to find their positions and signal their readiness. Then Saltar shouted ‘Forward!’ to his lieutenants. The dead took their first shambling steps towards the apocalypse and the final judgement.

  Their advance was uncoordinated and slow at first, and the cavalry on the flanks had to rain back slightly to ensure they did not get too far ahead. The unheeding dead continually bumped into each other and trod the unwary underfoot. The front rank began to disintegrate, all semblance of a line disappearing. Should I slow the advance of the second and third ranks, Saltar wondered. He decided against it, knowing the decimated front rank could not afford to reach the enemy without others directly behind them.

  He trod on the hand of a woman struggling to rise out of the mud and prayed he would not be one of those who lost their footing and became churned to pieces under the merciless feet of the silent host. Besides, given the numbers of the dead at his command, he might lose half their number in the advance and still retain an army as daunting and legion as any in the history of the kingdoms.

  Their pace began to increase and he tightened his grip on his staff in anticipation. Old reflexes and instincts began to crowd his thoughts with visions and rehearsals of how he would begin to kill those around him. The staff was his weapon of choice when he had room to manoeuvre. If things were too crowded, he would instead use the short stabbing swords strapped to each of his hips. He’d been given the swords by two of Constantus’s men. The significance of their gift had not been lost on him: they had placed their lives in his hands, sacrificing their own personal defence to aid him. Constantus had watched them hand over the blades with a fierce and paternal pride that was etched so deeply into his face that Saltar fancied that echoes of the expression would be forever glimpsed in his face.

  Saltar had been surprised when Mordius had then approached his with a breastplate to complement the swords. The necromancer had not been able to vocalise anything as he’d proffered the heavy piece of metal, but his eyes had spoken volumes: they’d looked at the spot hidden beneath Saltar’s jacket where the spear wound still gaped. His chest began to itch as he thought about it, but he knew it was more psychological than real. Mutely, Mordius had helped Saltar buckle on the armour and then gently stroked the animee�
��s face.

  ‘I am sorry that I have brought you to this,’ Mordius’s eyes said.

  ‘Be not afraid, Mordius, for yourself or me. This moment is no more than a description of who we are, how we feel and what we believe. None of us need apologise for that.’

  The small man had nodded, looked ashamed for a moment, frowned bravely and then crept away to the sixty-nine detailed to be his personal guard and conveyance.

  The staff creaked under the strength of Saltar’s grip and he had to make a conscious effort to loosen the curl of his fingers.

  He looked out over the field, the lines of humanity’s dead disappearing to either horizon like spoilt fields of wheat that were no longer worth the harvesting. When he’d picked up his weapon and ordered the advance, his vision had not made its usual shift and he had not felt transported, for the realms of Shakri and Lacrimos had now become one and the same. The living and the dead now occupied the same place and there was little to tell between them. The only difference was the noise made by the living, their murmur of fear, of prayers offered up, of angry oaths and promises, of words of friendship and parting, sounds that were destined to become cries of pain, wails of despair and pleas of mercy. By contrast, the dead were represented by a grave-like absence of sound. They spread across the plain like a weeping blight or bruise. No one could fail to be terrified by their approach.

  Flames flickered at the edges of Saltar’s vision, and he knew they were more than simply imagined. The realms of the gods were gradually being consumed. If he were capable of tears, he suspected he’d be crying fire that destroyed all in its path and could not be extinguished. Where had he heard it said that a god’s single tear could destroy whole worlds and threatened the very cosmos? He shrugged to himself and checked that his living pole star was still there, the unmoving body in the heavens that would keep him oriented and his feet on the ground, Young Strap, his bannerman. Saltar was relieved that he could still recognise him, that the blindness of the berserker had not yet afflicted him so that friend and foe became one and he indiscriminately began to kill anything within his reach. As long as he could keep his bannerman in his mind’s eye, and his bannerman protected his back, then Saltar would not lose possession of himself and his slim chance of life. It was all important that he kept possession of whatever he could if he was ever to possess his own life and keep something of this realm intact. Self-possession was all. Being Saltar, the man who loved Kate and would die for her, was all.