Arcane

by Nathan Shumate

  “And what of the privy? Or, rather, the lack thereof.”

  “You said you were fine with the chamber pot.”

  “I was fine with the chamber pot when I only visited occasionally. To live here full time having to use a chamber pot is… untenable.”

  “Armand, you currently spend as much time here as you do at your own home. More, even. I do not see that it will be a drastic change for you. And even then, we can have a privy added on.”

  “There are your visitors.”

  “My visitors?”

  “At least once a month you have some scoundrel trying to break in or some knight on a quest seeking to slay the scary undead woman.”

  “And they never make it far. You’ve said yourself you enjoy watching them die.”

  “That does not reassure me. Plus, there’s the space constraints,” he said, trying to ignore her counterarguments. “My manor is full to bursting with my equipment and library. They would not fit here.”

  “We could remove duplicate items…”

  Armand gasped and clutched a meaty hand to his chest. “I have spent many years assembling these tomes and supplies! To simply cast them away—”

  “What is your real fear?”

  “I do not know what you—”

  She placed a skeletal finger on his lips and shushed him. The earthy smell of her desiccated flesh, barely detectable over the smell of the chemicals in her laboratory, filled his nose and caused his heart to pound in his chest.

  “I love you and want to have you closer.”

  Armand’s mouth gaped open. She had not mentioned love prior to this. He could feel all of his delicate organs seeking to pull up into his body cavity.

  “Ah. Here we have the crux of the matter,” she said. Armand started to stammer as he formed a response, but she cut him off. “This is not the first time I have run afoul of this. What you need is time to decide how you feel about it. And us.”

  Armand silently berated himself. He could not understand why he hesitated. It made sense for them to share a dwelling. They could pool resources, collaborate on research, share knowledge and, best of all, spend more intimate time together. And yet here he stood, as stammering and bashful as he had been when he was twelve and saw his first dead woman. The memory of that pale flesh roused his passions, but he shook his head to clear his mind. He needed focus.

  “You are right, Lucy,” he said, hoping his discomfort didn’t show. He focused on the empty sockets of her eyes. He could stare for hours into those eyes. “It is best that we not rush into these things.”

  She cupped his jowly cheek with a bony hand and he leaned into it. Armand reached forward and pulled her towards him, her bare ribs pressing through her robes and into his hands. He nuzzled the dried tendons of her neck.

  “Shall we sleep on it?” she whispered into his ear. No breath reached his flesh with her words.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  ***

  His eyes burned from exhaustion as he stumbled into the public house. In the days since his conversation with Lucinda, Armand had been unable to sleep. The loss of several degrees of independence terrified him.

  This brought him to the local tavern, seeking the man who could best advise him. The necromancer’s collection of peers, grave robbers, alchemists and undead minions would be of no assistance in matters of love.

  He hauled his bulk onto the barstool, gasping for breath after his hurried walk across the town. Behind the bar, the barkeep shelved tankards. When the man didn’t respond to Armand’s presence, the necromancer cleared his throat.

  The bartender glanced over his shoulder in annoyance. His eyes focused on Armand and widened in recognition. He spun around and pulled back against the shelves. The tankards rattled.

  Armand gave a small wave.

  “C-can I help ya?” the bartender asked.

  “I find myself in need of your services.”

  “So… you want a beer…?”

  “No, good sir, I seek your advice.” Armand drummed his fingers together in agitation. He already regretted this choice.

  “My advice?” The bartender relaxed a little. “Aren’t you the fella that sits in the corner and meets with all those weaselly types?”

  Armand bit the inside of his cheek and stared hard at the man. The necromancer used this tavern to meet with the graverobbers who provided his materials. He should have picked a different tavern for this mission.

  “I do tend to sit in yonder corner and meet with business associates. I am certain that the spurious accusations by the mayor are false. But this is unrelated to the matter at hand.”

  “What can I do ya for, then?”

  “I am given to understand that you are a common point of contact for the local citizenry in matters of love.”

  The bartender stared at Armand before comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Oh, ya mean ya got lady troubles?”

  Armand could feel the muscles in his face collapse as his will to continue this conversation evaporated. A part of him noticed how quiet it was in the establishment, but he could not detect anyone out of the corner of his eyes eavesdropping on him.

  “Most fellas are just lookin’ for someone to open up to,” the bartender continued. “So I just mostly listen and ask a couple questions. They usually figure it out on their ow— Wait a second. Are you saying ya have a lady friend?” The man’s face turned green as he said that.

  The necromancer clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, regarding the gap-toothed, sour-smelling heathen before him. Armand had had quite enough of this.

  “I beg your pardon. Perhaps we should just part ways here.” He dropped from his seat and turned towards the door. As he did so it registered that he was the only patron. “Isn’t it usually busier this time of day?”

  “Yup. But a bunch of them knights with the church—”

  “The Templars?”

  “Yeah, them folk. They came in saying they were looking to hire warm bodies to help in some siege outside of town.”

  Armand’s pulse pounded in his ears. There was only one threat nearby that would draw the church, so he knew the answer to his next question. “To whom are they laying siege?”

  “That dead witch that lives in the tower. The Witch Queen or Bitch Queen or whatever they call her.”

  “The tower that lies five miles out of town, left at the tree struck by lightning, across the dry creek bed and right past the abandoned mill?”

  “I guess so? Sounds right. I didn’t ask for directions.”

  The necromancer rushed through the door as quickly as his fat legs would carry him.

  ***

  His existence had become one of sweat: drops of it streamed down his back and into the nether portions of his body. The sweat caused the rolls of his fat to cling to one another. The smell of his perspiration might have overwhelmed him, but the stench of military latrines overwhelmed his ability to detect it.

  On leaving the tavern, Armand had used his magic to contact Lucinda and ask about the siege. She confirmed it was happening, but did not seem concerned. She was ancient and had faced threats like this before. He had only heard a few of her contingency plans in the past, but he had the sense that there was no end to her scheming. He found that irresistible.

  Lucinda had assured him that she didn’t need his help and that she would prefer it if he spent his time considering her proposition. She repeated that assurance the next five times he contacted her.

  “At worst,” she had said, “this form would be destroyed. But I’ve safely hidden my soul in a phylactery. I may lose some things, but I will live to fight again.”

  He decided to take her at her word and let her handle this herself. But after ten minutes of pacing and letting his imagination run wild with all the things that could go wrong, he contacted her and said, “I am coming regardless.”

  His skeletal servants had loaded up his traveling armory into his cart: chests filled with animated skeletons, bottles clouded with b
ound specters, vials of alchemical concoctions. He rode out to face the armies in the name of love.

  And now he sat stewing in his own sweat. He shifted to loosen up the clothes that clung to his perspiration-soaked flesh.

  His eyes were blind to the area around him, instead seeing the world through a flickering construct of shadow and ectoplasm he had conjured and sent flying over the encampments.

  The Templars surrounded Lucinda’s tower. Through his construct, Armand saw the play of arcane energy pooling and rippling through the area. The soothing violet of the Lich Queen’s necromantic workings surrounded the tower in a maelstrom of energy. The baleful white of the army’s channeled prayers circled the tower like a noose. Unable to starve her out, Armand suspected that the Templars were trying to wear away at her energy. With effort the necromancer could identify the meditating monks that anchored the prayers, their seated forms obscured by the aura of power. Surrounding each of the monks was a vanguard of Templars, swords drawn.

  In the border lands between the dark and the light, Armand saw the shattered remains of the undead. Their unnatural life had been blasted from them by the priestly magic. The necromancer felt impotent looking upon the sight. All of his usual preparations would disintegrate under the onslaught of those prayers.

  A finger poked Armand in the side. The necromancer cried out, his heart pounding, as he reached back for a bottled specter and released the visual connection to his construct.

  In the direction from which the finger-poking had come, a scrawny and filthy rat of a man backpedaled away from the cart, his face pale and his eyes wide with terror. Armand recognized him as Jean, one of the grave robbers that provided the necromancer with raw materials.

  Armand gasped for breath and clutched at his chest. “You, sir, should not sneak up on a man like that.”

  “Sorry! I just figured I could be friendly since I saw you and all.”

  “And what, pray tell, are you doing out at this horrible daytime hour?” The necromancer leaned down to return the bottle back to its crate.

  “Oh, I’m working for the Templars.”

  Armand froze, his hand still on the bottle.

  “Really. And what manner of work are you engaged in on their behalf?”

  “Diggin’,” Jean said, staring at the bottle that Armand held. “Mostly. I’m no good in a fight. So they got me carryin’ stuff, hammering at some walls, and diggin’ a lot.”

  Armand did not respond.

  “You ain’t gonna throw that spook bottle at me, are you?”

  The necromancer stared at Jean through narrowed eyelids. He didn’t trust the man farther than he could throw him. That in itself was not very far, as Armand was not a physical man. But if he could turn this situation to his advantage it may be worth the risk.

  “I can refrain from killing you outright if you can direct me towards any graveyards that are nearby.”

  ***

  Armand began a widdershins circuit through the tall grass, tossing powdered herbs and reagents to either side of himself as he chanted in the chilling language of the ancient dead. Each word sent a refreshing surge of grave-cold energy coursing through him, pushing back the sweltering heat. His flesh itched from the drying sweat.

  The curve of his walk brought the rubble of the former church back into view. This wasn’t an ideal venue for his work. The dead here were long buried and he would be lucky to have any complete skeleton. Outright cadavers were all but impossible. But, Armand reasoned, at least the land was no longer consecrated.

  His circle drew opposite his starting point and he could see the earth beginning to churn, the loamy smell of fertile soil thick in his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose, but continued chanting. He hated the smell of the outdoors.

  Like corks bobbing to the surface, bones boiled up through the ground and assembled themselves into mostly human forms.

  Armand reached his starting point and shifted to the left, turning his circle into a spiral, continuing to chant and scatter his ingredients onto the field.

  For hours he continued his work and a growing army of the dead built up around him. The cloying smell of the earth was replaced with the moist and moldering smell of rotting bone.

  While talking to Jean, Armand realized that an army of the dead would be useless in a direct assault against the Templars, but it could lure them away from their encampment. Several villages lay nearby, and marauding bands of skeletons were certain to draw off some of the religious army and weaken their siege against Lucinda.

  He reached the center of his circle and stopped walking before ending his chant, tying off the webs of dark power and sealing the enchantments into the bones. The sun lay low in the west, casting long shadows from his skeletal force. More than a hundred pairs of empty sockets and shattered skulls looked towards him, awaiting his command.

  Armand leaned against the nearest one and took a deep breath. The skeleton lacked key parts and its bones floated in rough approximation of where they should be. But it was still strong enough to support his weight. He wondered if he would have time to go back to sleep in his own bed, or if he would need to rough it in the back of his wagon and wage war against mosquitoes all night.

  The pounding of hooves caught Armand’s attention. He looked off towards the sound and saw mounted soldiers round the curve in the road and head in his direction. The warriors were clad in the gold and white colors of the church. The necromancer’s mouth worked for a few seconds, words failing to form. Finally, he mustered enough will to command his servants.

  “Attack them, my minions! Protect me from harm!” As one, the skeletons turned towards the approaching force and shambled forward. They stretched their bony hands outward in preparation for attack while Armand ran in the opposite direction towards his wagon.

  He only made it a few steps before he began breathing hard, sweat pouring down his flabby flesh. In another few steps, the air burned in his lungs and aches began to spread through his abdomen, but adrenaline pushed him on.

  His foot slipped on something uneven and twisted hard. Pain exploded from his left ankle and he fell. He stretched out a hand in an attempt to break his fall. His palm scraped across the grass; his wrist and elbow screamed out as they bore the force of his fall.

  He glanced back in terror. He could make out the Templars through the bones of his army. His foot looked uninjured, but he soon spotted the culprit: the nub of a gravestone on which he had caught and twisted his ankle.

  Armand scrambled to get his feet under him and nearly fell again. His ankle did not want to support his weight, and only terror kept him from collapsing and crying. He was certain it was just a sprain, but that did not make it hurt any less.

  He reached his cart and pulled himself up into it, only to find his motion halted. The necromancer looked back to see an angry Templar clutching the back of Armand’s shirt with a mailed fist. A squeal escaped his lips. Armand locked his fingers around the bench at the front of his cart and held on for dear life while the warrior sought to pull him down. His breath wheezed in his throat.

  His fingers weakened and his grip slid down the bench. Desperate, he flailed out and grabbed hold of one of his bottles. With a desperate and blind throw he tossed it back at the Templar. The glass shattered harmlessly on the Templar’s helmet, but the specter that blossomed out surrounded the man’s head. The Templar fell to the ground, screaming and swatting at the misty shadow that held onto him.

  Armand pulled himself up into the cart again before turning to look out at the conflict. Half of his skeletons had been destroyed and the rest did not look like they would last long, which meant the necromancer needed something more to keep the Templars distracted.

  He threw more bottles in the direction of the conflict, each bursting when they hit the ground and releasing a shadowy figure that began to prowl the field for souls to devour. Then he threw open his chests and set loose his elite skeletons: lacquered, warded and blessed with an animal cunning. The constructs unfolded themselves
from the chests, lifted up their swords and ran forward to meet the enemy.

  Armand scanned the contents of his cart to see if there was anything he was missing. Ah, yes. The vials. He had brought a few dozen, with several different varieties represented. He lacked the time to be selective. Instead he opened the carrying case, pulled out a handful and threw them out into the field.

  The vials exploded on impact, their arcane effects mingling and spiraling out of control. The horses at the front of the cart whinnied and bolted forward. Armand lost his balance and fell into the bed of his cart rolling back until he almost fell out. He grabbed onto the side and prayed to whatever powers look out for the likes of him that he not fall.

  The dark gods that might show concern over the fate of Armand ignored his pleas. He fell off the cart and into blackness.

  ***

  Pain throbbed through Armand’s head. Even lying down he thought he might fall over from waves of dizziness. His chest burned, making it difficult to breathe.

  Someone shoved him.

  “Beloved, I am not feeling well,” he said. “I just need a few more minutes of sleep.”

  A hand slapped him, bringing him closer to consciousness. He realized that his hands were bound together.

  “Really, Lucy, I’m not in the mood for such games right now. You can leave me tied up, but please let me sleep a bit more.”

  A man’s voice growled, “Wake up, you simpering cur.”

  Armand opened an eye and saw the blurry image of a Templar standing over him. He closed his eyes and winced.

  “You, sir,” the necromancer said, “are not my beloved Lucinda.”

  “All that dark education has served you well for you to be so observant, wizard.”

  “Sir, I am far too tired and ill to maintain civility and decorum at this juncture. And so my answer to you must be simply: Fuck off.”

  Someone kicked him in the ribs and a new man’s voice said, “You will show the proper respect to Lord Commander Marcellus.”

  “My most humble apologies,” Armand mumbled. “Fuck off, Lord Commander.”