The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  At first, the Empire repulsed these attacks easily. They continued to take in children of the barbarians, hoping to forge some sort of lasting peace and understanding. In effect, the old man realized later, they had contaminated the external cultures with ideas of hope, science and art when they were not developed enough to appreciate them. The more the Empire shared with the externals, the wider the gulf between them appeared.

  In this period of border skirmishes and barbarian unrest, some of the children of the tribes were invited to witness the might of the Empire. They were allowed, for the first time, to attend schools where centuries had been dedicated to the theories and practicalities of war. Sons and daughters of some tribes were allowed to take the field with Imperial troops against the disorganized mobs of other tribes. It was believed that this would secure ties with the Empire while encouraging distrust among the externals. It had been hoped that, faced with the overwhelming might of Empire, having watched the application of martial theory and practice, these children of barbarians would return home as unwitting agents of the Empire, cowed into convincing their peoples that the Empire was Eternal, Immortal, Unassailable.

  The children did return home, and they did recount tales of the power and might of the Empire. In their recounting, however, the children came to realize that, if they did not challenge the power of the Empire themselves, they would be cast down and slaughtered by rivals in their own clans. Those same rivals would lead their peoples against the Empire to the point of extinction.

  One son in particular had achieved this realization with a great clarity. Adopting and adapting what he had learned in the Empire, Mushel Thun forged his own tribal warriors into a contemporary army under the banner of their war god, Nekatethesis. Negotiating with acquaintances in the Empire, he bought steel to forge weapons for his own people. His Imperial contacts, more interested in lining their strong rooms with gold than what their “friend” intended to do with the steel, were happy to sell to him.

  At first, Mushel turned his tribe against his neighbors in what he called a “holy war.” Elements inside the Empire were delighted at the discord he was causing. Their delight, however, was short lived. The young chieftain overcame and assimilated tribe after tribe. Within ten years, he had built up a significant power base. Within those ten years, he had also developed his own sense of power. Elevated by victory after victory, the conquered tribes began to see him as something more than human. Some even went so far as to declare Mushel a god, himself. Intoxicated with his own power, Mushel began to demand tribute from the Empire.

  The Empire had neglected its forces on the Eastern Frontier. Mushel’s campaigns had created a decade of peace on that border, and the armies of the eastern Empire had become lax, even indolent. The Empire offered Mushel tribute, realizing it was no longer in a position to defend itself against him. Though they began to strengthen their defenses, the tribute to Mushel had elevated him further, both in his own mind, and in the minds of his peoples. Tales of the riches of the Empire, of the treasures of material and technology inflamed his people, accustomed to a decade of victory and looting. Mushel, himself, demanded more—and more outrageous—tributes from the Empire. Secretly, he hoped to force them into battle. The Empire, however, continued to pay, reinforcing the beliefs of Mushel and his army that the Empire was weak.

  Finally, Mushel attacked. His raids were tentative at first, testing the defense and resolve of the Empire. Meeting little to no resistance, his forces made a major thrust across the border, crushing everything in sight. Murder, looting, assault, and pillage followed in his smoking footsteps. Vital crops were seized by his army to feed their depredations into the Empire. Granaries once covered in artwork, crumbled into smoking, charred ruins. Citizens of the Empire, those who were fit to work, or pleasing to the eye, were taken into captivity. Others, the old or infirm, the weak or disfigured, were slaughtered wholesale.

  Though it had taken time, time for the Empire to awaken, and time for its forces to be transported from other areas, Mushel’s advance was eventually stopped. Infuriated by the destruction they had seen, the armies of the Empire fought like none Mushel and his bandits had faced. Mushel himself fell as his forces scrambled to retreat. It was said that Nekatethesis had abandoned Mushel, angered by his apostasy. The loss of their seemingly invincible leader turned the retreat into a rout, and the Empire restored order once again to the eastern border.

  The damage, however, was done. Crops which had been vital to feeding the vast Empire were lost, and with them the very citizens who had tended them. The weakening of defenses on other borders, which had allowed the Empire to repel Mushel, encouraged others to attack those fronts. Like a stricken beast, the Empire struggled to keep the agents of her demise at bay. As the years passed, the mighty roar became a wracking cough. The armies of the Eastern tribes, reformed and organized under a stream of new leaders, returned to challenge the very existence of the Empire.

  The Emperor, Doloroth XVI, realized the gravity of the situation. Ordering the preparation of special vaults of knowledge and materiel, Doloroth commanded certain of his agents to hide themselves from the coming storm. The old man clearly remembered stoically accepting his orders from the Emperor as tears rolled down both their cheeks. Doloroth, once a strong and vibrant man, had become gaunt and sickly, seeming to reflect the ills of the Empire itself. The Emperor had been close to the old mage, who had been his tutor in youth. The Necromancer remembered the warm touch of Doloroth’s hand on his shoulder, and his firm grip as they shook hands for the last time. He did not know how many others had received similar orders from their Emperor, and it did not matter. He would not let his Emperor, or their Empire, down.

  His power, he had been told, would not be sufficient to bolster their current military situation. Their reserves, who’d been training with less and less time before taking the field, were beginning to fall back before multiple waves of advancing invaders. Nothing could save the life of the Empire now. It would fall to those who hungered for its luxuries, but were unwilling to make the sacrifices necessary to appreciate and create them. The Empire, however, had never been afraid of sacrifice, and now, he was told, he was being asked to make sure that their ultimate sacrifice would not be in vain.

  For seven hundred years, the old man, the old mage had sequestered himself, waiting for the right time to emerge. He had never really known what would be the signal to return, but he had spent centuries developing strategies for the moment it came. Poson, he realized, had been the signal. This event, this Harvest, had been his master strategy. With this army, unfeeling and unafraid, the ultimate children of the very people who had slaughtered his way of life, he would retake the lands of the Empire. He would reclaim the power of that Empire and ensure that the sacrifice of over two and a half thousand years of culture, art, society and history had not been in vain. He was now their hope, their last remaining hope, and he would resurrect that Empire with the same force he had reanimated in the fields surrounding Æostemark. This he had sworn, and this he would do.

  He relaxed in a chair, feeling the pain of his bones subsiding and looking at his sketch of a city long fallen. After so many centuries, after so many sacrifices, he was finally on his way. No longer in hiding, no longer a mage, not even, really, an old man, he was now “the Necromancer,” leading nightmare forces in an effort to rebuild a dream. He let his thoughts drift back to Doloroth, feeling again the warm hand on his shoulder, feeling the guilt at abandoning his friend and their people to sacrifice, and finally, feeling hope that his efforts would be rewarded in Empire and vanishing guilt. His head began to nod, just as the captain’s had, and he drifted off into sleep.

  Two and a half days after the ceremony had begun, the Necromancer pushed out his searching thoughts once more. His Harvest was complete. All of his wakened dead had crawled, shambled, or shuffled their way to assemble near Æostemark. The living were once again beginning to enter the lands of the Harvest. The living, however, were not his concern�
�yet. There was still much work to do before his legions would be ready to rebuild Empire.

  The dead that could walk were ordered into rank and file. Those showing too much damage, those that crawled because they had no other mechanical means of choice, were heaped into wagons and ox-carts that had once belonged to the living. Limbless torsos were tossed on top of those with shattered legs or missing feet. They shifted and writhed against each other, rattling like a perpetually collapsing cabinet.

  Just after noon, the march east began. It was more of a funeral procession than any sort of military parade. Dust and ashes kicked up in the wake of the columns added their haze to the cloud-darkened, midday sky. Rain began to fall thickly before the march was an hour old. The approaching storm advanced slowly into the west. The water fell in opaque sheets, slashing at the air and striking the ground with a vengeance. Visibility was cut dramatically by the rain. It was as if Nature had covered the abominable column with a cold, dark shroud of lashing rain and concealing clouds.

  Among the living in the column, speculation arose that the Necromancer had called upon his powers to give their march cover. They spoke of him in awed and silent voices, casting fearful glances at his wagon. Troseth, also, believed the rain had come from his Master. He, however, kept his eyes away from the wagon, afraid to even think of the old man, lest his thoughts somehow betray his hatred and earn him even greater pain.

  The Necromancer had not called down the sky-blackening rain. He appreciated it none-the-less, as it provided an excellent curtain for his army to march behind. There were living souls moving about the land again, soon to find open—and empty—graves. Some of them might even think to investigate. Those who did would be cautious even on a clear day. In this threatening rain, they would slow to a crawl, searching for signs and portents. He, on the other hand, could move with confidence, and soon, his passing would be the stuff of myth and legend—a ghost story told in taverns. Even the evidence of the disrupted graves would begin to fade after the rain had muddied the ground.

  Leaning back in his chair, the old man listened to the rain. It did not lull him to rest, but set his mind to musing. The water lashed at his wagon, sounding like the claws of a hundred minor demons eager to get in and devour his very soul. Their clawing was frustrated, but continuous, as if they knew they could get in, but only with time. Their frustration, he thought, stemmed from that time. They didn’t want to wait to get at him. They wanted him now. Patience, he thought, as his wagon continued to roll to the east, patience…

  Chapter 7 – Rising

  Drothspar woke slowly. It seemed as if the weight of the world pressed down upon his mind, blanketing it, smothering it, trying to keep him from waking. He listened for the voice that had called out to him. It had promised life and purpose and then… vanished. At least he thought it had. Or was it just a dream?

  He struggled to move his body, but it didn’t respond. He felt as if he had been covered in molten lead, a dire liquid density pushing down upon his limbs. Still partly asleep, he reasoned. He focused on his slumber, trying to remember his dreams.

  But there were no dreams…

  Were there?

  His memory touched on a profound blackness. No sound. No light. No beginning, no end. He had woken up from… nothing. There had been only blackness, an eternal black wall.

  It couldn’t have been drink. He hadn’t had a real drink in years—more years than he could remember. If it hadn’t been drink…? His mind struggled with the thoughts, yet there was no urgency to the struggle. He had no sense of time. He felt almost, but not quite, lucid.

  If it hadn’t been drink, it must have been…

  Fever, Drothspar thought to himself, it has to be fever. He felt the weight of his body pressing him down. He was tired, so tired. He tried to concentrate. He was lying down, he was sure of it. Wasn’t he? The more he thought about it, the more he was certain he could feel his body.

  He tried to move his left arm and felt it slide forward, haltingly, as if breaking free of an oppressive weight. He tried to move his right arm and it, too, responded. He experimented with his legs, and they also began to move. He kept his arms and legs moving, afraid to lose his physical link to consciousness. He tried to lift his head, but the effort was too great. He could not see or hear anything, so he simply continued to move. He was crawling, he was almost certain. Why was he doing that? Where was he going?

  His sense of time had not returned when the first sound intruded itself upon him. Every time he moved, he heard a strange clatter, like metal on wood. He stopped moving and the sound stopped. The silence was frightening. He needed to keep moving, needed to hear that sound, any sound. He began to crawl and heard the rattle once more. He was dragging something with him. He wasn’t sure what it could be. It didn’t really matter, so long as he could hear it.

  He continued crawling, and the sound of the rattling became more clear. Other sounds came to him as well. There was a breeze. He could hear it in what he thought was the dry shuffling of leaves. His mind grasped on to that sound. He was near trees! Why was he near trees?

  He could hear his body dragging along the ground, causing the occasional dry crackle. It sounded like… dead leaves, fallen leaves. Something in his mind told him that more than a few days had passed. He wasn’t sure how long and he couldn’t put it all together. The one thing that seemed certain was that the more he moved, the more things came back to him. He held on to that thought and kept crawling.

  He crawled until he eventually struck something solid. Reaching out with his hands, he touched either side of the object and felt around it. He couldn’t quite feel as well as he thought he should, but he could discern ridges on the surface. Its size and shape suggested the trunk of a tree. He tried to lift his head and managed to tilt it back slightly with the aid of his hands. A hazy darkness hovered before him. He thought that he could perceive a deeper darkness where his hands had found the tree. It wasn’t much, he admitted to himself, but it was the first thing like sight that had come to him.

  He pulled at the ground with a renewed vigor. If he just pulled hard enough or far enough it would all come back to him. He crawled on and listened to the rattle of his movements. Occasionally, he’d hit a tree and lift his head to view the majesty of its blur. He’d then work his way around it and continue.

  He had no idea of how far he’d come or how long he had been crawling when he first noticed a scent in the air. It was the scent of dirt. He could smell the soil through which he crawled! It was a dark scent and somewhat moist. And there, he thought, wasn’t that the scent of fallen leaves, dry and musty, mixed with the dirt?

  The scent of the soil tugged at a memory somewhere deep in his mind, but he shuddered away from it. The memory didn’t seem like a good one. He couldn’t focus on the memory anyway, as if it didn’t want to be found. That bothered him for a moment, and then he let it go. He soaked up the scents around him, sensing them constantly, which seemed different. He knew that was somehow strange, but, like the memory, he let it pass. He was doing too well to let worries slow him down. He had to keep going.

  He began to feel moisture in the ground as he moved with his hands, and the difference between dirt and rock. He could feel his fingers bite deep into the soil to gain purchase. Aside from sight, his senses seemed to be clearing.

  Even his mind functioned more clearly. He thought about what his senses were telling him, and they told him that he had woken up in the forest. As he continued to crawl, however, he realized that it had been some time since he’d struck a tree. He wasn’t sure how much time, but he was certain it had been a while. The scent of dry leaves and loam had faded. The ground no longer crackled at his passage.

  He was out of the forest. The smell of grass grew around him as he crawled. He felt like he was moving faster. Partly, he thought, it was due to his returning strength, but as he focused on what he felt, he noticed that the ground was uneven beneath the grass. There were little mounds or furrows that provided his hands
something to grasp and his feet something to push against. As he moved over the uneven terrain, his mind put together the image of a long fallow field.

  He thought of a farm, and then of honey. He’d been heading to the Ferns’ farm for honey! He had no idea which field the Ferns had left fallow, but he reasoned that if he had left the forest to find one of their fields, then the farm itself couldn’t be far.

  Lifting his head, he tried to perceive where the farm buildings might be, but nothing stood out to him. He lowered his head without his hands. His neck was getting stronger. The effort hadn’t been wasted, he thought, and continued to move.

  Eventually, he felt himself push off of the last fallow furrow. He was once again on even ground, and he wondered what he would find next. He tried to recall the layout of the Ferns’ farm as he crawled, wondering if someone would find him slithering across their fields like a blind snake.

  His musings were interrupted when he struck his head on something solid. He thought he’d hit it pretty hard, but it hadn’t hurt at all. He didn’t bother to complain about the missing pain and, instead, reached out his hands to feel for a tree trunk. His hands came very close together before they found the object. It was round, though smaller than the trees of the forest. It had no ridges of bark, but was almost smooth. He raised his hands up the surface until they struck an object on either side. These were hard, but not round, more squared-off or rectangular. They entered the round shaft on one side and exited on the other. Their joining formed a strange, short cross.