by Evren, S. K.
It was the prayer that Troseth found the most unsettling. Even in the darkest moments of his torments, he had never turned to the Maker that had betrayed him. His men, riders for whom eternal punishment was both a casual joke and a foregone conclusion, prayed with the sincerity of school children. He had seen piety in the noble armies of Marynd, he had even prayed with his Maryndian men before his betrayal. He had never seen these cutthroats appeal to any God before Æostemark. This, more than any other behavior, made Troseth nervous. Could he be so wrong? Could they possibly be right? Would any God listen to men such as these?
No, he told himself. If there had been a Higher Power, if any sort of Divine Justice had existed, how could his life have gone so terribly wrong? If there had ever been such a thing, he reasoned, it had abandoned humanity centuries before. Religion was a myth used to control the minds of the weak. He would never fall under its deceptive spell again.
The Necromancer’s wagon lumbered on toward the north. Everything had gone according to his design. He watched the oil lanterns swaying on their chains and listened as the wagon’s wheels crunched down over rocks in the road. It was a good sound. His army, he smiled to himself, would drive in similar fashion over the uneducated barbarians that had torn his Empire asunder. Their very bones would shatter and crack as he rolled over them to rebuild what they had destroyed.
He had watched the dead in the minor skirmishes fought against inferior foes. With jealous determination, they had swarmed over their living enemies. It was fascinating, he thought, that they were so consumed with hatred for the living. He had animated corpses before, on smaller scales, but all of those creatures had served with mindless obedience, little more than organic automata. The spells that animated these dead, this new army, should have given them simple instructions that they were bound to follow. Creating more advanced undead would require greater focus and power than simple re-animation. Such efforts weren’t really necessary for common soldiers.
The army, to his great pleasure, had performed beyond all expectations. Not only did they attack on command, but some of their number were absolutely driven with hatred. He had seen, on several occasions, the living attempt to hide from the horde. The majority of the dead stood in place when their last visible foe had been slaughtered. They returned to a neutral stance to await new orders. A fascinating minority, however, had continued to hunt. No matter where the living took refuge, this fanatic minority found them, dragged them from their shelter, and tore them to quivering pieces.
He would have to study this phenomenon! It was uncanny, to be sure. If these fanatic corpses retained some measure of intellect, then the ancient spell he had used to bind and animate them had reached beyond what he had imagined possible! He had always intended to draw officers for his army from the very core itself. He had planned to determine the greatness of the soul bound to his service, and, if it were of sufficient quality, it would undergo a ritual to free part of its mind, enhance its power and senses, and become something greater than it had ever been in life. He would still retain control over such creatures, of course. Power was power, after all. It would never do to have such creatures go rogue. Power, if it were to be used properly, had to be focused, controlled by conscious thought. He would be that control. His power, and the power of his mighty army, would be focused on one goal, the result of which would be Empire.
He would need to seek out these desirable aberrations, sorting them from the mindless drones that made up the vast majority of his army. He could send his soldiers and assistants out among them to find what he needed. The sorting would be time-consuming, but necessary if he were to take advantage of this stroke of fortune. The process could begin at anytime, and continue in the staging area as the dead were equipped. If all things were proceeding as planned, Poson should be ready for them with a host of living smiths and armorers. As the soldiers were being outfitted, they could also be examined for potential. It should all work out rather nicely, he thought to himself.
The orders and strips of cloth were brought by one of the black-robed underlings of the Necromancer. Troseth and his men were to observe and assess the ranks of the dead, singling out any that appeared to have greater abilities than the others. Troseth questioned the messenger to be sure he understood.
“What, exactly, does the Master want us to look for?” he asked.
“Anything outstanding,” the messenger replied. “Feats of strength or terror would be desirable. If any of the dead show signs of thought or intelligent behavior, be sure to mark them.”
“What do you mean by ‘intelligent behavior’?”
“The Master has noticed that some of the dead appear to intentionally seek out the living. While most operate only so long as an enemy is in their line-of-sight, some appear to actively hunt the living that hide from them. The Master is most interested in these specimens.”
“I see,” Troseth said thoughtfully. “And we’re to mark them with these strips of cloth?”
“Yes. Where their corpses are complete, you’re to tie them around the upper section of their left arm. On those occasions where the bodies are, shall we say, less than intact, tie them wherever possible.”
“And this is safe to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“What is your name, priest?”
“Baervig, Captain.”
“Well Baervig,” Troseth began, “if we’re seeking out these dead with a taste for the living, is this process going to be safe for my men?”
“Ah. I understand your concern,” the servant replied, “but I am certain it will be safe. The dead should not attack any living being that’s been declared an ally by the Master.”
“You’re certain of this, Baervig?”
“Of course, Sir!”
“Excellent! Now, just so we understand each other, if one of my men is injured or killed, I will have you twitching on a stake before the sun sets that very same day.” Troseth clapped his hands cheerfully on the man’s shoulders, a grand smile on his face. His eyes, however, bored into the messenger.
“I will speak to the Master about your concerns.” The underpriest’s face blanched at the threat and his eyes focused on the ground.
“Do that, Baervig, and return quickly.”
The messenger hurried off and out of sight. Troseth shook his head as he watched the little man leave.
A short while later, the messenger returned, a slightly haunted look on his face.
“Well?” Troseth asked him.
“The Master bids me tell you to follow your orders,” he replied nervously, “unless you would prefer to discuss it with him in private.”
“What else?” Troseth nodded. He keenly remembered his last private audience with his Master, and took the hint quickly.
“The Master also bids me tell you that, should you or any of your men be killed, he will gladly provide the stake for my execution.”
“Excellent, Baervig,” Troseth smiled, clapping the messenger again on the shoulder. “I hope my men aren’t too drunk to start right now,” he whispered to the little man confidentially. “But,” he shouted as the messenger drew near to hear the whispers, “we’ll start now either way. Will you be joining us?”
“Yes,” the messenger answered fearfully.
“Outstanding,” Troseth said, clapping the man with another stunning blow. “Don’t get too far out of sight—I want you where I can get my hands on you. Should I need to consult with the Master, that is.” He winked at the little man.
The underpriest looked up at Troseth, his eyes widening and sweat beading on his brow. He bowed quickly to the cavalry commander then spun on his heel and scurried away. Troseth watched him run and smiled wryly to himself. It was petty, he knew, to threaten such a helpless little creature. Still, he thought, it was something to do.
He rode back to his men to give them their orders. He distributed the strips of red cloth and instructed them on how to mark the dead. Some of the men asked how they could distinguish one mar
ching body from the others. Troseth nodded his head, understanding the question.
“Keep your eyes open,” he told them. “Watch them, and do the best that you can.”
“Yes Sir,” the riders responded in unison. They spoke together for a while, then broke up into groups of two or three. Troseth noticed that none of the riders moved out alone. He watched as several of them started to pray as they rode away. He took his handful of red strips and rode into the marching corpses. If nothing else, he thought, it was another chance to search for Li.
Black-robed men and armored riders drifted in and out of the ranks of the dead. The living appeared like floating wreckage amidst a sea of bone. The rolling countryside gave the illusion of crests and troughs in the pale sea, swallowing the living only moments before they appeared once more. Here and there, Troseth spotted a red cloth in the crowd.
The dead continued to march, undisturbed by the living debris in their midst. One of the black-robed men stumbled and fell, nervous about being in such close proximity to his Master’s handiwork. Several ranks of skeletal feet walked right over the top of him before his companions managed to get him upright. He had a harried look on his face, and tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Troseth watched from a distance, causing his own ripple in the sea of corpses. His horse was too large to walk over, so the ranks of skeletons split and walked around him. They reformed on the other side, making Troseth appear to be a glittering rock in a pale stream.
Night fell and the living gratefully withdrew from the column. They halted for a few hours each night to rest the horses and the living. Eyes were wide and quick to dart toward any sound that night. Troseth shook his head and snorted a derisive little laugh. He had spent the most time among the dead and become the most accustomed to them. His men stared at him and whispered quietly to each other.
“He’s got blood of ice, I tell you,” one rider murmured while making the sign to ward off evil.
“He’s a brave one, I’ll give you that,” another agreed. “Did you see the way they moved around him?” Others who had seen nodded their heads. “They walked right over top of that little mageling.”
“Who are those guys, anyway?” someone asked, grateful that the subject had been broached.
“They’re supposed to be priests or sorcerers, or some such thing,” an older sergeant explained. “They was there to assist the Master with that ritual back in Ostie.”
“Tell me that didn’t set your teeth on edge,” a corporal observed, shuddering.
“Why would I go and tell you a fool thing like that?” the sergeant smiled back. “Tell you the truth, the whole thing sets my teeth to chattering. Either way, though, our cap’n, he’s a good one. We’ll see a lot of blood and loot before this trip is over.” He smiled again, his teeth glittering like fangs in the moonlight.
“Sure we will,” the corporal agreed. “Not like we’re going to have to fight them for it.” He laughed and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the standing ranks of dead.
“Yeah,” another rider chimed in, “they’ll do all the work and we’ll clean up all the booty.” The soldiers nodded their heads and laughed quietly at the idea of easy looting. Someone broke out a bottle of bitter wine and passed it around. Each one took a swallow and smacked his lips as if he had never tasted better. Troseth walked up, and one of the men offered him the bottle.
“No thanks,” he told the rider holding the bottle. “Sergeant, see to it that the men all get some rest.”
“Yes Sir,” the sergeant replied, snapping to his feet and attention.
“Not right away mind you,” Troseth continued, “but don’t spend the entire night gossiping and drinking, either.”
“No Sir, I’ll see to it, Sir.” He saluted Troseth smartly.
“Excellent, Sergeant, excellent.” He returned the salute and walked away. The rider holding the bottle passed it over to the sergeant who returned to the place he’d been sitting.
“You heard the man,” he told other others gruffly, taking a swig of wine out of the bottle.
“We’ll just finish that bottle, eh Sarge?”
“There’s not much left in this one,” the sergeant suggested, “maybe we better finish another one quick, just in case it gets cold tonight.” The men smiled broadly as someone uncorked another bottle.
“To the Captain’s good health,” he said, raising the wine.
“To the Captain’s good health,” the other’s replied, their hands reaching out for the bottle.
Chapter 21 – Forward and Back
Drothspar looked out at the reflection of the moon over the lake. Pale light glittered across the water’s rippling surface. The wind was cool, carrying chill tales of the winter to come. Drothspar found that he enjoyed the cold air now that it caused him no discomfort. He hadn’t been too fond of the cold when he’d been living, at least not until he had married Li. When he had been living—and alone—he’d needed fire to draw the chill from his body. After he was married, he found that cuddling with Li under heavy blankets warmed him even faster. Now that he was dead, the cold didn’t really bother his bones. It wasn’t worth the loss.
Chance slept inside, restlessly. In two days, they’d managed to catch only a handful of nearly skeletal fish. She had eaten what they provided, but that was not very much. Drothspar had set traps among the trees, hoping to catch a rabbit or two. Each morning he checked the traps, and each morning they were empty. They had put off the discussion of traveling for too long. Chance needed food. They needed to head west.
For what little food it had provided, the fishing had still been enjoyable. Drothspar and Chance had talked about little things, topics meant only to pass the time. She questioned him about life as a novice, and he asked her about life at the university. He told her as much as he could write about his novitiate, about the chapter house, and about Gathner and Petreus.
He was certain she had held back some important parts of her time at the university. Occasionally, she would forget herself, remember something that had made her happy, smile and open her mouth as if to speak. Then a quick flash would dart across her eyes, and she would look away slowly, as if her topic had slipped her mind. She would casually watch as she assured him it had certainly been nothing of importance. Otherwise, she insisted, why would she have forgotten? His face, however, had revealed nothing. His expression had remained the same as she studied him with a practiced calm, and as he noticed her doing it.
Everyone had mysteries in their lives. His curiosity did not diminish with that knowledge. Everyone, he told himself, was not fishing beside him at his home. He was too much of a gentleman, in life or death, to push the issue and question her. She would have to decide for herself if she wanted to share her secrets. If she would only make a few more slips, he thought to himself, he might be able to piece a few things together. Courtesy and curiosity didn’t need to preclude each other. It helped to keep thinking that.
He remembered watching her slip a worm on her hook for the first time. She had such a dignified look of resignation on her face. The second day they had been fishing, she declared firmly, and quite out of the blue, that she wanted to bait her own hook. Drothspar looked at her to see if she’d been joking, then handed her the worm. She took it from him slowly, her eyes resolute. She looked more like a queen about to submit herself to the headsman’s block than a young woman about to thread a hook into a worm. Her eyes betrayed the conflict she felt, even as her expression had remained stony.
She looked at the worm and her eyes filled to overflowing with distaste. They darted once to Drothspar with a pleading appeal before she brought them sternly back to the wriggling worm. She blushed momentarily, embarrassed that she had almost given up so easily. Drothspar remained perfectly still. He was afraid that if he broke her concentration she would startle as easily as a cat sneaking up on a string. He was also amazed that she would try so hard to overcome a task that she didn’t have to perform.
It took her some time, and
he heard her gag once or twice as she fought down the physical effects of her revulsion. In the end, she baited her hook and cast it out into the lake. Drothspar turned silently, baited his own hook, and did the same. He turned his head slightly to watch her as they fished. She never said a word. She looked out over the water and smiled to herself.
They had enjoyed their fishing so much that they had repeatedly put off the discussion of leaving. Sitting alone that night on the pier, Drothspar reminded himself that they could put it off no longer. Whatever he needed for himself no longer mattered. It wasn’t concern for his state of being or a desire for information that made him resolve to approach Chance in the morning. It was concern for her and her well-being.
The sun rose and morning came. Chance woke late, hungry and still tired. Drothspar waited for her outside the cottage. He rehearsed conversations in his mind, working out ways to convince the young woman to return to Arlethord. Each sound she made in the cottage startled him. He watched the door, certain it would fly open and he would have to begin his presentation.
Chance continued to rumble around in the cottage while Drothspar returned to the pier. He gathered up stones on the shore and started skipping them out on the lake. Staring at the door wasn’t going to make it any easier, he thought, watching a rock skip twice. Worrying about how to approach her wasn’t going to help, either. It was just something that, like so many other things, simply had to be done. There was a time and a place for planning, but there was also a time for action. It was the lull between the two that could become uncomfortable.
How many times had he worried over the moments between thought and action? How much good had all of that worrying done him? In the end, he was still dead. How many good moments had he lost worrying about things that he couldn’t change? How could he ever prevent his—?